The southern entry gate greets me with baloon security guards and chest haired id cards restricting your any type of bottles, your glass bottles with or without caps, your vuvuzelas, your headphones shan’t let you throttle our gladiators,

And ofcourse food. No food. You have to buy the people’s food. Which will go towards funding the people’s politicians, and the people’s subsidies to the people’s corporations, and the people’s guns, and the people’s handcuffs, and the people’s jails to keep the people safe.

But RingID can keep giving out 4s, 6s and Outs in neatly printed orange placards.
You can secret chat, apparently.

The lower seats are only half empty. No. The lower seats with barricades are only half empty.

Paramilitaries on the roof,
There are no lynch mobs, yet. It is peacetime.

Match start delay due to the corporate hospitality boxes encountering flecks of typhoon, which uproot the fresh healthy food good life umbrellas, and render the airtel boundary wraps an autonomous Mexican wave,

And to our correspondent at the sidelines:

Thanks John,
The grass remains mattressed, but
There are quite extraordinary scenes which evoke bewildered herd references as rain and heavy winds rinse and pound the capacity arena. on occasion the crowd is heard chanting ‘bangladesh’ for minute haecceities, like the electricity blinking on/off, or thunderous sighs they are cordoned off from their loved ones because nature cannot not read maps.

Some spout conspiracies to this end like “it is only raining in the stadium, elsewhere else it is dry”, “the match is going to be abandoned because india is scared of us,” and ofcourse,
the thunderous, the death defying, the unimaginably creative “you suck.”
Which does not, i suppose, stand up dissing match standards in the post-mortem highlights reel.

Titantron screens images of victory in war, on the field and of.
The cricketers practice football.

Everyone has a ticket, but not everyone has a seat.


Yet, everyone has enough seat to remind the visiting opposition that they are the other at the party, and so will purr your ex-girlfriends name to distract you while you steady yourself at the crease

The required run rate climbs down,
The greater symphony humming jingoism fades like the last loops of an echo,
The chairs once clamored for are a voluntary empty, though,they do come equipped with scapegoats underneath.

Digital alarm clock font reads CONGRATULATIONS.


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