In the last few days I’ve dealt with heavy traffic from Colombo to Pallekelle, a driver who yelled into his phone non stop the whole way, having to wait while someone found Ian Bishop at midnight, tripping over several times, fighting the urge to vomit on people sitting below me, a killer stomach pain, being kicked out of a lift because of Broad and Finn, having to stop (twice) in the middle of the night to check out inflatable toys, sleeping like someone was in the corner of the room with a twitchy switch blade, waiting for someone else to finish their runny shits, being sent across town away from the ground to pick up our accreditation, and then 90 minutes sweating before my actual ass off before Nissanka (the Ninja tuk tuk driver) aborted the trip. Then there was one more 30 minute trip, with more sweating, which also included the feeling that once I wrrived at the ground my cock would be fondled as 12 men stare into my eyes.
When I finally got into the ground, a couple of hours after the Pakistan South Africa match had started, Pakistan were in the shit. They were four down, and then five, and then Afridi.
All that travel, all that sweating, all that discomfort, no penis touching, and now I was about to see my least favourite team beat my favourite team. At that point the World T20 could go and fuck itself in the ass. I hated Sri Lanka, Pakistan, the ICC, T20 and Stuart Robertson.
Then the Umars committed Morkecide.
There is a brilliant billboard by a major Colombo round-about that calls Sri Lanka a paradise island. You can look at it while you stay stuck in your sweaty tuk tuk. Surrouned by all kinds of pollution. Large buses trying trying to push you into some posh dickhead’s unnecessary four wheel drive. Occasionally you inch forward before an overly officious police officer decides he doesn’t like your lane anymore.
This tournament is a bit like that at its worst.
But then Umar fucken Gul and his elongated face come in and start slapping the ball around everywhere. Quickly you realise you’ve travelled a long uncomfortable way, bowel movements are controlling your life, you’re away from your wife and unborn child, your undies are all sweated out again and the hum of the air conditioner at night sounds like a Slovenian hit crew about to off you, but it’s worth a lot of shit to watch South Africa lose in person.
Result: My cock wasn’t touched, Pakistan won.