Fuck the Taj Mahal, I’m gunna sit in my undies and watch cricket

When in Delhi, do as the Daleks do. And the blokes around here like cricket more than Indians likes curry (wait…), so I thought the day would be best spent watching Australia play in the final of the Cricket World Cup.

I had thought of taking a day trip over to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, but the city is meant to be a cesspit full of thieves and the building itself isn’t really that fancy (everything I read about it praises its symmetry. My car is symmetrical and so is my television, and my bed, and my fucking toaster, and people don’t come from around the world to see them) so I decided against it. To be honest, I’m hungover from my experiences yesterday. No, I didn’t manage to locate some booze, but the sensory overload has left me feeling really knocked around, and a day out of the noise and smog was exactly what I needed.

But if you really, really want to see a photo of the Taj, here’s some people I don’t know in front of it. Wow, that symmetry is so amazing!

I just don’t really need to see some stupid building, just because it’s famous. At this point, I’d rather have my photo taken out the front of the Settlers, beer in hand. Oh, and being within close proximity of a toilet at all times has been a good idea, too. I’m surprised the can in my room hasn’t handed in its resignation letter.

It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I’ll be spending it catching some shit plane to Jaipur. I saw Jaipur in some movie, but I don’t really care about going there, so I will have my birthday by the beach in Goa a few days, preferably with some European woman entertaining my penis. This is the first time I’ve ever been overseas for my birthday. I’m sad about being away from my family and friends, but it could be worse – last year I worked for The Picture and got kept back late by some clown who was pushing his bum chums out to the pub at the same time. Missed the football game I was meant to go with my mates, just so I could write some sexist shit that not even a toad would find funny.

It sucks to know that I spent that long writing for shit that never mattered, for a company that supports Nazis, for a boss who physically threatened me because he knew his desk and his position protected him. A man who has had his magazine cut time and time again while still hiring his friends for jobs they aren’t qualified for. I have hated myself every second of every day since I backed down from that prick.

Self indulgent? Totally. But it’s publishing, idiots will be self indulgent till they die. But, fuck it, they’re paying for every beer I buy, so fuck ’em.