Early morning flights! : Or how I learned to stop worrying and tolerate the neck pillow.

Making small talk with the cabbie on the way to the airport. Mimicking the facial expression of the picture on the identity card at the terminal entrance. Conveying the preference for an emergency exit on the aisle at the boarding pass counter. Posing as the Vitruvian Man for the security scanners. Trying to balance without holding any support as the shuttle bus swerves around to the plane. 

The eyes are heavy and puffy, the dark circles betraying the rude awakening from nightly unconsciousness.
The mind is on a disoriented overdrive. Thought and imagination lack coherence and clarity.

"Ladies and gentleman! I am your chief attendant and on behalf of the captain and the entire flight crew, I welcome you aboard".

Bloody hell! Stuck. And stuck for quite some now. I look around and secretly hate all the co-passengers who are blissfully asleep. But I am too proud to admit. Not to myself. Not to any other soul. Who needs to sleep in a flight, anyway? Sleep is for suckers. The brave and the honourable stay awake.

And afterall, this is the only time you get  to do the things you wanted to do but couldn't find the time. Not a bad idea to resume reading the book from where you left off in your last flight ride. Not a bad idea at all. I am not a teenage girl to play Candy Crush on the dumb phone, nor a humourless suit to follow the financial times. Too bad that the mind refuses to fully grasp the words being read.

The eyes are rubbed, the head is shaken and the mind is willed to make sense of it all. Between the longing stares out of the window, the forceful cracking of joints and the wishful daydreaming of an inviting bed, a few pages are flipped with partial comprehension. 

"Excuse me. Would you like to have something?" 

"I would like to have a sprawling castle on the banks of Scotland" is what I would have liked to say. "A glass of water, please" is what I manage instead, with the blood red eyes and a forced grin probably disconcerting the air hostess. The realisation of me momentarily slipping into blankness before being awoken strikes. And the thought is swiftly dismissed with the blame being laid ironically on the lack of sleep. 

I then start pondering about one of these great mysteries in life. As to how after every return from a trip, there is a truckload of work which magically manifests and every pending task suddenly acquires critical importance and becomes top priority. It is going to be a long day and I won't be hitting the bed anytime soon. Damn it!

"On behalf of the airlines and the entire crew, I would like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we look forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Good day."



The neck-pillow was considered a boon to the frequent fliers. But to me, it represented the touristy way of life. Preplanned and packaged. The neck-pillow sucked the variability out of the flight ride by coddling one into a beatific dream. And I hated it with a vengeance. It was everything I stood against.

The broken-doughnut-shaped monster was to be seen at most airports. On display in stores in the retail arena of terminals and hanging from the dragged luggage of hurried passengers. And it was to be seen more and more, its presence greatly multiplied in colours and absolute numbers over the years.

Soon it would consume everyone. An entire generation of travellers would fall prey to its alluring charm. But not me. I always considered myself to be the influencer rather than the influenced. So no amount of eulogizing by any of the die-hard loyalists of the ever-growing cult of the neck pillow, would make me change my mind.

I would resist it. I would protest against it. I would fight the good fight till the very end. I didn't need to snooze on early morning flights. What if I didn't get more than a few winks of sleep the previous night? What if the the body was stressed and strained?  And what if the mind was drained and fatigued? After all, I have survived all those innumerable travails in all those ungodly hours. And doesn't whatever that doesn't kill you make you only stronger?

A particular item was billed at the WH Store at the Terminal of the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport.

"Your boarding pass, please. Have a pleasant flight, Mr Varma"

The eyes are heavy and puffy, the dark circles betraying the rude awakening from nightly unconsciousness.
The mind is on a disoriented overdrive. Thought and imagination lack coherence and clarity.

"On behalf of the airlines and the entire crew, I would like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we look forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Good day."

Now....where was I?

Of 22 men chasing a ball for 90 minutes

It was that summer again when people all around seemed excited about the funny game where a bunch of guys in shorts pursue a round lump around a rectangular field.

When the football jerseys of various nationalities were worn for aesthetic hollowness rather than enduring honour.

When the players were more often venerated for the sleek coiffure they sported than for their silken touch of the ball.

When the games were followed for the fodder they provided for imaginative updates and not for their tactical plots.

When the aliases of teams were bandied about in foreign tongue for topical charlatanism and not for historical perspective.

When the undivided loyalty to a team was purely on the basis of the recent success on the pitch rather than original affiliations.

A lot of things were said of the teams and players, which the fastidious purist in me ached to hear.   

The Hidekguti, Kocsis and Puskas triumvirate of the Magic Magyars couldn't overcome the steel of the resilient Die Mannschaft at the Miracle of Bern in 1954. That was a Mean German Machine. The current side resembles a fun and slick joyride in comparison.

The humiliation of the Seleceao in the semis wasn't entirely due to the crack in the vertebra of a certain lanky 21 year old bloke and the subsequent national mourning. There was also tactical naivety at play with the buccaneering full backs showing scant regard for their primary job role and leaving spaces for the opposition free-roaming bohemians to exploit throughout the tournament, crescendoing into the massacre at Belo Horizonte.

Lionel Messi for all his unbelievable exploits for "Mes Que Un Club" has not shone at the international level like some of his luminary compatriots of the past. Speaking of him in the same breath for the La Albiceleste as the electrifying Maradona or the prodigious Kempes would be blasphemous.

The long-haired retro stars directed by Rinus Michels and featuring the irrepressible
Johan Cryuff showed the world the beauty of harmonised attacking flair and the unadulterated joy of Total Football in the 70s. The Oranje side of 2014 rely largely on the pace and cunning of their two nimble left footed forwards.

Who cares for the decade and a half of watching the game being played across various leagues, countries and tournaments. Who cares for the infinite time spent going through the previews, reviews, analysis, reports of the innumerable matches. Who cares for the insights gleaned from watching and re-watching the official documentaries of many a competition. Who cares for the numerous books, articles, editorials read in an attempt to assess and understand the beautiful game in all its glory.

Who cares, when your flashy mobile app gives the popular predictions and the funny tit-bits. Who cares, when the sports section of your favourite newspaper shares oversimplified stats and juicy WAG stories. Who cares, when you have a hilarious joke about the Suarez bite or the secret diet of the sculpted Ronaldo.  

It wasn't enough for me to back France, the team I have supported since inception or the secondary inclination to Italy courtesy of the Juventus connection. I was expected to support one of the two teams in every match played. That was the whole point of watching the contest. After all what sort of a person would follow a match for the clash of opposing tactical philosophies. What sort of a person would view the game for the defensive solidarity and passing proficiency exhibited. What sort of a person would see the contest for the skill and technique on display. After all what sort of person follows the sport for the sake of sport.

The vast majority would have preferred to see the dream contest of a Brazil Vs Argentina or the galactic clash of a Ronaldo Vs Messi in the finals. It wasn't to be. Instead it was going to be a battle between two golden generations cultivated over the last few years by meticulous harnessing of alluring talent for collective brilliance. Only a faithful bore like the author could see the beauty and romance of such a match-up.

After all, football is a simple game. 22 men chase a ball for 90 minutes and at the end, the Germans always win.

I sell, therefore I am.

Any role, strictly speaking can be broadly divided into a handful of key activities. The following is my rather vain attempt to define what I do for a living.

Market Visits : The body creaks under the accumulative strain of hundreds and hundreds of kilometers traveled. The road is the unflinching constant as you pass one unpronounceable town after the other, as the unapologetic sun beats down in the day and the understated moon looks down upon the stillness of the night. The unappetising concoctions of multiple cups of tea/coffee/almond milk/ buttermilk/coconut water/all sorts of fruit juices/all sorts of fruit juices mixed and matched et al offered by business partners and consumed over the course of the day, motivated by a combination of factors including, but not limited to thirst, obligation, fatigue, respect leaves one feeling a teeny bit more than a weeny bit uncomfortable. And it is all about conversations. Conversations full of communication, appreciation and negotiation, with a range of emotions/expressions from laughter to frowning thrown in for good measure. And at the end of the day, the shoes are dusty, the clothes are creased and the mind is tired as you lay down on bed cajoling yourself that it is all worth it in the grand scheme of things.  

Office Time and Personal Life  :
No casual Fridays. There is nothing casual about any day of the week. Sales is more than a job. It is a mindset. It is an inclination and a state of being. And it is never just about the good, bad, ugly of sales. It is also about distribution, marketing, operations, people management, customer centricity, administration not to mention trip planning, motivational speaking and inter-functional liasoning. 
No gossiping over lunch. If in the office, you don't have any option other than meals from Venkateshwara Mess. If on a market visit, God knows. The things that are discussed over lunch with the team members (apart from silly humour) are generally along the lines of the current reported temperatures in Miriyalguda or the turnout at the recently conducted influencer meet in Jammalamadugu.  
No partying over the weekends. You work yourself to the ground throughout the week including Saturday and try to recharge on the Sunday for the grueling week ahead, assuming you are not traveling for a meeting or attending some function of a business partner. And an interesting question is, who would you party with even assuming you were inclined so?   
No socialising over social media. No posting of funny pieces eliciting likes from enthusiastic friends or sharing adorable pictures prompting a flood of responses. Only good old mails, phone calls, SMSs conveying information, sharing tactics, inquiring market intelligence and inspiring action at all times of day and night. 

Meetings and Business Trips : The meetings are many in the many headquarter locations, where the higher powers that be preside. The melange of the spreadsheets showing the confessions of the tortured data and presentations presenting the insights gleaned from all sorts of sources create a surreal environment, especially with the guy controlling the temperature plotting to freeze you to death. There are vociferous contentions and suggestions as you crusade for the rights of your stakeholders, powered by the excessive consumption of the delicious cookies. The travel and accommodation served up by the airlines and hotels of the highest star accreditation, scheme to keep upgrading you to higher tiers of the self-serving loyalty webs, whilst convincing you that you are the most unique, privileged gift to mankind, amongst a bunch of the most unique, privileged gifts to mankind. And then there are the trips to exotic locales within and outside the country for the purpose of higher-order work and controlled play, complete with configured experience and staged drama.

Peaks* and Month-Ends : The numbers are chased. With an addicted obsession and an indefatigable persistence. My good friend, Praneeth and I always joke that life is measured in peaks* and month-ends as a sort of a rebutted mockery of the 100 Pipers Ad which asks "Is life measured in trophies...In frequent flier miles, miles per hour...In con calls...Time line crunches, in business brunches...Is life measured in Oxford shoes and Prince drapes in corner offices..." It is safe to assume that the canny copywriter of the above ad campaign probably never spent long nights desperately willing the sales numbers to move that little bit closer to the intended target line. The month-end is the time when you feel like the captain of the ship fighting the strongest of tides; the leader of the expedition with an impossible peak to scale, but which must be conquered nonetheless. It is the classical Us vs Them, the romantic Good vs Evil as you put the finishing touches to the month-long campaign to outwit and outmuscle the competition and outperform your peers in other locations in the region/division/country. And assuming a strong finish, the aftermath sees you basking in the imagined glory of victory, which tastes that much sweeter considering that every ounce of intellect, energy, spirit and soul has been expended in a battle that was fought like there was no tomorrow. Only there is a tomorrow and you have to come back tomorrow for more.

*For the uninitiated, peaks are intermittent points in a month, when there is a push for higher sales to the immediate downstream buyer group in the marketing channel on account of the closure of a certain benefit, thereby resulting in a spike in the graph plotted for sales vs days. Different sales organisations use different terminology for the same.

But then, there are few jobs where you are overcome by the happiness experienced by a team member who got promoted and is profuse in his gratitude for your support. Or where you experience the ultimate high of winning a team contest at the stroke of midnight by a handful of additional units sold. Or where you are sheepishly embarrassed at the elaborate felicitation extended by a shop dealer and even more sheepishly embarrassed when you receive a DVD of the video portraying you as a celebrity, complete with a background score. Or where you are extremely humbled by the night guard soliciting your advice for his son's future education  

I conspire to sell paint in obscure parts of Coastal Andhra Pradesh. I sell, therefore I am.
 
The author dedicates this blog post to all those who worked in sales, and especially to those who have experienced the deadly combination of B2C Sales + Upcountry Location.

An Ode to Age Of Empires

For all the places I lived and travelled to, it was my first visit to the land of my kindergarten hero. In one of those strange work hazards, I was to indulge in touristy sightseeing to the palace which was worthy of the great warrior. And then it all came back in a flash. 

Srikanth - Sauron

Vamsi - Vams

Varun - Chinna

Udayan - Knight

Rahul - Jing Bang

Me - Tipu Sultan

The all-conquering villainous dark emperor of Lord Of The Rings was Srikanth's alias. Sauron appealed to his preference of  brute power and mismatched domination. 

Vamsi, who was never accused of being too creative when it came to names, (will save the incredible story of the naming of his pet labrador for another day) kept the alias Vams.

Varun was the no-nonsense chap, who couldn't be bothered to come up with a novel alias. His nickname sufficed for him. 'Chinna' meant the 'little fellow'. 

Knight, which is a horse-mounted cavalry military unit symbolised valour, pride and a staunch dedication to cause. Udayan aspired for all these values in his game. 

Jing Bang is the sort of ridiculous slang term only someone like Rahul could come up with. It signifies a crowd, and assembling one in the game wasn't ironically his strong point. 

Age Of Empires 2 was the greatest LAN Video Game to have ever been made. And it was worth spending every last penny of pocket money we had at Reliance Web World. We would reach the place a good couple of hours before it even opened in the morning, unable to contain the anticipation to try out the brilliantly thought-out strategy of the sleepless last night. So persistent we were that the closing hours were often extended and exclusively for us. 

 And when we exhausted the last penny of pocket money we had by the penultimate year of our engineering course, we set up our own gaming network, alternating between Vamsi's empty penthouse room and Rahul's  mom's makeshift office. A laptop was considered a valuable tool for learning and no responsible parent could deny his/her son this tool. Needless to say that this sentiment was exploited for a good cause. And so many a night were spent carefully building civilisations, raising armies, devising strategies and then going into battle till only one team remained. 

We were not one of the millions who played that mindless Counter Strike  across college campuses in the country. Neither were we part of the sordid group, who gamed Age Of Empires with a sort of mechanical efficiency,  which prized speed of fingers over sharpness of the mind. 

We were the unabashed purists, the dreamy philosophers who played the game the way it was meant to be played. For us, Age Of Empires was an elaborate battle of the wits, a game of chess stretched to its extreme limits by pondered craft and  guiltless imagination. 

Having long archers protected by  multiple front lines of pikemen infantry and flanked by Saracen mounted camels is an effective defence strategy against an advancing horde of Persian war elephants, complimented by bombard cannons and cataphract cavalry. And that is not the sort of pulsating  wisdom, you pick up in Switching Theory and Logic Design or some other crappy course like that. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to say we learned more in those 'virtual' battlefields that we ever did in the 'real' classrooms. (The words 'virtual' and 'real' to be interchanged?)

Prologue:

Tipu Sultan, with his pencil moustache, despairing at the advanced infiltration of the British troops sits down for a meal on the  insistence of his subjects. As he is about to keep the piece of bread in his mouth, the messenger enters hurriedly and conveys that the main gate of the palace has been breached. Tipu, places the food back in his plate, his facial expression betraying the slightest hint of exasperated helplessness and crestfallen resignation. But it quickly changes into a cold, steely stare into space, the fiery spirit of royal defiance flooding back into him. He reaches for his famed sword, swaggers to his feet and marches into inevitable death. And immortalised martyrdom. 

I watched this scene in black and white on a CRT, on the Doordarshan Network as an impressionable 5 year old. I went to my mother and told her that I was going to be Tipu one day. 

The Most Awesome Bunch Of Chaps Ever

July 2011 to February 2013. 1.58 years. 19 months. 580 days. I couldn't go on without coming across as weirder than I am. The blazing heat and the intolerable humidity made it seem like much, much more though. Never mind I couldn't speak the local language, the place was cruel to the 'outsider'. The looks of bewilderment were etched across the faces of the team members when I was first introduced as the new unit head. I had no bloody business to be there in the first place, forget handling the team.

How time changes views, attitudes, perceptions! Work, despite being chaotic and frustrating at times, was entrepreneurial and challenging. It gave scope to create and institutionalize. The transitions to processes, personnel and place of work were taken into stride. We were in the madness together. And ironically, it was the only thing which kept me sane. I did my very best to take the unit forward while trying to make a positive difference to my team members. I like to think, I did quite well.

In the fall of 2013, it was felt that my work in Chennai was done and it was time to move onto another challenge. (On a side note, the blazing heat and the intolerable humidity it seems were not done with me just yet. They were going to follow me to my next destination). And so a team outing was planned as my tenure was coming to an end, coinciding with my farewell. After the fun and games during the day, there was a surprise planned for me.

As I stood in the middle of the circle formed by the 60 guys who were my life for the last year and half, words were hard to come by. After a few minutes I regained my usual penchant for eloquent speeches. And then went to share quirky tit bits and funny anecdotes regarding each and every one of them. And after what seemed like more than 2 hours, I had covered the last team member. And then each of them had some very kind words to say of me, of which I must admit, am totally undeserving. Fire crackers were lit and then Vinod had slipped a gift-wrapped box into my hands with his usual grin.

No one had ever gifted me anything worthy of mention. Not that I care for that sort of pansy gestures. But this was truly amazing. I hastily removed the wrapping and held up the object. The New iPhone shone in the receding rays of the Mahabalipuram sun. I was truly humbled and could only manage a low, uncharacteristic 'Thanks'. It was from that moment on going to be my precious. And it would be treasured forever.

And then the mass music was put on and I was implored to join them to shake a leg. I could never ever dance to save my life, the absolute lack of rhythm in my body making it close to impossible to indulge in this supposedly natural bodily expression. But this was their last wish from me and I couldn't deny them. Never mind that I moved like an inebriated primate, they still encouraged me with their rowdy laughs and loud screeching as the night drew to a close.

The next day, after sending away the last of my luggage, I handed over the keys of the house to the landlord and left the scene. I was leaving the city and for good. And I was going to make a stop over at my office where my team members were waiting to greet me farewell. After finishing the last of the handing-over formalities to the incoming unit head, I made my way out to crack a few jokes with my team. And as the time of the departing flight drew near, I went about the individual goodbyes. And it felt surreal as I waved to my team, sticking out of the cab window, as it sped away.

The bewildered looks of the start were long replaced by those of cheer. I still couldn't utter a word of the language. But I was truly accepted. I was now one of them.And there are few sentiments more pure and privileged than that.

There was respect. Respect which no money could buy.
There was loyalty. Loyalty which no gesture could engender.
And the feelings were mutual.

To My Boys @ APHS Chennai. The most awesome bunch of chaps ever.

APHS Sales Conference, Kerala (December 2012) : There were some games organised for the respective teams in the spirit of competition. One of them was a simple, indoor version of football. As the drama would have it, the last kick needed a goal for our team to win. The ball was placed. After a few anxious moments spent switching gaze between the ball and the goal mouth, I went for it. The next I realised, I was being hoisted in the air and was then paraded around on shoulders. 

There was snow. And then some more.

There was snow. It was everywhere. It was dazzlingly and brilliantly white. And then some more.
The stream water was freezing. It numbed the hands and face when splashed. But it was pure and tasted divine. 
The winds were ghostly at night. They howled and kept us up hoping that the tent wouldn't blow away.

We obviously weren't in any sort of physical condition to undertake the trek. Also it was impossible to summit the peak at this time of the year, owing to the snow capping of the mountains. The same was communicated and the same was acknowledged. But then, when did such trivialities ever discourage us? Only a misguided overestimation of our capabilities and a gross underestimation of the challenges would convince us to go ahead with it. And there was never any shortage of that.
 
When we weren't crossing streams on sketchy tree trunks or hopping up and down boulders, we trekked. We trekked till our muscles ached and our lungs gasped for air. And then we trekked more. And it wasn't just about the stamina.  One's survival instincts make one ignore the cold biting the fingers as one claws into the snow for the much needed support. One would crawl on all fours when needed to fight gravity and compensate for friction. After all, one does what one can to ensure one doesn't tumble down into obscurity.

It would have made for a romantic tale, if we had against all odds scaled the peak and planted the flag of victory at the very top. It was not to be. The mini avalanches, the ever increasing gradient of the ridiculous terrain and the sighting of a bear needed us to to pull back at around 11,000 feet. But it didn't feel disappointing. We had punched way above our weight. It was good enough for now. It was endured. It could/would/should be conquered at a later stage.

Apparently, getting the necessary traction in the soft snow requires a measured approach. The boot needs to be planted into the ice at an angle of as close to 90 degrees as possible to the gradient surface, with the heel playing the role of the anchor. And sledging on your backside on the descent, when done in a controlled, technical manner can be real fun. But it sure as hell doesn't feel comfortably numb. We can now vouch for it.

We made the final descent from the camp to the pick-up point after saying our goodbyes on the Sunday morning. As we surveyed the valley from the vantage point one final time, there was a sense of satisfaction. The thighs were strained. The knees hurt. The calves ached. The ankles were bruised. But we were standing tall.


Location : Manali

Stage : The Hampta Pass

Cast : Srikanth 'Snow Leopard' Reddy, Udayan, Peehu, Madhu and The Captain's Armband, Mr Bear

Directors : Rohan 'Ra's Al Ghul' Jain, Jai aka Govind aka Meena (Renok Adventures)

Special Thanks To : Kama (Guide), Issu (Cook) and the gang

Acknowledgements : i) Special praise reserved to Peehu for being adamant and having the bottle to do the strenuous trek despite being down with fever and cold. Mrs Singh is now formally and ceremoniously inducted into the group. ii) The good people at Renok Adventures for their support, patience, sucking at Uno and being good sport in general.    

Peeche Aao - Deleted Post 1

DELETED POST 1

A couple of posts were deleted earlier. One of them (the one below) was available in draft and is being republished in original. (First published in late 2009)
 
10-0. It is the scoreline of a football match I was involved in last weekend. Although it seems exaggerated, it is not. And what might seem even more phony, this wasn't the first time I had the fortune or misfortune of playing in football games with such ridiculously one-sided score lines.

*Winding back the clock*

Name: Madhu Varma

Position: Center Forward/Trequartista

Role: Captain

Team: Goka Juniors

Well, that was me and my team back in my engineering days. And while the rest of the students were doing whatever they were doing in the afternoons (typically attending lectures), the members of Goka Juniors would be crazily running around a ball (an exercise which vaguely resembled what the Americans refer to as soccer) in a woefully inadequate rectangular piece of land, which by the way was supposed to be the playground. Braving the weather, risking rebuke, we would religiously play the game, with a dedication and passion one would associate with an Olympic Gold Medal winning team.

The 'blood and sweat and tears'

[blood: I perennially fell down while playing and hurt myself.

sweat: We played football. So obviously we sweated.

tears: Well, I suppose I am getting a little carried away.]

we put in, would gain relevance when we participated in tournaments and played against opposition teams. This was the time when all of our investment (time and pressure) would be put to test.

# A typical scene after a match in the tournament#

Uday and me are laughing like maniacs for no apparent reason. Reddy is shaking his head in disgust. Varma is giving the post-match analysis to Srikanth, who is ruing everything that happened before and during the game. Aashish and Rishi are frowning. Muddam and Putchu have blank expressions on their faces and seem disinterested about life. Bharan is looking around for food. Vamsi is wondering, what just happened, while Rahul is abusing him and everyone else.

The scoreline: Goka Juniors 1-11 Opposition

* Winding the clock to the present *

MDI 10-0 FMS. I am finding it quite difficult to digest the score. The scoreline has an all too familiar feel to it, but for the first time I am not on the wrong end of it. I am on the winning side which mauled the opposition and not the other way around.

Those who watched the game were quite amused to find me celebrating during the game as if I scored the winning goal in the World Cup finals. And I celebrated like that 3 times. The home spectators found it hilarious and the away ones found it condescending. But then, they didn't know how much the hat-trick and the victory meant to me. But then, they didn't know about Goka Juniors.

Acknowledgements:

->The MDI football team. Especially Tushar (for sharing my penchant for crazy, peculiar goal celebrations) and Ikam (for the countless times he set me up, only for me to incredibly miss the simplest of sitters).

.

The hat-trick is dedicated to:

To my beloved Goka Juniors, the best footballing team ever. And to 'Peeche Aao', of course.

Note:

*To those who aren't aware, Boca Juniors is a world famous Argentine football club team. And the first half of the first word of the name of my engineering college is Goka. So that's how the name of our team, Goka Juniors came about. (How original and creative!)

*During the matches, our defenders never used to let Adnan (who played the position of defensive midfielder) go up. Whenever he would venture a little forward, they would shout to him, 'Peeche Aao'. And that used to irritate Adnan a lot and was a source of silly humour for the rest of us. It is difficult for the readers to appreciate this, but take my word for it. It used to be really, really comical.

.

Anyway, whatever.