Humankind's unexplicable obsession with twenty-two machine-fit young men running around on some grass, trying to kick a leathery sphere into a netted space between two posts is rivalled only by one other thing: humankind's useless, pointless, and in most cases, terribly humiliating obsession with alcohol.

From the gutters of Guatemala to the ditches of Denmark, man's obsession with alcohol is thoroughly universal, absolutely consistent and completely, completely unfounded. You could be in the darkest alleyway of New York, or the brightest, most cheerful beach in Hawaii, but across the world, the way a drunkard's eyes light up at the very sight of anything remotely resembling alcohol is the common rope that binds nationalities; the only hope that some day man will not destroy himself in mushroom-clouds of nuclear explosions. Common sense and basic decision-making capabilities follow the irrationally enlarged irises, and are the next casualties in man's quest for the ultimate 'high'. The muscles fail next, as the heart deems them unworthy of supplying blood to. And then the brain gradually stops receiving (or accepting, I do not know), its normal ration of nutrition - if the brain exists, that is. The final nail is hammered in when the drinking man drinks, drinks, drinks some more, loses his senses, and collapses in a heap of fat, bones, hair and vomit.

So much so that the other marginally less zonked out mortals have to pick him up and put him in bed. The vomit, in case you're wondering, is still right there. On the floor, in the clothes, heck, its hanging in the very atmosphere after a while. You are in a situation where you are neither conscious, nor unconscious. Not subconsious, even. You think you can stand, but you can't - walking is in a different chapter of the book. You think you are talking sense, but you are not. And you have to be carried from your self-created filth on four shoulders, all of them drunk and swaying. What could be more humiliating, more demeaning? How could it be 'fun'. Or 'addictive'. How could people want to do it again and again? Every morning? Every evening? And every night? Hell, honestly, it doesn't even taste good. Why would anyone want to drink something that doesn't taste good; something that guarantees a splitting headache the next day; something that leaves you messing up your room, clothes and bed; something that - after you've made a holy fool of yourself dancing like Dharmendra to Comfortably Numb - leaves your reputation in tatters?

These are the people who have never driven a car from the heart. They have never approached a corner thinking: "Damn, if I don't take this one at the right speed, I am doomed. My career will lie in shambles". They have never (ever) thought about the ideal speed at which to hit the apex, and the precise moment to start accelerating again. These are the men who don't know the joys of driving, or the joys of anything other than opening a dark-tinted bottle of foul-smelling, bad-tasting alcohol and an hour later, being carried on four drunk and swaying shoulders. These are the men who think that alcohol is a pre-requisite to enjoying Pink Floyd. Obviously, they'd think so. They have never heard Pink Floyd without the senseless haze of booze.

I will not be preachy. Buy all means, and by all means, drink, drink, drink till you zonk off. Wake up next morning with a headache so severe that you barely remember your name. Or how you got the headache. Lose your senses, dance like Dharmendra to Comfortably Numb. Make us laugh. Just don't make us clean up the filth. Or make your drinks! Baah.

And always remember. You are not alone. See those twenty-two guys running behind that spherical thing. And see those few billions who are watching them, jumping up, collapsing, laughing and crying as if their lives depended on whether the little spherical thing goes between the posts into the nets, or over them? They're all with you. Peace be with the world. Never mind that it's alcohol-induced, senseless, hazy peace.