a tiny logo in the corner of the screen on Times Now which told us
that Rocky Reloaded would be telecast the next night at 9pm. Now, for
some history. The spouse is a fan of Rocky Balboa. No. Make that he is
the world's greatest fan of the Rocky Balboa series. Ever so often he
gets into Rocky mode and will watch his collection of the Rocky series
back to back and emerge in a daze slurring his vowels and looking
hooded eyed, if that were possible given the chinky hill tribe eyes he
has been genetically endowed with. And he will enlist the support of
the brat, and point out the high point of the movies to the brat,
shouting so excitedly during the bouts that neighbours call in
concerned that violence is erupting in the household, needing a Bell
Having seen this logo, and knowing his father, the brat immediately
dialled his father. (The brat knowing our numbers by heart is proving
to be a bit of a pain, he can put any telemarketer to shame with his
persistence the days he is at home and a new Beyblade is desired).
"Pappa, tumorow in d night at 9 oclock is Rocky Reloaded."
The father replied, ostensibly expressing his excitement.
"We will see it. You and I. Led mamma see her udder boring movies."
Pappa was a faint rumble on the instrument.
"An I will see how Rocky hits and practise on you."
That's when Pappa discouraged further conversation and said they would
discuss it later.
The next night, Pappa and brat completed their tasks for the evening,
which newly draconian mamma threw in one page of Math to be done, and
which was promptly dismissed as being a potential delayer towards the
watching of Rocky, and the duo settled down to watch the movie, dinner
dispensed with to allow for clear mouthed shouting at appropriate
"Look at him training brat, look at him," yelled the Pappa.
"Right, left, right, left," the brat danced on his feet and jabbed
around furiously, shadow boxing at the reflected on the varnished
Mamma sunk her carcass into the far corner of the bed, and put a
pillow over her ears and tried to get some shut eye.
A few seconds later the brat shook her shoulder.
"Mamma. I decided. I don wantu be a Justin Bieber. I wantu be a Rocky
Balboa. Get for me shorts and gloves. And give the hoodie jackids to
the poor chillun."