Dear Mr.Mallya

Get off your high horse, you pompous arse: you’ve run a perfectly good airline to the ground and now you come around selling your appalling, exorbitantly priced idea of a “good time” to the citizenry. Two thousand rupees to get a foot in the door, never mind what the neanderthal who attends to the cars demands, and I can’t even bring in my own cigarettes. I hope you break both your legs.

I understand the air up where you live is rarer, and all the people, kind; down here among the plebs, however, it still bites when I shell out to find that your idea of a car park is a tyre-wrecking field of rubble and your bouncers want to sniff at my bottle of water before it occurs to them that I can be stopped altogether from bringing it in, because the fifty-bucks-a-sip shops inside might suffer if the proletariat all take it into their sun-baked heads to carry their own.

And then, you and your bunch of fixers are aesthetically challenged enough to serve up such delights as Indus Creed, on the big stage, no less, not busking for change behind the porta-loos where they belong, but up in the spotlights with your blessings for all the world to see. Have you no shame? Or is your orbit so far removed from that of the earth’s that you legitimately believe that that sort of numbskull rock music should still be given a leg up?

There’s are any number of small venues and hard-working young groups who could do with being sponsored with whatever you have left once you’re done playing silly buggers with your account books. Instead, you go and do this.

I’d have – just to round this off – given you hell about your beard, mister, but it turns out you’ve sheared most of it off yourself. At least that saves me a little work.

Just what d’you think you’re playing at, you cretin?

Yours truly,


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