Curious case of lost identity

Today is the final of Twenty20 Championship. India will be represented by... err Harsha Bhogle. By now everybody knows India crashed out of the Cup in a disastrous fashion, however, while all this drama was

unfolding on the field, I spent three happy weeks in the ESPN office with a few friends. This is my story. As the rights haven’t been sold yet, you can contact Lalit Modi, the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) or the publisher of this paper for the same... and please hurry up the first to do so gets a 20 per cent discount.
The ESPN office is located in Gurgaon though no one knows exactly where Gurgaon is located. The office is heavily guarded by a watchman who weighs 40 pounds and has only two facial expressions neither of which he is willing to share with the general public.
The office is located on the first floor and like most international athletes I opted to use the lift. As I entered the hallowed precincts, on my left I bumped into the left-handed Lahore Express. Formerly an express train, he is now a well-settled cricket commentator who goes by the name of Wasim Akram or, as I like to call him, “Boss”.
As I entered his cubicle we hit it off immediately. I spent hours telling him about his glorious feats on the field (in case he’d forgotten) and he insisted I start his make-up. After a lot of finger pointing and shouting, senior correspondent Kaushik Basu explained to Wasim that I wasn’t a make-up artist, although he did graciously concede that if anyone in that room was in great need of make-up it definitely would be me. Wasim thanked me then tipped me in that order and off I went to Cubicle 2.
In it sat the tallest man in the world. Jason Gillespie is so tall that nobody in Gurgaon has actually seen the top of his head. I am told a photo has been taken from a top of the Red Fort (which hasn’t been red for 3,000 years) but it is still to be developed.
I immediately broke into a poem on Jason’s greatness as a paceman; his response was to tell me to get on with the hair-braiding. Desperately I tried to tell him I wasn’t the hairdresser, but Australian is a very hard language to communicate in and if you don’t believe me ask any New Zealander.
Speaking of New Zealander, Cubical 3 had yesteryear paceman Danny Morrison. Danny is so tough that on national highways he’s often mistaken for an SUV. Although what he’s doing walking on national highways is not yet abundantly clear. Danny gave me 10 bucks and immediately asked me to get him some chai and “this time with milk” were his exact words.
By now I was quite disillusioned by the lack of respect on the part of all these legends. So imagine my surprise when Dermot Reeve of Warwickshire and England bumped into me in the corridor and called me by name. Of course, Sajid Khan isn’t really my name though after hair, make-up and chaiwallah, it’s certainly a step up.