Five REAL Reasons Why MU Fell in Basel, or Basle, or Whatever.

Manchester United (MU) crashed out of the Champions League after an inexplicable loss to FC Basel. For the second time in less than a year, MU played like FU (Felda United). The whole social and anti-social media erupted into an all-out feeding frenzy, pouncing on the debacle in Basel with both delight and dejection: seismic, catastrophic, comic, and, simply, sick. The Gary Speed inquest is hardly done, and here's another one. Overnight the world over was awash with clever theories and hindsights. Senile Sir Alex, ugly Rooney, dud de Gea, no Cleverly, get Sneijder. Even Park Ji Sung, far right in above pic, wasn't spared (a bit unfair because he's supposed to only run, nothing else). One football writer offered five reasons for the scandalous performance. Not to be outdone, another suggested six. But both completely missed the point simply because they either hate MU or love MU. They're biased to the bone. As a long-suffering but impartial Manchester City fan, I'm just happy to jump in with my five REAL reasons:

1. Monotony: after 25 years of playing the same style and putting up with the same Scottish Gaelic language, MU as a team are bored to death. MU is, by and large, the proverbial one-trick pony. Only they're very very good at this one trick. If there's anybody who's successfully mechanised the art of football, it's MU. You could still see Keane, Pallister and Parker playing week in, week out this season even though they've long retired. With no semblance of variety and makeover, players (including Park Ji Sung) get tired, demotivated and even deluded. They collectively collapsed when they got found out at Old Trafford against Man City and in Basel against part-time watchmakers. And, of course, those one-nil, clean-sheet craps in between.

2. Manchester City: For the first time in 40 years, MU are substantively and earnestly upstaged by their perennially pathetic neighbours. So potent was neighbours' threat that MU had to resort to desperate taunting and name-calling: noisy neighbours, bitters, 35 years, football lessons, plastics, sheikh's toy. The Fergie-lapping media was just happy to fuel and foment the ill feeling. It's not so much Man City's newfound riches that irk MU, but more of their swaggering and irreverent pitchside ways. The 6-1 derby hiding at Old Trafford was the last straw. All in all, MU players are a mentally depressed and disturbed lot, Park Ji Sung included. You can't move if you're unhappy. Simple.

3. Otelul Galati. Or something. Until today MU players and the entire coaching staff are still wondering what they've done wrong to deserve a home-and-away fixture against this team. Champions League is treacherous enough as it is. Playing an obscure team with a strange moniker often adds an unwanted distraction and romance, not to mention Jonny Evans. The city of Galati is not far from the high forests of Transylvania (ha, ha, you know who slept here). So it's a bit of a stretch to expect MU to beat up Count's boys home and away and get away with it. All the rumours about his stake-to-the heart death are just that: rumours.

4. Michel Platini: You can't see the connection. Neither can I. But there has to be some connection. This is UEFA, remember. His loathing of big, rich and non-French teams is an open and shut case. If he could have his way, he'd have the French cycling team in the Champions League, taking on BATE, Apoel and Genk in a group of death. Lyon's cynical and convenient 7-1 away win is proof of his complicity. Circumstantial, but proof all the same. Resign, Platini, now.

Did I say five reasons? Actually it's four. I miscounted. Or I just couldn't improvise another one. Nonetheless, good reasons, all of them.

Mindless Miscellany (No. 9)

We're into the last gasp of a frenetic 2011. The year just seems to be in a huge hurry to complete itself. Libya's back to the Libyans with Gadaffi now gone for good. If anything, his passing saves everyone the pain of figuring the right spelling for his name (Gadaffi, Ghadafi, Kadaffi, and 100 other variants). Europe is imploding as Germany plays Ah Long-in-chief. The US, well, never mind. Steve Jobs, the visionary, is now history. Man U mauled 6-1 by neighbours (just can't help). Yingluck is out of luck: she won Bangkok then lost it to the floods. Indonesia is holding on to its maids despite Malaysia's repeated promise of one mandatory rest day and six optional work days in a week. You don't have to trawl the world for a good laugh. There's plenty right here at home in Malaysia.

1. The Curious Case of The Hundred Handout

If you think Malaysia is overly kind to foreign maids, just consider what it's giving to its citizens: If you have a school-going child, and you or your child isn't an illegal immigrant, you'll get RM 100 in cool cash, no question asked. If you have five children and five Porsches, you'll get RM 500 (even if all your five Porsches are illegal). Of course, we, ever curious and suspicious, have some questions now: Is this black money? Is this one-off? Can we use the money to buy a condo? Can we still vote for Elizabeth Wong?

2. Tired Teachers?

Minister of Education recently advised the MOE staff to ease off a bit. They should find time to relax, exercise, destress, breathe, live and so on. MOE has a staff of 500,000, hard to believe. What comes to mind is the teachers. Are they working too hard? Based on my calculation, the total number of schooldays in 2011 is 180, as against 185 non-schooldays (i.e. holidays). More holidays than working days in one year. And that 180 includes unproductive schooldays like Sports Day, Before Sports Day, After Sports Day, Teachers' Day, Hari Kantin, Jogathon, floods, Malaysia Cup Champions etc. I know teaching is tiring and stressful, but it's only half a year. Plenty of time to rest and recover. No issue here.

3. Ah, Kelantanese Again

A genetics study on the Malay race by Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM) confirmed what I'd long suspected: that Kelantan Malays were the first to set foot in Peninsular Malaysia, some 60,000 years ago. My formal training in history or anthropology is limited to the History Channel and Masterchef, but 60,000 years seems such a long time ago. Or is it a gross misprint or miscount, and it's actually 6,000 or even 600 years? 60,000 or 6,000, I'm just delighted. Being Kelantanese has never felt this good. Now I've the bragging rights over friends who're Jawa Malay, Minang Malay, Bugis Malay, Rawa Malay, uncertain Malay and other ethnic Malays who, according to the same study, came much later (though earlier than the Banglas). As first comers, Kelantanese certainly deserves some privileges. Like RM 200 instead of RM100. And oil royalty.

4.Thinking Tanking

Do you know that there's a Malaysian Malay Professional Thinkers Organization or Persatuan Pemikir Profesional Melayu Malaysia? No, it's not a scam or spam. It's a bona fide NGO led by a prominent professor. With a convenient catch-all name, this NGO has taken on a wide spectrum of local issues ranging from the serious ones like the UMNO-PAS merger to semi-serious ones like nasi lemak at school canteens. I've nothing against NGOs, they're fine and useful as a concept. But how do you get to be a member of this exalted NGO? Any minimum qualification? Can a non-thinking professional like Carlos Tevez be a member? No. He's born in Argentina. Fair enough. Then how about a hard thinking but non-professional retiree born in Kelantan?

5. Readers' Ripostes

As a redundant retiree, I've all the time and space for news and stories on my Yahoo! homepage. Politics, sports, music, health, archaeology, whatever. And I love readers' comments. They're clever, whimsical and, at times, coarse. Plenty of wit and humour and misspellings. Follow the ongoing slugfest among the US presidential hopefuls. Readers are having a field day ripping into their gaffes, flubs and faux pas. And why not. Mrs Bachmann wished Elvis happy birthday on the anniversary of his death. Amidst howls of "idiot, go away etc", one reader coolly suggested " Elvis doesn't care, why should we". One reader thought Mitt Romney is a moron (he's actually Mormon). Rocked by sexual harassment claims, Herman Cain badly botched an interview. Asked on Libya, he simply bumbled and failed to muster anything coherent. One reader suspected that Cain mistook Libya for labia. Brilliant.

Lembaran Terakhir: Ahmad Jais (1936-2011)

The first time I heard "Di Ambang Sore" over the old Radio Malaysia in 1965, I'd to catch my breath. The melody, the music, the lines, just blended and melted into one supreme and sublime song. On a scale of 1 to 10, it's 11. And that pure, flawless voice simply swept me away with all of its unrestrained and surging smoothness. Barely twelve, I fell for Ahmad Jais and his serenades of love and loss. "Sejuk senja ku nantikan, namun dikau tiada datang". Who wouldn't.

Those who'd summarily dismissed him as another one-or-three-hit wonder were left to rue as Ahmad Jais brand flourished. And how: 15 benchmark albums, 100 timeless tunes, and countless kudos. His legions of lovers, drawn in equal measure by his unprententious persona, grew fast, far and wide, which was quite a feat in those dark and dreary days without YouTube, Facebook and Masterchef. Some of his ardent admirers grew up swooning over his signature staples like "Gelisah" and "Sumpah Setia" to become accomplished lawmakers, professors and even ministers.

Ahmad Jais made no attempt to emulate P Ramlee because he knew enough he could never rival the versatility and virtuosity of the only genius this country has ever produced. So he remained Ahmad Jais, and rightly so. But his lush vocals and lovely ballads stood out in a vibrant local music scene dominated by nonsensical and insanely commercial pop yeh yeh largely blamed for giving us paranormal and forgettable tunes like "Si Cincin Emas" and "Ngalompak A go go". To be fair pop yeh yeh did have its inspiring moments with creative forces like A Romzi and The Hooks (the slap bass on "Sengsara" had more chops than Red Hot Chili Peppers, ha ha ha), but that's about all. Nothing came close to Ahmad Jais, the master crooner. During my Tiger Lane days, his songs provided the occasional solace and deviation from the gruelling demands of chemistry experiments and dull afternoon debates.

For those pining for a Malaysian equivalent of Indonesian doyens like S Effendy, the wait was over with Ahmad Jais. They did collaborate at one time, a testament to the high respect and recognition the two leading lights had of each other (listen to "Jumpa Mesra"). The Indonesian music has since progressed so much that none of their talents could find any motivation to work with their struggling Malaysian counterparts until very recently: when artistes on both sides descended into artistic travesty by labelling each other "diva". While Indonesia has practically stopped the flow of its maids into Malaysia, its divas continue to fly into KL to link up with local divas for live gigs, promotional blitz, and, yes, more money. And with new maids now being offered higher pay, medical, rest days and singing lessons, Malaysian households will soon be getting their own divas. Sorry for digressing.

Ahmad Jais's melodic and lyrical style finally hit its best-by date and succumbed under relentless assault from the newer and noisier genres in the 80s. You know, the rockish, rappish and rubbish variety. Regraded as nostalgia and esoteric, his songs rule Radio Klasik (FM 87.7 in KL) and retain a cult following, mainly those at "Di Ambang Sore", so to speak. This fiercely passionate crowd just refuse to let go or move on, and to them the songs are as fresh as they're 40 years ago. The iPod generation may argue that Ahmad Jais lacks the musical complexity and artistry of, say, Yuna or Gaga. Well, to each his own, and stupid is as stupid does, as the saying goes.

Ahmad Jais passed away Tuesday, 11 October 2011, at 75, leaving a rich legacy of endearing and evergreen songs. I've more than 50 in my drawer, each and every one is a veritable treat and treasure. One or two my two school-going girls should be able to (sarcastically) hum along by now due to my frequent late-night airings. He's no longer with us, but his renditions will continue to calm our nerves and liven up our daily blight and grind. "Jinak merpati makan di tangan, jangan dikurung di sangkar hati". You'll break down and cry.

What's more befitting than closing this encomium with his definitive number. But which one? It's never easy to pick out. They're all so bewilderingly beautiful, each with its own personal mood and character. I've to choose at random. So here's "Seloka Kasih":

Bermadah puan lembut alunan, terpikat hamba dik halus budi.
Jinaklah hamba di taman hatimu, benarkah puan cinta padaku.

Bila mata bertentang mata, kelunya lidah untuk berkata.
Jangan diturut katanya hati, kelak nanti merana diri.

Manis madah mu tersusun rapi, terbayang jugak wajah berseri.
Mulut tak hangus berkata api, memang tak nampak sakit di hati.

Kilas mata ikan di air, sudah kutau jantan betina.
Bukan mudah jadi penyair, lagunya ada pantun tak kena.

Seloka puan bijak bistari, terpaut sudah si anak muda.
Kuharap luka sembuh kembali, walaupun parutnya tetap ada.

Kalau pandai meniti buih, selamatlah nanti badan ke seberang.
Siapakah serik bermain kasih, walaupun dia di tangan orang.

The Mauling of Mister Potatoes.

Utterly and altogether unbelievable. For more than 40 years I'd been fantasizing about something close to this. It finally happened, and more. Manchester City routed Manchester United 6-1 at Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams, football Fort Knox or plain swamp was battered and buried, taking with it the ghosts of that freaking overhead kick. Nobody, not even the deepest City-loving romantics, were quite prepared for what's unfolding in plain sight: a complete dismantling of the 19-time champions heading for 20. The feeling hasn't really sunk in. It won't.

Remember the snide and cynical broadsides from Rooney the white Pele my arse and the Fergie-lapping tabloid toerags after the Community Shield? (Football lessons, Barca and Real rejects, poor old City, as ugly as sin, bunch of strangers etc). The pain was brimming over and reaching out for retribution. What a rich reversal and a cruel vindication. No fluke, no freak this time. Just a brazen display of exquisite and articulate football I hadn't seen in 40 years of following City. No football lessons here. Only merciless mauling of Mister Potatoes.

Potato chips lovers, including those at Putrajaya, should take heart when, only two days after the Old Trafford hiding, Man U won a Carling Cup fixture. Against Aldershot. All the what? Quite a nameless team at the wrong end of the 4th Division. Owen scored a goal amidst local fans' cheeky chants of "We're going to win 6-1." Call that a quick recovery if you want.

"We're Manchester City, we'll do what we want." The new shout of swagger ringing across the Etihad just about sums it all up.

There's no better time to tell jokes and rub the occasional salt. Here's an assortment of jibes picked out from the social network:

1. Sick swan
2. Six and the City
3. Man U trauma line: 016 16 16 16 16
4. What's the difference between Man U and a black cab? A black cab lets in five.
5. What do Col Gadhafi and Man U have in common? Both slaughtered by the locals.
6. Man U expected to win the second and third set?
7. 4th official: How much time do you want to add, Sir Alex?
Alex: Just get the whistle blown.
8. What time is it? It's six past De Gea.
9. All Man U players looked upset. Except Rooney. He can't count to 6. He just looked confused.
10. David De Gea's mum rang him up at half time. Told him to be home before seven.
11. Finally, the best of the lot:
Monday morning in the Fergie house.
Mrs Ferguson: Get up, Alex. It's just gone seven!
Alex: Goodness me. They scored again.

.

Break-in Redux

Now repeat after me: "This country is going to the dogs!".

Somebody broke into my house - again, for the second time in less than a year. And maybe by the same twisted scum of the earth. We'd yet to fully recover from the first one and now this. Horrendous, and hard to believe our (wretched) luck. But I'm sure this isn't the worst on record. Not in a country with two million illegal students and one million illegal policemen. I've heard of houses broken into twice in a month. I love this country just like the Zimbabweans love theirs. Malaysia is definitely transforming and is well on track to becoming the only developed country with hudud laws by 2019. Bring on the laws, guys. Lop their hands off for all I care.

It's a sad Saturday. The dark, gathering clouds were ominous enough. We'd only one nagging suspicion: that it's going to rain (ha, ha). We left at two and came back at about 7.50 only to find a broken window with pure and natural air gusting in, a telltale sign that something was amiss because we hadn't had fresh air in our house for 20 years. I sprinted up faster than Usain to find all rooms plundered and pillaged. Clothing and things strewn all over. I'd never seen a refugee camp but I could picture it when I saw my bedroom or what's left of my bedroom. Only my son's room appeared untouched, because it's plundered and pillaged everytime. Apart from my watch and wife's knock-off jewellery, nothing much was missing. I finally found an old Manchester City t-shirt I'd been looking for the last ten years (thanks, thief!). Lucky thing no Mercedes was taken (because there's no Mercedes to begin with).

While the pain of losing a watch should ease off the morning after, the cerebral trauma should linger for a while. Something like post-partum, only worse. We've to be prepared for symptoms of cognitive failures like confusion, anger, hearing loss and constipation. A friend who's also a multiple victim recommended an elegant quick fix for break-in depression: blame it all on UMNO and Perkasa. It's not quite clear how he contrived this placebo. There's no conceivable way the venerable political institution and the well-meaning NGO could've had a hand in his misfortune, and certainly not in burglaries. I couldn't agree with him, but he recovered in seven days. I guess it's mind over matter.

Now the police report. Actually, I was in two minds about filing a report. With the country's entire police personnel already short-handed by the thousands of reports lodged against Anwar Ibrahim, Ambiga and Mohamad Sabu, my bothersome break-in report wouldn't stand any chance. But my good sense prevailed, for two reasons. One, with all those ETP, NKRA, KPI, MACC, EBITDA, filing a police report is now faster than figuring out what those abbreviations stand for. Two, police might be enlightened enough to be able to crack this case and recover the loot. The odds are no better than seeing Elvis at Mydin, but who really knows. Without a police report my wife can't claim her fake bangles.

With nothing to lose, I drove to USJ 8 police station and filed a report with the investigating officer, one Inspector Faisal. I used to work for a Fortune 500 multinational champion and I could tell with 90% precision that this particular law enforcer was 100% unmotivated. A repeat burglary isn't an unnatural sex act, fair enough. But the least he could've done was to feign some interest and curiosity. I've been religiously paying my income tax for the past 30 years, I'm sure a good part of it has gone into sustaining a functional police force. It's hardly paying back.

We're having a late dinner when a police officer came to visit the crime scene. He's a CSI-type, with camera, gloves and all. He dusted the broken glass for fingerprints. No fingerprints, the shithead wore gloves, probably local and gay, he said (not verbatim). He took some pictures, and more pictures upstairs, and that's it. I wasn't totally impressed, but at least he tried. They did the exact same thing for the first break-in a year ago. I'm beginning to believe that this is a police SOP (Standard Operating Ploy) to scam us into thinking they're serious.

I was expecting police cars flashing and blaring around my area the next day, harassing and hounding the workers at a couple of construction sites nearby. Nothing. Maybe it's Sunday. Nothing on Monday. Tuesday, still nothing. I understand, for the police to proceed they need clear leads, like the perpetrator's passport, his name cards, or, better still, Mr Perpetrator announcing himself at the police station. But utter inaction sends the same stark message to both the victim and the villain: that break-ins are no big deal and they're very much part of our multicultural sophistication which also includes running red lights and Malay hantu movies. At this rate, you'd be forgiven for deciding that the transsexuals are creating more value for this flagging country.

The Girls Take A Pet

When I woke up this morning, my nose sniffed a whiff of musk, or was it skunk? Somebody must have poached my Kiehl's Original Musk Blend No 1.

Since my first day of retirement, I've been trying to reverse my age and debunk Mayo geriatric studies by oversleeping. This is still a project in progress. Whenever I wake up from a lengthy slumber, my olfactory nerves will react violently and I'll smell things. A side effect, I suppose. Due to thinner air, morning time is a smells sanctuary. In my case, its the plain, everyday odours that get amplified: morning breath, dirty laundry, school bus, Banglas, neighbour's curry, neighbour's dogs, neighbours, but never musk or skunk. Then it struck me. Yesterday my two girls took in a cat as our pet. It's a ten-month old brownish black American Curl, one of the few known feline varieties that can tolerate Malaysian weather and public. The skunk was him.

We'd never had any pet, except for a short period in the early nineties, when my two boys took in a rabbit or a guinea pig or something in between. The short period was actually all of two and half days, long enough time for him to scarf down something close to our one year's supply of carrot. This guy was born to eat and un-eat, so we had no choice but to un-pet him. It's all peace and pet-free until 2000. That's the year when my youngest (Sarah) was old enough to muster the magic word "cat". She bugged and badgered me senselessly until I finally relented - in 2011. To be fair, my mind was failing and I was deeply disturbed by this revisionist idea that Kelantan was never colonized by Winston Churchill. Sarah caught me off my guard, to say the least. My OK was only partially audible and would amount to no more than a hearsay in any court of law. But it's all sweet and clear enough to her that she broke down and cried, tears and all. Who wouldn't, I mean, after 10 years and lost hopes. Israel would've allowed the Arabs in the West Bank to have their own pets in less than a week.

Although I've a slight condition with snakes, I really have nothing against cats. They're a fun and friendly lot when they're not dispensing anything. My only peeve with pets in my household is the very real prospect of my ending up as a champion janitor despite all the verbal and written promises and pledges made by the girls before we take any pet in. Apart from the little joy of gratifying the girls with this gift, I'm hard-pressed to find an upside to living with a cat and a high cholesterol (my cholestrol, not cat's cholesterol). Maybe, just maybe, this cat, for all it's worth, is an answer to a retiree's natural urge and yearning for adventure and failure.

Although financial cost was never an issue, we got him on the cheap. Actually he's free, given away by Aida's friend, Nadia, who's now left with only 15 cats. His given name was Cooper. I wasn't sure which Cooper: Gary? Henry? Mini? We thought we should change the name to something closer to us. It took us less than 10 years to agree with my proposed name: Dzeko (pronounced Jeko), after Manchester City's Bosnian hotshot Edin Dzeko, who's actually pink, not brown or black. I know Balotelli would be better, but no cat in the world would respond to a name like that.

Wait for updates.

A Crude Guide to Buying a TV ( And a Blender While You're at it )

Have you bought a TV lately? Well, according to my old English teacher, you don't buy a TV, you buy a TV set. He's an English purist. It's always TV set to him, non-negotiable. So have you bought a TV set lately? Ha ha. Imagine walking into a Harvey Norman or Best Denki and telling the Sabahan in uniform that "I'm looking for a TV set." He'd immediately whip out a set of three latest Samsungs (32, 40 and 50 inches) and offer you a basement price for the set of three if you buy today (tomorrow different price, he'd warn you). Don't blame him. He's a TV salesman, not an English purist. Now that we have TV in LED, HD and 3D, you can be more specific and helpful by asking for a HD3DLEDTV set. He'd gladly show you another set of four or six.

I was out looking for a flatscreen last week and had a brain seizure. Problem is, I'm retired, and time is firmly on my side. I've all the time and space for about anything. So whenever I decide to splurge, it's a major project. I'd search, research, analyse, paralyse, compare, run a DCF, anything to make myself half-clear. There's no democracy deeper than consumer electronics in this country. You'll enjoy the unfettered freedom of choice and expression. There's even a 'TV strip' in Taipan USJ, a row of five fiercely competing outlets with bright lights and loud music, all pitching Samsung. Even with plenty of restraint that came with the holy month, I still managed to prepare myself by learning a litany of audio-visual standards and specifications, dummies-level solid state engineering, Japanese branding strategies and Korean ancient history. As a bonus, I picked up a smattering of show-off parlance like ghosting, passive glasses and crosstalk. Call me if you're interested.

If you want to buy a flatscreen today, and budget isn't an issue, you'd have exactly 420 choices. But since budget is always a constraint (I'm retired, remember), I can cut through the chaos and winnow my options down to roughly 210. Fewer but still frightening. Even with a paltry budget of Rm 2000, you can already choose among four sizes, five technologies (plasma, LCD, LED, 3D, 2D), ten brands and two brains (Smart and less-than-Smart). The dynamics will double instantly if the salesman throws in the clever purchase-with-purchase ploys. A word of caution: if you fall for a PWP, you'll be lugging home a Smart flatscreen and a dumber blender. There's an upside though. You can restart your love life by showing your wife the blender and tell her softly that all along you've been thinking about her, and the flatscreen actually comes with the blender. Buying a new HDTV can be as complicated as buying a recond MPV.


But I did make my decision finally. How? I ruled out Sony. Sony is Samsung in disguise. I'm ready for lawsuits, but just trust me. I always have this nagging suspicion that most Japanese brands are just that: brands. It's all marketing and image and perception that, sadly, leads to higher price. TV technology has reached a point where one brand is intrinsically no worse than another. But it's OK to be more vigilant with unimaginative names like Toba or Tony because they could well be products genuinely made in Balakong or nearby Universiti Putra Malaysia. Stay clear. How about 3D? Out of question for now. My two girls and me putting on those monstrous, battery-hungry goggles to watch Pirates of the Carribean? We'd look like pirates ourselves in no time. With Sony and 3D out of the way, I was down to 40 or so options. It's easier now. No, I won't say flat out here which brand or model I bought. This is a carbon-free and commercial-free blog. Ah, watching Kun Aguero in HD, life's so good.

Sharir Sharuddin (1951-2011): A Celebration

It’s OK if you’ve never heard of Sharir, because he revelled in anonymity. After all, he’s not a political master or a decorated soldier. Neither was he a quick investor with billions to burn. He’s a Star boy and bred, like you and me, only he happened to love and live distance running. I can’t think of any Star athlete, past or present, who runs quite like him. Power with grace. He just flowed, like poetry. That’s why, watching him in action, I was reminded of Colin Bell, one of my all-time football heroes, whose trademark ghosting runs from behind often caught opponents off their pants. And Sharir was similarly unflappable, understated and easy to overlook. 

While the hurdles and sprint poster boys (you know them all) were out flashing and flaunting their bravura, Sharir chose to remain inconspicuous. But behind the façade of thick glasses and glam-rocker hairdo, lurked a precocious talent and devastatingly competent running machine. Ever so gracious and diffident, he didn’t celebrate or even discuss his record-breaking feats. Uncharacteristic and uncommon for sure, but a Star champion and prodigious son no less. 

A born distance runner, Sharir was one-sided to a fault. He could attack the old cross-country course behind the Field Force camp, through the rubber estate, deep in the muddy stream, across Ampang Baru new village, among the cattle crowd on Dairy Road, up the old Tiger Lane, without breaking a sweat. But he laboured to pass the 100-metre standard tests. A humbling reminder that he, like all of us, was imperfect. 

Running up to an Ipoh District athletics meet in late 60’s, the fraternity was abuzz with the upcoming cross-country showdown between Sharir and Othean Sunthiran, a long-distance god from Anderson or St Micheal, I’m not sure which. Mindful of the portentous Indian runners’ “live to run, run to live” work ethics, the smart money was all for an Othean’s sweep. 

Totally unruffled, Sharir settled down to a good night’s sleep. The next day he won with a generous hundred yards to spare. After the race, he quietly faded into the crowd. No victory jigs, no celebratory air-punching, only vintage Sharir. All in a day’s work for the champion. 

Sharir and I both shared the unforgettable Blue experience, burning and bringing down the old house together with Bain, Pak Dokter, Pak Chat, Chot, Sany, (Datuk)Ishak Shideburns, Ridzuan and other assorted personalities. I must admit that I took up distance running myself, moved and inspired in part by Sharir’s effortless and all-conquering running style. Short on gift and talent, I’ve never won anything. I can never be like him, I know, but I’m still running today, every evening, with the same schoolboy vigour and fervour.

Jump and conclude that I’m a libidinous show-off if you like. But it’s only because I’m out to drive home the point that I owe this little passion to Sharir. I’ll keep on running, for another thousand times or more, and he'll always be ahead of me. Sharir passed away early morning 3 July 2011 after a brave fight with cancer. Our prayers and thoughts are with his family. It’s never too late to celebrate his life and achievements. 

 (This article has been posted earlier on staroba.org, the Star Old Boys website)

Mindless Miscellany (No. 8)

We're still in 2011, just in case. And what do we have already: end of the world, no-fly Libya, 99.99% sex video, tsunami back where it belongs (Japan), Prince William took a wife, Sir Elton John became a wife, Obama killed Osama, Barca blew Man U, Parisian pervert nabbed in New York. Bags of big stories, but it's the daily turns that stand a redundant retiree on his head:

1. Wicked Cricket.

I don't understand. Every time I read or watch sports, there's an update or two on cricket. Test match in Colombo, match fixing in Karachi, dope in Delhi, like everybody cares about this low and slow sport. And there's even a Cricket World Cup to boot. I'm not sure which world, but the last one ran from March until April this year over a period of 43 days. 43 bloody days! Full 12 days longer than Football World Cup in South Africa, just because players and umpires need more time to understand cricket rules. If you're not from south Asia (or illiterate enough not know where south Asia is), chances are you don't understand cricket concept, rules and nomenclature (bats, balls, bowls, dope, wickets, howzat etc). Among my many friends, only Hamid understands cricket. He's a certified accountant, if you're wondering. Sorry I can't talk much about cricket. But I can tell you one cricket joke. It's a clever one, about Muttiah Muralitharan aka Murali, a fast and famous bowler from Sri Lanka. The way he bowled was so complex and controversial that some cricket critics deemed it illegal (he doesn't bowl, he throws). Now the joke. Question: What's the difference between Murali and Camilla Parker Bowles? Answer: Camilla Parker bowls.

2. National Disservice

Be afraid. The government is mulling a dead-brain proposal to extend the National Service (NS) for your 17-year-olds from current three months to six months. I'm already having sleepless nights. Yes, my two girls, 13 and 16. Admittedly their chances of being called up for NS are slim, but as long as there's a chance, I'll remain paranoid. NS tops my hate chart, above MPSJ and Indah Water (both collect money for no reason). I've never come across a government initiative shorter on purpose than NS. Good money (about RM300 mill a year) is being frittered away while some straight A students have to study marine biology in Dungun instead of medicine in Dublin. One of the purported objectives of NS is "to create a smarter, active and confident young generation". Really? How about all those schools, universities, colleges, university colleges, parents, Perkasa, pakar motivasi etc? What are they for? There's only one surefire way to improve NS: stop it. And declare the day we stop NS a public holiday. Please, minister or somebody.

3. Pretty Police

Pathetic piece of baloney, this one. Malaysian police is planning to station good-looking, smart and personable officers at all frontline positions (NST, 19 June). The main reason, you've to believe this, is to improve the public image and perception of the police (unfriendly, bureaucratic, corrupt and so on?). With most of the male models and Akademi Fantasia graduates now out of contract, all that's needed is just a crash intake and training for stage-to-street transition. Apparently this tactic isn't new. The Indonesian counterpart is mobilizing full-time and full-grown policewomen to report on daily traffic chaos in Jakarta on TV (reminds you of Copenhagen's speed-control bikini bandits?). Hopefully this works, so that we can fastrack our efforts to cure the burgeoning social and economic ills by extending the template: appoint only good-looking ministers, vote for good-looking MPs, promote good-looking customs officers, employ good-looking bus drivers and so on.


4. Failure is Success

Failure is now in fashion. "No such thing as failure, only feedback", cries one mantra. "Fail forward" is the new success. Some companies now celebrate or even encourage constructive failures. Nothing epitomizes the failure frenzy more than Rory McIlroy's epic triumph at the 111th US Open Golf recently. First, youngest, highest, lowest, simple superlatives were in short supply as the Woods-starved golf fraternity and media went into overdrive, raining high praises and accolades on the boy visionary. What's so remarkable about Rory's victory is that he's actually risen from the ashes of failure at the Augusta Golf Masters two months ago, in which he led until he limped on the very last day to finish 15th. "Augusta was a very valuable experience. I learned a few things about myself........I knew what I'd to do to win". Needless to say, Rory has learned and profited from his failure. But I'm sure he'd have preferred to win both.

5. Mike Tyson (Real One)

Last month, I was outraged when Astro ran a trailer of an upcoming Animal Planet production featuring Mike Tyson. I don't mind Iron Mike on Masterchef or I'm Not Smarter Than a 5th Grader, but Mike Tyson on an animal channel is unacceptable and bad, bad taste. I was distraught because, for me, Mike Tyson is a phenomenon, a living legend. In a world plagued by political sleaze and corporate scams, straight-talking Tyson stands out like a blast of fresh air. Reading about him, I couldn't help but conclude that he'd been massively misguided, a victim of circumstances and filthy friends, which explains that ear-chomping episode. How could they lump this fine and fair-minded human champion with the rhinos and hippos. He's not an animal, not even metaphorically. Imagine my relief when I discovered that that particular Animal Planet program actually showcased Tyson's deep passion and partiality for his first and true sport: raising and racing pigeons. I'm not entirely impressed, but at least I can see the animal connection.

6. Women's Football

For retirees with time and mind to spare, FIFA Women's Football World Cup currently on show in Germany is a tempting option. For those who grew up watching women playing netball for one hour and mahjong for one week, women's football is an acquired taste, just like operatic music. I'm ambivalent about women playing football. You've to agree that it's part of natural progression which includes weightlifting, wrestling and reckless driving. About the only female-free sport in the free world now is parallel parking, which even a woman footballer with 30 years of driving experience would avoid. Sorry if I sound sexy or sexist, but the jury is still out, with opinions largely diverging from supportive to downright cynical. Are women smart enough to understand the offside rule? Should they be allowed to do Tevez's goal celebration jigs? Unlike their miserable male counterparts, the US women's team always perform well because American women play football while American men play American football (which is actually wrestling). Sepp Blatter, head of FIFA no less, even suggested tighter shorts for women footballers to ramp up waning interest. But judging by the 73,000 sellout crowd in the opening game in Berlin, no sartorial transformation is necessary. Proof that Blatter is a big-time sex pervert. An excited fellow retiree messaged me this morning to look out for one J Lo look-alike in the Mexico team. Apparently he'd watched the Mexico-England game (pervert!). Thanks, mate. I'm watching cricket for now.

Seven reasons why MU played like FU.....!

The Champions League final is already ancient history. But the tragedy, comedy and mystery linger. Why did Manchester United (MU) play like Felda United (FU)?

MU lost to Barcelona. Well, this should go down as the understatement of the year even with more than six months of the 2011 remaining. The 3-1 scoreline in the one-sided affair on 28 May is technical to the core. It's a 5-0 Catalan cakewalk by any standard of fair play. MU had been ruthless and unstoppable before that Wembley whitewash, dismantling Chelsea and Schalke with aplomb. But the way they’re bullied and battered by Barcelona belies belief.

British tabloids were measured and restrained in their response, taking great pains to cover up darling team's pedestrian performance by heaping praise and more praise on Barcelona. A clever misdirection for an untrained eye. But the rest of us know better. British football literates, pundits and pundeks are, by and large, articulate bootlickers pandering to Sir Alex and his attack dog Gary Neville. Since I don’t owe Alex anything, I’m free to explain and expound why MU played like FU and sank in shame. Don’t get me wrong. I was rooting for MU and wanted them to win simply because of my visceral soft spot for English teams. I was firmly behind Liverpool when they won over and lost to AC Milan. I’ve been following the English League for longer than 100 years now. In my schooldays I begged and borrowed to buy Shoot, a football (not rifle) magazine. It’s only fair that I should be allowed my two-sen.

Now for my seven reasons:

1. Team formation: Fergie’s famed 4-4-2 or 4-4-1-1 or whatever was doomed from the first whistle. Barcelona are unplayable when they’re in form, and they hit form every playing day. So the only formation that has a ghost of a chance is 10-0-0, known lovingly as the PTB. Yes, park the bus. MU should take a leaf out of neighbour’s playbook. Man City’s Mancini, bred and broken in Milan, has honed this fine art to perfection. Italy won the World Cup four times by defending to death.

2. Team line-up: One look at the team, you’ll see a horde of hard runners with a combined skill equivalent to all 30% of Lionel Messi’s. Michael Carrick is a huge talent as a bricklayer, but not a ball-player. Park Ji Sung ran before, during and after the game. He’s still running while you’re reading this.

3. Ryan Giggs: Let’s be honest. This serial shagger had no business groping about on the field alongside Wayne Rooney, a relatively respectable guy given that he’s only an occasional shagger. He should be off the field doing what he does best with that priceless grand injunction.

4. Rio and Vidic: Over-rated and over the hill, this defensive duo were apparently having a divine time watching and marveling at poetry in motion as Barcelona players stroked the ball right under their noses with sheer finesse and panache. Should we blame them?

5. Lionel Messi.

6. British Media and Arsene Wenger: Together they spun the hype. Arse lived up to his name by loudly suggesting a MU win. The media, while grudgingly giving Barelona the nominal edge, were actually bullish and upbeat about MU’s prospects. Result: MU’s pumped-up ego and irrational exuberance. They’re caught pants down and only recovered five seconds from the final whistle.

7. Sir Alex was posturing for the FIFA job: Mere conjecture. MU’s loss would allow a rare opportunity for our friend to be gracious and magnanimous in defeat. He didn’t blame the referee or any conspiracy and looked all-round a saner, cleaner candidate than Blatter or Hammam.


I know some MU hardliners will find this less than funny. Loads of bollocks, they'd howl, baying for my blood. Go ahead, guys. Bring out that video. Oh, I'm sure our friendly PM and wife aren't too offended by these sly digs and jibes at their blue-eyed team. At least I mentioned Felda United in the same breath to balance things out. Touching on the local la liga, my home team Kelantan, the Red Warriors, are all poised for the league and FA Cup titles. Catalan and Kelantan rhyme in an uncanny way. No coincidence if you compare the way both teams play! Now that’s funny.

A Father-in-law And His Alma Mater

I finally joined the ranks of rookie fathers-in-law when my eldest got hitched recently. I’m not sure what to make of this. Should I celebrate? Nothing to shout about for sure because some of my Tiger Lane classmates are already multiple father-in-law. My good friend Azlan became a father-in-law three times last year. No way to beat this feat, it all seemed, until one of us went one better. He himself got married and became a son-in-law. No sooner had the dust settled than another one followed on, making it two on the trot. Now that’s dandy. While most of us are blissfully in bed with grandmas, they’re on diaper duty and milk runs.

I guess becoming a father-in-law is no longer, or even never, an important milestone, which is a pity. For some, it’s best forgotten. Ask Prince of Wales. When he became a father-in-law recently he’s largely ignored and insulted. People spoke and wrote and raved about his dead wife and his daughter-in-law's living sister. Nothing about him and even less about his new wife. Amid all the media slagging and libido innuendo, Kirk Douglas had to defend his son's huge spousal age gap (25 years) over daughter-in-law Catherine Zeta Jones by proclaiming that "I'd want to have her for myself". A father-in-law, drunk or not, can be your last line of defence.

Modern-day daughters-in-law are fine-looking and seriously cultured. With fast-paced Facebook, twitter traffic and eponymous websites, they're wired to the teeth. They come with hordes of so-called followers and friends, which reminds you of those deviant religious teachers on the lam. Fathers-in-law, be afraid. There's plenty of pressure piled on us to accommodate and even reciprocate this new language, only we're not sure how. Sorry, maybe you know how, but I still have some way to go.

It's unfortunate that, despite the legal appellation (in-law), there’s no special course or training for a prospective father-in-law, unlike lawyers and police. There's not even a Father-in-law's Day to begin with. What we have is jokes. Loads of father-in-law and mother-in-law jokes. Most are cruel, like who to kill first and so on. I wish there’s a manual or handbook, or at least a FAQ, to guide a father-in-law and allow a smooth transition. You know, the delicate dos and don’ts. I need to know, for instance, whether it’s OK for a father-in-law to belt out aloud old Mohd Rafi or Ahmad Jais numbers while his daughter-in-law is twitting or twittering or whatever. Will he be hauled up for improper conduct, like Sir Alex? My good friend Yuzer (another recent father FIL) forced his daughter-in-law to support Liverpool Football Club and watch all their games on Astro. Is this illegal? I guess there's always that proverbial learning curve for both father and daughter (in-law) to adapt and adjust, and, if necessary, water down all expectations. Sounds like plenty of fun in store. Who needs handbooks.

I’d have concluded this short take here if not for the impulse to thicken the plot a bit with a dose of drama. You know I'm proud of my Tiger Lane connection, and I'd rate my first day there way back in 1966 as one of my finest hours. The eight years that followed was a watershed, a life-shaping experience I wouldn’t trade off for anything. I suppose it’s one of life’s little twists that my boy should marry a girl from Ipoh. On a brilliant January morning, I could feel a whiff of sweet nostalgia sweeping over as I watched my son take his marriage vows at Masjid Jamek Tambun, right behind my old school at Tiger Lane. I should celebrate.

Spectacular SPM?

SPM results flew in with a flourish. Another record performance, and not totally unexpected. SPM has now turned into a high-scoring spectator sport just like cricket is of late. More than 9000 students aced the exam with all A, compared to about 8000 last year. 403 racked up a mind-blowing all A+, compared with ‘only’ 214 last year. I’m out of breath. The National Grade Average improved from 5.34 to 5.19. Nobody outside the MOE knows how to compute the NGA, but apparently the lower the number the better, unlike the KLSE Composite Index.

No mistake. There’s a clear and present uptrend in SPM performance. Detractors are having a field day, rejecting the glowing statistics with plenty of insinuating and alarmist tone alluding to dumbing down, grade inflation, soft scoring, exam exploitation, electioneering and even new DG. I’m not an educationist. My passion now is behavioural economics and the English Premier League (football, not snooker), so I’m least qualified to judge, let alone offer a cynical hypothesis on this serious subject. But certainly some of the gripes are unfair and unproductive. We’re certainly not academically adrift, so to speak. We have more doctors and dentists today than at any time in the past. Of course, you’d argue that there’re many more students and medical schools now than at any time in the past. Why do you like to argue?

I took an equivalent exam (called MCE) in 1971 and managed a mixed bag of one A, one F, and C’s and P’s in between. I wasn’t unhappy mainly because nobody scored all A as far as I can remember. This year 31 students at my former school scored all A, and it isn’t even the country’s best performer. We’re number 30-something in the SPM league table. More like Blackpool than Liverpool. It's laudable because there're more than 2500 secondary schools in the country. It's laughable because the school is one of only six or so truly national secondary schools that cream off top students from all states in Malaysia, as opposed to the many and more regional ones like SMS, MRSM, SBP and other strange abbreviations. How is it possible for the lesser-known regional upstarts to rout the star-studded national heavyweights like my dear school? You tell me.

During my time, students with perfect score were few and far between. It’s so rare that if you were one of the few, you’d get featured and feted in the local newspapers. Some straight-A students were anything but straight. No, I don’t mean that. What I mean is, you know, their weird and strange demeanour. Freaks of the fourth kind, if you like. There’re always horror stories behind their academic heroics. I still remember reading about a top student from a school in Kuala Kangsar who’s a recluse. He talked to himself in the toilet, a clear symptom of mild bipolar disorder. (Serious bipolar is when you talk to toilets). High-flyers those days were exceptional and extraordinary to the core. The Bobby Fischer and John Nash crowd. To score all A in the good old days, you’ve to be irregular and off the wall, unlike the current crop whose only eccentricity is probably a mild addiction to Gaga or Glee or both.

Most of my former classmates scoff at the SPM spectacle, dismissing it as statistical misdirection. One look at their MCE results and you can understand why. Now the fun part: would my results be any better if I were to take last year’s SPM instead of 1971 MCE? Possible, but not much. I might not flunk Physics. But nothing would’ve changed. I’d still not be a dentist!

Melbourne Memory

You can get burnt in Melbourne. Australia is expensive now, and Melbourne is the most expensive city in Australia. About the only affordable commodity in Melbourne is the free tourist tram and trap that circles the city. But you need to sleep and eat, and this is when an unsuspecting traveller with lousy currency is caught with his pants down (even literally if he's not careful). A half-liter store-branded mineral water costs RM 6.00. Street parking is another RM6, for 30 minutes. Newspapers? RM4.50. But Melbourne is not without its upsides. Grapes are fresh, firm and pleasantly affordable. Pancakes at the Pancake Parlour are made in heaven (price aside). The city is safe, clean and cultured. The people witty and clever. Parks and gardens. No Ah Long phone numbers anywhere. You see more traffic in USJ Taipan than downtown Melbourne at any time. The Economist ranks Melbourne the second most livable city in the world. We can go on.

We're in Melbourne for six days, in 10 March, out 16 March 2011. Why Melbourne? Because it's not Bandung. No. Actually we fall for Air Asia fare fraud, RM 640 including all the shady charges for meals, luggage, oxygen etc. It's a lottery: you book and pay full ten months ahead and then quietly pray to God you'll live long enough to fly. If you lose, they win. If you win, they win. It's win-win, for them. No wonder Tony is so rich.

To be honest I'm not all that fired up for this trip, I mean compared to the UK fling last year. After all, we've been to Gold Coast, Sydney and even sleepy Canberra. Australia is, well, Australia. But things always have a way of developing (whatever it means). Midway into the return flight, without nuts or chips to chomp, the idle mind succumbs to flashbacks. Memories flutter in. Melbourne, decidedly, has its moments.

1. Melbourne Airport (10 March, morning)

Friendlier than Sydney and Brisbane Airports. No dogs sniffing your bags or snapping at your legs. The customs lady even tries, in genuine jest, to pronounce our 'rendang tok'.

2. Hotel Formule 1 (10-12 March, 2 nights)

It's French chain minus the chic. Unabashedly spartan, it's anything but F1. Room is slightly bigger than our wet kitchen. Good enough for the five of us, really how little space we actually need to live. And a flatscreen to boot! The hotel is on Elizabeth Street, just 100m from Bourke Street mall, the hippest and coolest part of Melbourne. RM 300 per night, you'd struggle to find a better value in Melbourne.


3. Trams, trams, trams

Nothing more iconic in Melbourne than its trams. Trams on your left, your right, ahead, behind, trams everywhere. I can promise you'll get tired of trams after just two days. They're not cheap, and tickets are confusing with zones, time, days and even your age. Only experienced actuaries can figure out the best deal. We get around the problem by taking the free tourist tram that circles the city. I bet some of the Chinese on that tram were free-loading locals.


4. Great Ocean Road (12-13 march)

Spectacular 200km coastal stretch south-west of Melbourne, with winding and hill-hugging roads. The lavish and lush ocean opens with abandon, but we're here for the Twelve Apostles, rugged limestone columns left behind by retreating headlands. World famous, nationally celebrated, vastly overrated, instantly forgettable. But fish-and-chips at balmy Apollo Bay blows us away, its sweet and crisp whiff still lingers. Port Campbell, where we pitch for the night, is a hiding gem. We come with no baggage of expectation, so what we see is delightfully understated. This pretty-like-postcard fishing village has its own cove and beach to frolic on. Park View Motel is excellent, and even extravagant by our frugal travel standards. Wish you're here.


5. Return to Melbourne via Ballarat (13 March)

We take the inland route on the way back to Melbourne for the opportunity to feast on Victoria's vistas. We cut across rolling and sweeping farms, villages, towns and other rural stuff. Drab and dreary for Aida and Sarah, nothing like Katy Perry. Admittedly not as idyllic as the Lake District, but expressive enough for a retiree without workload. Roads are narrow but so quiet. Speed limit is a generous 100 km/hr, proof that life is much easier without Malaysian bus drivers. Before hitting the freeway, we stop over in Ballarat. Despite the showy name, there's nothing much on show in this old mining town.


6. Penang Inn, Motel Maroondah, Petaling Street (13-16 March)

No. It's still Melbourne, but 15 km out in a neighbourhood named Box Hill. How're we so sure that this is still part of Melbourne? We see lots of trams, that's how. And lots of Chinese and Chinese shops, too. There's a Penang Inn, and a Petaling Street Restaurant that lives up to its name: it opens until 3 am. We put up at Motel Maroondah, a no-frills motel with an unmistakable run-of-the mill charm (ok, ok, it's rundown). But its location offers easy access to regional attractions like Yarra Valley, Dandenong Ranges, Phillip Island, Healesville Animal Sanctuary, Mornington Peninsular and other exotic monikers. But we change our plans, and go somewhere else. We go to, hold your breath, Melbourne Zoo !


7. St Kilda (14 March)

Melbourne's stylish seaside suburb to the south, St Kilda is diverse and colourful, with heavy tourist crowd. There's even an amusement park with roller-coaster and ferris wheel to scam the underage travellers. St Kilda's youngish and offbeat look and feel is unmistakable as we stroll along its noisy Acland Street, the main tourist thoroughfare (If you're above 50, don't come here). The heady stretch is bursting with shops and cafes with fancy names and offerings. We stumble upon a Kotaraya Restaurant and a Chinta Ria Restaurant, and immediately decide that we've seen enough and turn back.



8. Melbourne Zoo (15 March)

Zoos and museums have never featured in our travels. But we make an exception this time because Sarah wants to cuddle koalas. Koalas are native to Australia, much like Mat Rempits are native to Malaysia. Koalas are cute and lovable (unlike Mat Rempits) and active only at night (like Mat Rempits). There are koalas in Melbourne Zoo, snoozing and snoring on a tree, at 12 noon, well out of anybody's reach. As we're not zoo zealots, we can't really rate and compare Melbourne Zoo. But as an intellectual experience it should be better than Taiping Zoo (Perak, not China). We've not been to Taiping Zoo, but we've met a lot of people from Taiping, so we know.

9. Queen Victoria Market (11 and 15 March)

A market with a thousand stalls selling everything imaginable and unimaginable. A notch below expectation actually. Sterile and listless compared with the fast and furious Paddy's Market in Sydney. But why's this memorable? Because we come over twice and come away unimpressed each time.


10. Supre (15 March)

Another Android from Samsung? New Kelantanese sugary pastry? Never heard of this until Aida hounds me days and nights in Melbourne. Apparently it's a local chain retailer for girls clothing and silly things. We finally find it at Doncaster Shoppingtown about 2 km from Box Hill. I'm in luck because it's already ten to 5, Australia is about to close and stop functioning. Does she have enough time to buy anything?

11. Free range chicken eggs.

Ten is tiring, so we make it eleven. This is not a rural attraction or a Melbourne Zoo exhibit. When we see this at a grocer's, Aida's mom thinks she's at last found one food item provided for free in pricey Melbourne. A housewife's dream is threatening to come true. It's not free eggs. Never in Melbourne. It's eggs from free-range chickens. (Reminds you of Eats, Shoots & Leaves?). There's a price loud and clear: AUD 5.50 a dozen (RM 17) . You can get five dozens for the same money at Mydin Subang Jaya, only it's not free-range chickens. Who really cares. Fish prices have gone through the roof. The Arabs are agitating for human rights. Freedom and reproductive style of the poultry is the last of our worries.


Afterword

You're less than inspired. It's OK. We never expect you to pack your bags now and head Down Under. Melbourne is no Paris. And, unlike Malacca the hysterical city, Melbourne doesn't pretend to be anything but Melbourne. We struggle to pin down its true character, if any. English? No. Not with those Chinese shops, Chinatown, Chinese mayor, Chinese Chinese. Cosmopolitan? Not yet. Not until Kelantanese is spoken (loudly) on trams. Melbourne is a shade restrained or measured. Walking and wandering around the city, mingling with the easy crowd, traipsing round the shops, counting trams, is richly rewarding (even more rewarding once you stop comparing and converting prices!). Roaming its wild coastline and quaint countryside adds a fine sense of relish and adventure. Melbourne is good value. At our price, it's a snip (you hate this cliche). Aida and Sarah have a terrific time. Better than math tuition, many times. Read it all in their latest Facebook. We'll always treasure this trip. Only one small regret: we forget to compliment the girl who serves us at the Pancake Parlour on Bourke Street. Warmth and welcome even for skimping customers foraging for free wi fi. We'll look no further for a reason why Melbourne is so lusciously livable.

The Social Network

The social network started not in Silicon Valley, but in Kinta Valley, circa 1970. It's actually founded at the old Tiger Lane in Ipoh. In the students toilet on the ground floor of the main building of Sekolah Tuanku Abdul Rahman (Star), to be exact. The early form was primitive and hand-operated, not digital and real-time, and certainly not as elegant as, say, Facebook or Staroba.Org. But it’s a social network nonetheless, at least in idea, concept and purpose. I'll never know who actually started it, but it's not too late to initiate another lawsuit against Zuckerberg.

Like all great discoveries and inventions, it started rather fortuitously, a serendipitous outcome of widespread anger, rebellious spite and mindless creativity. I’m not sure why and how, but a reign of terror suddenly descended on the good school. Was it the new Headmaster? Or the new head-boy? Or the groovy teacher from Texas with lush sideburns? Nobody knew. Prefects were running riot, enforcing all petty and pretty rules and regulations with an unprecedented fervour and ferocity. Students were rounded up and sent to DC and hard labour for the merest of misdemeanours, like late for debates or switching off lights at 10.35 or knowingly growing sideburns.

My heart bled for the offenders because inter-house English debates those days were only slightly more exciting than watching the matron. (Some debaters even spoke in heavy Kelantanese). For two long hours, you’d to listen to underage boys arguing heatedly on the stage about mundane matters like why “Intermarriage should be encouraged”. I mean, who cared? Why didn’t they round up and detain these deadhead debaters instead? But law is law. Love it or loathe it, you’d to sit through debates. You break the law, we break your leg, the head-boy gently reminded us. Man, how he walked the talk.

Naturally the hawkish stance didn’t go down very well with almost everyone outside the prefects room, not least the kind matron, whose sick bay was suddenly swamped with nervous wrecks. The fun-loving and trendy types were distraught now that their high life was in the cross-hairs. To be fair, they had a pretty strong case. Even without prefect brutality and excesses, life in general was already miserable with compulsory cross-country, Jack Palance movies, and those monster meals dished out by the cooks and crooks in the dining hall. Everyone was crying for breathing space. A bit of fun and merry-making should go a long way.

The prefects were roundly scorned, and sneered at the slightest opportunity. I felt for some of them who must confront their conscience and the dreaded dilemma: turn in the offenders or turn the other way. It pained and tore them because, deep down, they knew that these petty criminals were nothing more than misguided show-offs and small-time crooks not worthy of anybody’s salt. A slap on the wrist should suffice. But for every heart of gold, there’s a heart of coal lurking in the dark corridors. For the latter variety, they stuck and triumphed with the break-your-leg business model.

One of the leg-breakers was a good friend (I’m still proud of this association). No, I won’t name him here, just to get you guessing. So let’s call him my Friend. My Friend was the embodiment of a perfect prefect, easily the best in the entire Kinta Valley. Serious, smart and straight, the only sport he played was, be afraid, chess. Chess! You may argue that chess, like debates, is not a sport. Let’s not discuss this here.

Every now and then, pitched battles broke out between the two warring sides: law breakers versus leg breakers. For passive and fine-looking bystanders like me, the sight of the toned-up and browbeating law breakers could be unnerving. They’re football prodigies and rugby nutcases by day who turned serial smokers and bouncers when night fell. But the prefects were no sissies either. Most were star athletes on steroids: hurdlers, javelin launchers, triple jumpers and, don’t forget, one aspiring chess grandmaster. Fire, decidedly, must be fought with fire.

Spoils of the showdowns sometimes spilled over into the morning assemblies, where the vanquished were paraded. The most serious of offences might even earn the odd offenders the mother of all punishments: public caning (not to be mixed up with public canning, which is even worse). For legal clarity, public caning is caning in public, not caning the public, where public refers to the entire student population of the school, not the entire population of Kinta Valley. The luckless offenders would be caned by the HM or a (reluctant) teacher. I’m still questioning the reformative efficacy of this draconian form of punishment because I could clearly see the cynical and smug smile on their faces as the cane landed on the sweet posteriors. For these unrepentant hard cores, it’s all in a day’s work.

All the underground straw polls run by the students consistently concluded that my Friend was by far the most popular (read disliked, detested, derided), ahead of the hardheaded head-boy. His single-minded and unapologetic approach to law and order had won him legions of followers (read enemies, enemies, enemies). As a straight-thinking and law-loving citizen, I felt this was grossly unfair. Without honest and principled prefects like my Friend, the great school would’ve crumbled and sunk into disorder and decay, eventually losing out to its wholesome and well-behaved neighbour, Sekolah Izzuddin Shah, Ipoh (SISI). Sissy!

No armies in the world can stop an idea whose time has come. Who said this? Hugo Boss? Never mind. One fine day, a flash of brilliance struck one of these so-called followers, who felt something must be done urgently to stop the prefects on their tracks. He started a blog entry on the wall of the toilet, right above the urinals, on the ground floor of the school’s main building. The subject of his blog was, no surprise, my Friend. What he wrote was only slightly milder than pornography, but he seemed to strike the chord. Other followers pitched in, and more followers, and more. The proverbial floodgates crashed in record time. A my Friend thread emerged, and that part of the wall was finally transformed into a flourishing fan site, complete with unflattering comments and caricatures, giving birth to an early form of social network for my Friend’s ardent followers to air and share their rants and rage. As you peed, you pored over the angry entries and clever comments. Toilet trips had never been this good.

Emboldened by the roaring success, more forums and sites emerged, levelling at other heavy-handed honchos in the prefects room. New posts appeared almost every day at any time. No actual names were used, but just like the latter-day social network, it’s a fertile space for the creative mind and the grudging heart. You’d wonder at the variety and choice of words, some were candid and casual, some loud and lewd, all gloriously entertaining. I can assure you that even if you’re a boneless bodger the bookworm without one vein of humour, you’d come out of the toilet smiling, inspired, and ready for English debates. The head-boy and his posse of prefects, for all their strident and gung-ho ways, were now helpless. They knew they’d been hit back, and hard.

So that’s how the social network started. In Kinta Valley, not Silicon Valley.

Note: This retrospective work was inspired, in part, by "The Social Network". Heavily favoured for Best Picture at the recent Academy Awards, it lost to "The King's Speech". The film, however, won an Oscar for Best Film Editing . Just don't ask me what exactly is film editing.

Mindless Miscellany ( No. 7)

Year 2011 promises to be one roaring, rabbit year. The super superstitious Chinese seem to believe that every new year brings a lot of luck, regardless of the animal. No year is a bad year. Even a snake year is a good year. I think this is the reason why Restoran Sri Melor, my wife's favourite roti canai joint, is flying a Happy Chinese Year banner with a crude sketch of a tiger on it. It's last year's banner, of course, but what's the difference, since every year is a prosperous year. A rabbit is as a good as a tiger. Mamak is right.

My earliest leporine experience harks back to the early nineties when my two boys were in primary school. We took in a rabbit (or was it a guinea pig?) as our pet. We fed him with carrot. Problem was, this guy ate non-stop, 24/7. I discovered that what he ate in a day was more than my two boys' combined vegetable intake for the whole of 1992. After two weeks, we put him out to pasture (a polite and political way of saying getting rid of a pet). I don't think he ever had a name. He's so busy crunching carrot that we'd no time to even name him.

The mad, mad world continues where it's left off in 2010. A long-running north African strongman fell. Another is fighting for dear life. Crude price is breaching USD100. Torres moved to Chelsea. And it's only February.

1. Pointless Procedure.

By the time you read this, most of the 10,000 or so students studying in various parts of Egypt are safely home, an outcome of a massive evacuation or "rescue operation" involving more than one ministries, more than one airlines, more than one countries (naturally) and, get this, more than one races (read 1 Malaysia). A deputy minister (an Indian) even risked his life. Just about everyone, it seems, pitched in to ensure that the operation was smooth and successful. And why shouldn't it be a success to begin with? What's there to stop us from ferrying those students back home? There's no war, no disaster, no flood and no threat of any form or scale that could potentially be in the way of the operation. The unrest and protests were in Cairo, not anywhere near the student hostels. What's exactly my point? The point is, this whole operation, costing a cool RM30 million, is pointless. Why get the Malaysians out of Egypt? Rescue? From what? Even Hosni Mubarak, the only one who's in real danger, stayed put. The Egyptian people wanted Hosni, not the Malaysian students, out of Egypt. So, if anybody at all should get out of Egypt, it's Hosni, not the Malaysian students. Of course the students, being students, were just too happy to be back in Kedah or Kelantan. They flew AirAsia without having to book one year ahead and buy their inflight meals and luggage space. Fast and free, there's little to complain. Some of them probably had been scraping in the Egyptian desert for six years and had only vague memories of the good life in Malaysia. The irony of all ostensibly well-meaning stunts like this is that they're fiendishly difficult to fault. It has all the look and qualities of a noble and virtuous undertaking. Even if it's politically loaded as alleged by fair-minded detractors, what can be bad about airlifting your people out of a hot spot?

We're remarkable for being consistently inconsistent. Remember when the Indonesian protesters roughed up our Embassy in Jakarta? They defaced, defecated and explicitly warned Malaysians: leave Indonesia or risk forcible ejection. What did we do? We issued a feeble protest note and a mild travel advisory. No rescue operation was even discussed. It's the right decision, of course. But why spend hot money now to "rescue" the Malaysians in Egypt? With ikan tenggiri now running at RM30 a kg and Rotiboy RM2 a pop, the money is better spent on saving Malaysians in Malaysia

2. Park Your Bus, Arse.

My friend, who religiously follows the English Football League, is still scratching his blank pate, full five days after Arsenal squandered a four-goal lead to draw with Newcastle. Had the game gone on for another five minutes, Arsenal would've lost 4-5. Real arse, this Arsenal. I'm not sure, but I heard that it's the first time that something like this happens in EPL. Arsenal are famous for playing a breathless, sophisticated and, at times, highly complex ball-passing football. It's there for all to see in the first half of that game. In the next half, the crybabies simply crumbled and crashed for no apparent reason. Perhaps they forgot to 'park their bus' a bit. It's fashionable now for an EPL team to accuse opponents of 'parking their buses' whenever they fail to win, alluding to opponents' strategy of mass and panic defending with only sporadic attacking (if at all) to protect a draw or a win. Arsenal accused Manchester City of parking their bus in the recent scoreless affair at the Emirates. City, in turn, blamed Blackburn, Birmingham and any team beginning with B for practising this dark art. I'm not sure how this expression got a life, but there's certainly a cynical edge to it. This is unfair. Football is as much about defending as attacking. Italy won the World Cup four times virtually by defending to death each time. It may not be a pretty sight, but there's no rule against parking buses. Arsenal learned this the hard way.

3. Tragic Trend

I've written here about Malaysians being a trendy lot. Bad things are popping up around us in series. Maid abuses, deviant teachings, baby dumping and, of course, bus crashes, slated to be the longest-running sequence in the annals of our country's tolled-road system. Now it's suicide. People are falling and plunging for no reason. Two or three in a day, it's hard to pass it off as isolated or remote. Suicide statistics are dodgy because some of the unexplained deaths have been classified under convenient catch-alls like undetermined, sudden or misadventure. With routine inquests now taking more than a year to return even open verdicts, it's definitely cheaper and greener to determine the cause of a death as misadventure. Something is bothering some of us to death. Ah Longs are the usual suspects, but were quickly ruled out when it's a young Chinese girl. So it's love triangle, or exams, or even tuition. Without early signs, it's difficult to prevent. Of course, there's the incoherent or curious entries in Facebook and so on, but Facebook entries and comments nowadays are mostly muddled and confused to begin with, making it impossible to detect any sign of impending mental dysfunction and breakdown. Suicides are sad and tragic but it's probably a trend. It'll disappear once an overly functioning chief minister comes up with another clever solution.

4. Watch out, wives.

Our Prime Minister's wife reminded all Malaysians to lead a healthy lifestyle, which includes proper dietary habits, plenty of exercise and stress-free homes. According to her, an average of six persons suffer a stroke every hour in Malaysia. She, quite rightly, appealed to all wives not to 'stress' their husbands. She revealed that she herself made it a point not to add stress to her husband's already hectic day. Sorry, I've nothing really to add.