Manchester City's Treble And Tribulation

Manchester City are English Premier League (EPL)'s Champions once again. Second time in two years. Back to back. Two in a row. Two on the trot.  Twice on the bounce.  Or any which way you want to call it. Supporters of Liverpool, Manchester United and seventeen other teams in EPL can deny and cry all they want.

If you think winning successive EPL titles is remarkable, wait. City also won the FA Cup and the League Cup. With a clean sweep of all three domestic trophies in a single season, City have achieved what the football industry calls a Treble, for lack of a more creative or cryptic term, like Eagle, Boogey, Buaya and Betting used in Golf. Had City won four trophies it would've been a Quadruple, one more would be Quintuple, and so on.

For the record City did actually win another trophy called the FA Community Shield early in the season, but this one is of so little consequence that nobody bothers. So to all intents and purposes, City have won three trophies. I'm fine with that.

British journalists may have differed on Brexit but they've all agreed that EPL is now the toughest and most competitive league in the world simply because all teams must play on Boxing Day. Some have to play three games in three days, in high winds and deep snow. On any day, any team could beat any team and any manager could lose his job (even Jose). The world-famous franchise and twenty-time champions Manchester United completed their campaign a dismal sixth after losing their last game at home to Cardiff, the third worst team in EPL.

EPL has been organized in such a way that it's unthinkable for any team to sustain peak performance throughout and win all three domestic trophies in one season. This is why City's treble triumph is extraordinary, unprecedented and so sensational. In a less competitive league, a Treble or Double Treble or Treble Double isn't uncommon. For some context and perspective, JDT aka TMJ did a Treble Treble, winning three trophies every year for three successive years. That's nothing to shout, of course, because  Liga Super is so lopsided with meek make-weights like Felda United and Melaka Melaka offering only token competition. I'm sorry if you're still confused by this Double and Treble thing. It's difficult, I know, so let's just move on.

For us City's staunch and steadfast followers, this latest success is a measure of how far we've come. It's a just reward for sticking with the team through thick and thin, an accomplishment in itself on the  back of City's legendary penchant for doing the simplest of things in the most complicated way. Exactly twenty years ago to the month City beat unfashionable Gillingham in a pulsating playoff at Wembley, bundling in two freak goals in the last four minutes of injury time. What we'd won wasn't a title or anything, but a promotion from the Third Division to the Second Division. I celebrated the momentous occasion by taking my two baffled sons to McDonald's for an all-you-can-eat outing.

What's behind City's growing supremacy and ascendancy? Pep Guardiola, the manager. No disputes here. This guy is clever. Give him a Nobel Prize for Physics, and an honorary knighthood for changing the boring face of English football and adding billions of pounds to the UK economy. He'd barnstormed EPL last season with  his brand of breathless football, and City romped home with an all-time record of 100 points, 32 wins, and  106 goals. This season City's football was even better because rival teams like Liverpool had all wised up to City's playbook and were all primed to stop the show.

As suspected all along, British media response to City's extraordinary feat has been (relatively) measured and hesitant. Instead of feting City's unprecedented treble, the biased and bent media chose to celebrate Liverpool's unprecedented runners-up tally of 97 points. An NGO was hurriedly founded by misguided fans to petition the FA for a trophy or something to be handed to Liverpool, or maybe share the title with Manchester City. Somebody said stupidity is free.

According to these lazy football writers, City's domestic treble is not a "proper" treble. A proper treble is defined as a treble won by Manchester United or Liverpool.  Even Arsenal Invincibles of 2004, with only one trophy, a paltry 90 points and a diving Robert Pires, were rated better than City's three titles or 100 points, defying all rules of reason. And, of course, those sneaky innuendos and allusion to "bought" titles and treble with 100 billion pounds shelled out on players with dirty money from the oppressive regime in Dubai. Dubai! Not only lazy, but also illiterate.

Look no further than the Guardian's David Squires' caricature for a feel of the on-going anti-city campaign and Liverpool bias:

This is supposed to be a cut-out and keep portrait of departing City's legend Vincent Company (City's captain). Vincent Company is the one standing and looking on in the background. The mop hairdo is Mohammad Salah, Liverpool's striker and diver.

If you think that City's three-trophy euphoria ended with a boisterous victory parade in Manchester streets, and Liverpool promising yet again that next year will be their year, and football writers migrating to Champions League Final in Madrid for the chance to praise and elevate Liverpool, think again. The impact of City's triumph over Liverpool is actually far reaching, even beyond the fringe of football.

Remember Theresa May's raving and rolling in the parliament after Liverpool's back-from-the-dead performance against Barcelona, likening it to her brave Brexit package? All's well and bullish in the Conservative government. The Liverpool-loving Conservative deal-makers and Labour rabble-rousers were in the heat of hammering out a Brexit breakthrough all night when City beat Brighton. All hell just broke loose. Nobody could think straight and agree on anything anymore. Seeing no more future now that Liverpool had failed to win the EPL for the 27th time, Theresa May took the only way out and resigned.

I'll be watching the Champions League Final between Liverpool and Spurs tomorrow morning. You'd not disagree with me that it should've been City v Somebody. Liverpool look good and lucky again but I'm praying for an upset.  Come on you Spurs.


           

An Affair To Remember

My affair with India began in the mid 60's, deep in my dormitory days. Life without smartphones and Facebook was tough. Physics and Chemistry classes were stressful, what with teachers talking mostly to themselves. What did we do for rest and respite? For some of us, watching Hindi movies and listening to Hindi songs.

It's strange for a country of one billion creative and enterprising people, the music industry was dominated by only three  names: Mohammed Rafi, Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar. We could match songs and singers as early as the first note. The movie industry was more vibrant, but everybody in my school wanted to marry either Sharmila Tagore or Saira Banu. I remember a  friend who memorized 20 Hindi songs, quite a feat without YouTube. Ask him on the periodic table and he'd stumble every time.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I keep a playlist of twenty-five old Hindi songs in my Samsung, with my favourite, Main Gaoon Tum So Jao (from hit film Brahmachari), right at the top. Just a tap away if ever need a nudge of nostalgia.

I went to India early this month and didn't come back.

Well, we did come back. But for two weeks after, we were suffering from flights of flashbacks. We just couldn't stop replaying and reliving the terrific times in Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, Indias's famed Golden Triangle.

With me on this trip were the usual suspects: wife, a fine-looking brother-in-law, his loving wife, and three active sisters-in-law. Seven of us. Another active sister-in-law pulled out a day before we booked our flights, citing work commitment. I've lived long enough, so it was easy to see that she'd actually succumbed to second thoughts.

Since we didn't use travel agent, we'd to apply Indian visa on line on our own. It was expensive (RM 350 apiece) and complicated. We'd to provide our mothers' names for no reason and we'd to repeat all over whenever it crashed. All seven of us were digitally blind, so I'd to get my busy son to do all seven visas in between his day job. It was so tiresome that he kept asking why I didn't go to Korea instead. We booked hotels and transport and drew our own itinerary. Fun and flexible, this is our normal way of travelling. Except that India isn't normal.

I'd my own qualms and questions about India. The rampant India jokes and horror stories spread by friends and bloggers were scary and deeply depressing: water, toilet, food, air, people, traffic, scams,  snakes, you name it. Going by these rumours alone, the only conclusion I could draw was: if I go to India, I'd die. I didn't want to die in India.

But the lure and  temptation was great and hard to resist. Those Hindi movies and Hindi songs and Kajol, India can't be all bad. So I'd to rely on my instincts. My sisters-in-law, like all sisters-in-law of this world, had no instincts of their own. They wanted to share my instincts.

I thought it was one of my best decisions to go ahead. If Bossku could pull it off, we could pull it off. India is incredible beyond my wildest imagination. The colour and texture are gorgeous to the last pixel. Its sights and sounds (and smell, don't forget) are dazzling.  The people are diverse, friendly and fun. We came back and kept casting back.

The names Delhi, Agra, Jaipur and Rajasthan would conjure up the unmistakable images of mad Maharajahs, British viceroys and Moghul emperors. They're no longer with us, but their vestiges are still standing for us to savour and wonder. Magnificent forts, palaces, mausoleums and monuments are strewn all over the place, a testament to human endeavours and excesses.

Unlike my previous travel tales, I'm not going to write a lot. I'm going to post pictures instead, with captions and commentaries that might persuade you to include India in your bucket list, if it's not already there.

Now let's roll:

New Delhi's Indira Gandhi International Airport was surprisingly tidy, orderly and quiet (this is already India, remember). The only hitch was the passport clearance where we 'd to stand up facing the  immigration guys, all of them were Indians (this is India, hey). We'd to get all our ten fingers scanned and stored in Indian cloud. The machine was so slow that it took 15 minutes to read all ten fingers. Where were all those Bangalore IT champions when we needed them? 

Nuts drive me nuts. I've lost lots of teeth due to nut-chomping. Do you know the best place in the world for nuts? Kim Yong market in Hatyai. My pulse raced at the sight of this hawker peddling bright, colourful nuts outside the Gandhi Memorial. It's a kind of Indian snack called Bhelpuri, a concoction or rojak of nuts, dhal, tomato, lime juice and water. Water!  I circled the cart four or five times trying to decide whether to buy or not to buy. This was my first morning in India, and I saw the word DIARRHEA hanging high. No. 
         

Haha this is highly hilarious. This cute auntie was attempting the old, boring "touch-the-tip trick" on the Qutb Minar, and the result was a total disaster. Looks more like a clumsy classical Indian dance move frozen in time. Who's to blame for this flop? The husband, if you asked me.

Now you see how the true and tried professional aces it. You could feel the flair and artistry. If not for the slight underexposure, National Geographic would've scored this shot 5 star. I'm not sure whose camera was used, but I suspect my brother-in-law's antique Galaxy S2.

Humayun's  Tomb, New Delhi. I'd no slightest idea what this 16th century world heritage site was all about until I was right inside. Apparently it's a mausoleum or memorial or monument or whatever for the Mughal Emperor Humayun,  the great-great grandfather of Shah Jahan, and this elaborate structure was a forerunner to the ultimate structure, Taj Mahal. It was built by his grieving first wife named Bega Begum (real name).  You can Google if you're interested in the other wives and why they weren't grieving.

Our hotel in New Delhi. It was a Bed and Breakfast run by two Kashmiri Muslim brothers in an upscale locality called Green Park in south Delhi. Don't be motivated by that "Upscale" bit. It's all comparative. This was still very much part of Delhi and India, same air and water. But the place was comfortable enough with good water filtration system so that we can wash and brush our teeth with confidence. Breakfast? What breakfast?

Masjid Jame' New Delhi was a sad state of affairs. Located in Old Delhi, this massive Mughal mosque can accommodate up to 30,000 people at one time, and only one time in a year (Idil Fitr). It looked rundown, like nothing had been done since 1650.

A bird's eye view of Old Delhi and old couple from Masjid Jame'. I don't know what bird, must be quite dead by now. Joke aside, Old Delhi is chaotic, crowded and noisy and we'd to navigate our way  around on death-defying rickshaws. I'd never seen so many Indians in my entire life (This is India, stupid). In hindsight we should've spent at least one night in this Old Delhi area for an authentic India experience. 

Amber Fort, Jaipur, was a riot of red clay and sandstone. The morning crowd was thick, half of them were traders and touts hawking local bric-a-brac to the other half, tourists like us. Price typically started at 3,000 rupees before settling at 300 after brutal haggling. This Hrithik Roshan dead ringer was supposed to scam and rip this auntie off with his beads and bags and bangles. But this clever auntie, a  seriously low-cost traveller,  turned the table, and I quickly shot this lovefest. From his telltale smile, you'd guess he wasn't all that excited. She'll turn 60 next year.

This is the Taj Mahal in Agra. You know it. One of the most photographed and painted building in the world. The sight literally stopped me on my tracks. I'd seen the picture countless times, but nothing compares to the real thing. So pure, so perfect, such a joy. No words are enough. It's unbelievable that men could achieve this.   

There's no better place to renew your vows and commitment, and reboot that long-lost fire, passion and drive. This senior couple were doing just that. How long will it last, you ask? I guess it would be business as usual as soon as they're back home. But at least they tried.
               

Let's do a Di. This young auntie did her best to reprise the Lady Di at Taj Mahal iconic pose. She'd prepared well for this, shelling out all of RM 35 for that red jacket at a bundle in Balakong. She certainly needs to perk her poise and composure to close in on the late Lady. Try harder.   

We bumped into this group of seven free-spirited Malay girls in Jaipur. Nothing peculiar about them except that they'd never met each other before this trip. They were Facebok friends who met for the first time at KLIA boarding gate. Apparently this is a growing trend among young, shoe-string travellers who'd travel in groups to minimize cost. Being cost conscious myself and tired of travelling with sisters-in-law, I wouldn't really mind joining this group on their next trip. But when one of them asked me "Pakcik dah berapa hari kat sini?" I just dropped the idea and decided that I'd better off travelling with sisters-in-law.

The long hours of riding the four-wheel drive up the Amber Fort, haggling with hawkers, avoiding the touts and converting tens of thousands of rupees was taking its toll on our physical and mental shape and state. My knees were creaking.  One of us mentioned vertigo, another complained about ringing in her ears, and, of course, headaches and migraines running through this family for the past ten generations and next ten generations. But the moment our transport dropped us all at this shop, lo and behold, all the illnesses disappeared like magic, gone for good.

Prices were ridiculously cheap. But we'd bought only 75 kg of luggage for our return trip on extortionate Air Asia. So I'd to keep reminding them not to buy the whole shop.   

Hawa Mahal, Palace of Winds, the famous pink-painted landmark in the heart of Jaipur, the Pink City. Splendid architecture, cool air and beautiful people, Jaipur was a real delight. You must visit.

One of the little pleasures of travelling for me was reading street signs. Well, not exactly street signs, but all the notices, warnings, wordings and signs at airports, hotels, monuments, shops, toilets, just about anywhere. China is notorious for mangling the English language. Its quirky and hilarious English notices and signs are now a tourist attraction and part of its GDP.

Travelling through Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, it's hard to find even one English blunder. The explanatory notes on the Moon Gate at Amber Fort above are straight and simple, with no spelling errors. The Gandhi Memorial on the right showcased the life stories of the late champion of humanity in poignant black and white images. Reading the accompanying texts and footnotes was an exhilarating exercise. Articulate, expressive and eloquent, it's English in its full glory. Kudos, India.

I'm not sure whether security or employment was the major issue at Indian airports, but I was stopped seven times by seven different people at seven different points at Jaipur Airport,  from the terminal door all the way to the aircraft door. My boarding pass was checked and chopped seven times, and I could barely figure out my seat number. So I was glad and relieved to finally reach my seat, although I still kept my boarding pass handy and ready just in case. This is India, you'll never now.

And then there's this street music to refresh and remind us of the amazing India experience. I was overcome by the music the very first time I saw and heard it from our tuk-tuk on the way to  Johari Market in Jaipur. One of my sisters-in-law somehow had the instinct to record  the procession. I'm used to lush studio orchestra music by the likes of Shankar Jaikishan or R D Burman in Hindi movies. This live music by Ashok brass band maybe rough at the edges, but it's sweet and pleasing. And it's free. Listen and enjoy.