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.