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!