The City Sinks: Why Manchester City Will Finish Second Or Worse

Manchester City won't be champions. They might even finish third. I'm bucking my own trend by being ahead of myself this time. The English Premier League is six matches away from conclusion and I'm not only writing off City for the title, I'm also offering reasons and some hard truths. Even for a team living with false dawns, City's tailspin at the tail end calls for hindsights. You want to know why a team that had been scoring with abandon have suddenly abandoned scoring. And how's it possible for a team badly bashed in Basel and Bilbao to rack up impossible points in England. I think I can get away with these five reasons:

1. Fergie and Fourteen Friends: It's obvious that Man Utd is the reason why City failed so spectacularly. But that's not my point. It's the 14 teams outside the top six. Watch teams like West Brom and Wolves "stand up" to Man Utd by giving away only four goals and all three points. Watch them play against City and suddenly it's three points between life and afterlife. There's a certain pleasure in beating City. David Moyes claimed it's his sweetest moment. Swansea is still in denial and disbelief. Stoke celebrated a draw.

2. Vincent Kompany: Almost all EPL team managers agreed that he's the best defender in the EPL, if not Europe. But he missed a dozen league and cup games with injuries and red cards. City crashed out of Carling Cup, FA Cup and Europa crap in his absence. And that run-wrecking loss to Swansea. What's so great about having the best defender on earth if you can't play him?

3. The FA and Foy: A bit of history here. The English Football Association as an institution was founded and organised for the sole purpose of making Manchester United the champions. So the whole machinery, manpower and apparatus, including fixtures, officials and cup draws, must be mobilised toward achieving this noble objective. If City were allowed even half of Man Utd's preprogrammed luck or Foy's favour, City would have won the title by 10 points. Points, not goals. City's only slice of fortune was that last-minute penalty against Spurs. Man Utd played against ten men, I don't know, eight, nine, ten times?  I've lost count. But don't worry, once the title is all safe and sewn up by Man Utd, the FA and the referees will even things up. No retrospective action against Balotelli, the FA just announced. More to come. Just wait.

4. Roberto Mancini. Or rather, Roberto Mancini's language skills. His command of the language is built around a vast vocabulary of one word: IMPORTANT. "It's important that we win the next game". "It's important that we win the next 11 games". "It's important that I punch Balotelli everyday". How can he pass on his Serie A (anti) football ideas to his players? And motivate, counsel, blame them? It's impossible to know what's not important. I heard it's a communication breakdown when Kolarov replaced Nasri against Arsenal (Mancini had actually asked David Platt himself to replace Nasri). Lately his English has developed such sophistication that Sir Alex often mistakes it for mind games.

5. Michel Platini: Definitely had a hand in this, only we're not sure how.

6. Balotelli: No. Don't believe all the media mayhem. He's only as guilty as Joe Hart. The only genuine talent in City squad, he's cleverer than Cleverly everyday. Watch his goal at Blackburn again. And those penalty chops. Convenient smoke and mirrors for Mancini's missteps. Keep him.

Mindless Miscellany (No 10)

2012 has been a pathetically slow year. We're into the third month, nothing has moved, and there's a 2011 feel all-round. Most of what's being passed as burning issues now are actually holdovers from the past year: Greek tragedy, next election, more black money handouts, next election, cattle battle, next election, maids wait, Maharaja Lawak. Even Whitney Houston feels like Michael Jackson. But to the curious and industrious mind, there's plenty to feast on if you care to flick behind the calm exterior.

1. Hang Tuah Hoax

"There's no Hang Tuah" declared a professor emeritus and spartacus, fuelling a firestorm of protests from legions of legend lovers. This guy is the last word in Malaysian history, so he should know. "Show me the proof" he challenged further, emboldened perhaps by the absence of any Hang Tuah apps on Android. I've a deep and emotional Hang Tuah experience. My form six Bahasa Melayu text book was Hikayat Hang Tuah. Heavy and humdrum like any Stephen King, it's crawling with purported Malay words like sendal, kalakian, arakian, bolak. Problem was, my Bahasa Melayu grade and university entrance would rest on my mastery of this subject. While reading this tome as it was was bad enough, I'd to also read into his character and charisma and form an opinion or two about his leadership style. Well, I thought he's all screwed up or worse. I didn't do too well in the paper, not with an opinion like that. In hindsight, I should've studied low-temperature physics, no opinions. Now, do I agree with the professor? I'd be his grand witness if he got sued or anything. Distractions and delusions like Hang Tuah are the reason behind the steady stream of Malay horror movies and head-banging Astro lawak serials.

2. Mongoose, Civet and Submarine

Old stuff, but you're probably still on the floor laughing. It's as mindless as it gets. The Ministry of Defence posted its official "Dress Code" on its website and had to take it down shortly after a roaring and rolling review by the public. The English translation was so fraught with flubs that it's hard to choose the stand-outs. I like the one on "cekak musang", where it's translated as "tight civet". Further down, you'll discover that it's also translated as, hold your breath, "mongoose fight". Until today I still can't still figure out why there're two versions of the same translation. I mean tight civet is bad enough, why offer an option. My guess is that this very ministry that's given us the submarines isn't sure which animal is right for musang: civet or mongoose. They should consult National Geographic on the right animal, and the right submarine, too. I'm not sure who and how the ministry decided on the translation, and I don't think the minister (a PhD, no less) was involved. This maybe an extremely bad case, but it's certainly not an isolated one. If you're free, visit the websites of some of our local universities. Yes, universities. Read the English version.

3. Ranking Rankling

Another year, another ranking. This one from QS Quacquarelli Symonds Ltd, the same quacks who gave us the dubious World Best University Rankings. But this time it's a ranking of best cities for studies. No, not best cities to be studied on (Malacca wins this hands-down), but best cities to study in. In short, it's best cities for students. Paris is top. KL is 44th. I was surprised initially because this doesn't quite add up. None of our 100 local universities are anywhere near the top 100, and now KL is 44th. What gives? But slowly reason dawns. The ranking is based not just on university reputation, but also other measures like quality of life, affordability and job prospects. What immediately comes to mind is those Nigerians, Iranians, Colombians and Chinese nationals with student visas. And the daily footage of raids and arrests of foreign GROs, drug mules, black money scammers and even ATM machine busters. Now it makes perfect sense. KL has been grossly underrated actually. It should be top, not pedestrian Paris.

4. Boa Business

Competition took a wicked turn in Malacca recently with web postings of people being attacked and even swallowed by huge snakes at a supermarket in Cheng, 4 km from our historical city. Apparently the supermarket had been ridiculously reducing its prices to attract customers, prompting its rival or rivals to hit back hard with the scare tactic. It worked, because the supermarket suffered a 30% reduction in traffic. Postings disappeared when the owner lodged police reports and released its official clarification (and unofficial hitmen). I've never seen anything like this in my forty years tracking business trends and innovations. Harvard should write a case study on this. We've seen Blue Ocean, ambush marketing, cricket match fixings, ponzis, Kardashians, but this serpent strategy has no parallels. But this is Malacca, the city of static monorail, submarine museum and a chief minister who thinks like a box.

5. Sexed Tax

The Minister in charge of the Economic Transformation Program recently declared his support for the plain-sounding but evil-spreading Goods and Services Tax (GST). "We've 28 million people but only one million pay tax" he reasoned. Is that why we need a GST? To tax more people, even retirees, like me? Lots of clever talk lately on GST, mostly from the consultants and accountants, who scent potential blood for their flagging business. But when it comes from the blues-loving ETP champion, I'm seething. One million pay what tax? Income tax? How about 5% service tax on SMS and everything else? Stamp duties? Tax, duty, levy, penalty and extortion on non-Protons? 150% import duty on reconds? The problem with fiscal regimes like GST, VAT and NFC is that it's a dope in disguise. You'll get high on it. I've not seen a GST reduced anywhere, anytime in my life. Even rich and friendly Singapore has ramped up its GST from 3% to 7%. Zimbabwe is planning to abolish its 1000% GST and replace it with death penalty. GST is so fiendishly easy to tweak that it can sex you up for the merest of reasons. More money for uncivil civil servants? Raise GST. More submarines? Raise GST. More GST? Raise GST.


6. Liverpool vs Malaysia


The recent football Carling Cup Final between the English bluebloods and Welsh hunter-gatherers turned out to be a duel of equals after all. Liverpool prevailed by the slimmest possible margin after a lottery of spot kicks. Nothing to shout aloud, but a win is a win, bragged an insufferable Liverpool lover. With Cardiff players sporting "Malaysia" strip, I was rooting for Cardiff. I'd been fantasizing about a QPR and Cardiff final, just for the thrill of watching "Malaysia" against "Malaysia". Did you notice "Genting" on Aston Villa shirts, and "Air Asia" on the Referees' sleeves? Malaysia is making a statement in English football. But not for long. Unlike the Air Asia business model, football franchise is high-cost and long-haul. Ego trip and personal folly aside, there's very little economic sense in chancing your arm with make-believe like Cardiff or QPR. Dump QPR and cut your losses, Tony. Buy Kelantan football team. They're better than Barcelona. Low cost, high passion, sellout crowd.

A Teacher And A Teacher

On 5 February this year, nine remarkable persons were honoured and named Tokoh Maulidul Rasul 1433H. Honestly I can't recall who and how many people received this award last year, although I know the King's Speech won the Oscar for Best Picture. But this year is special and exceptional because one of the recipients was Muhamad Fuad Yeoh, Deputy President of the Chinese Muslim Association. Never heard? I happen to know him because we're together for eight years at Tiger Lane. When we first met, we're culturally worlds apart: he's a Malay-speaking Chinese and I was a Kelantanese-speaking Kelantanese.

Some of the stories of Muhd Fuad are stuff of urban legends. He signed up at the great school on 5 January 1966 as Yeoh Keat Hian, the only Chinese and non-Muslim in our class of 73 boys and no girls. He did take some time to adapt and adjust: two days. He just rolled on and melted in, and nobody sensed any difference. We decided to call him Keat, I'm not sure how, but, in hindsight, it certainly sounds a lot sharper than Ayeoh or Ahian. Anyway all his three names are now permanently etched on the school's hall of fame for racking up the most A in MCE in 1971. (I flunked my Physics. We're worlds apart, remember?) No pushover in sports, he's in the school rugby, volleyball and athletics teams, proof that he's both brain and brute. He even entered a state-level sajak reading contest, hard to believe, but proof enough that everybody has a dark side (ha ha ha). Again he's the best student, this time for HSC in 1973. I hate this guy.

Things came thick and fast for him as he's made a prefect and got more than he bargained for. The prefects' only substantive function in our school was to carry out weekly stake-outs and raids on the Friday prayer shirkers and stragglers. For Fuad, this should easily rank as one of the most challenging and defining episodes in his formative phase. It's painful when you can't walk the talk, if you know what I mean. But he took it all in his stride with all the skill and talent that largely foreshadowed his leadership flair and energy in forward years.

Only ten of us from the entering class of 1966 left over after MCE. Some had gone overseas to study engineering, some had gone to Serdang to study animal husbandry, a few flew to ITM for lots of things. Students from other schools came in to fill up the space. (Still no girls). We're together in the Form Six hostel for two years. Fuad had a room all to himself right at the end of the block. I've no recollection of who exactly allowed him to hole up there. I think it's his good friend Azlan, the school captain, who himself took a posh studio on the top floor. Cronyism has a long history. Ha ha ha, actually Fuad's the hostel captain, so he's given a room. It's all legal. While they're lapping up in luxury, I'd to share a cell with a mixed bag of miseries, including a brooding poet, a wayward prince and a Hindustani songbird. Fuad's real estate was often left unlocked, easy target for my covert food forays (just sugar, I swear. And coffee). Somehow he knew it. He smiled slyly when we bumped the day after, we joked and laughed, and I guessed that pretty much settled it. More than one hundred colourful characters in the whole block and he picked me out. How unsettling.

His enlightened transition to Islam in 1978 didn't catch us on the hop, to be honest. We'd expected it all along. It came hard on the heels of an earlier no-stunner: a first-class honours in engineering, top of his class at Southampton. If you think a first class degree is no big deal, wait. He also holds a degree in Shariah from Jordan University and PhD in Islamic Civilization from Aberdeen University, and he speaks Arabic at home (you can guess why). A consultant engineer by profession, he's a prominent figure and speaker in the Islamic dakwah community. He often guests on TV programs, including today's hottest morning show, "Tanyalah Ustaz" (Don't fall for ustaz's fake surprise. The questions are all planted). With engagements all lined up right into 2013, he's now busier than Lady Gaga.

As classmates who're mostly retired and rundown, we can only be proud of our long association with him and inspired by his achievements. But for some of us, he's even more than that. He leads our regular religious get-togethers. Fuad is, in no small way, our teacher, our Ustaz. What a rich reversal: we listen as the only Chinese boy in our class expounds his deep and learned views on Islamic issues. What a terrific teacher he turns out to be, patiently listening, explaining and, ahem, subtly correcting along the way. I can see that he really enjoys these jam sessions. He can now talk the talk and walk the talk. It's certainly much more fullfilling than those Friday-prayer stake-outs.

There's still another touching twist to warm the heart. It's my favourite Geography teacher, Cikgu Shahrum (real name, real teacher). Well, this young graduate teacher and MCKK old boy had the lovely habit of straying onto something completely unrelated, like football, while he’s teaching. While explaining the tundra, he'd suddenly offer us pointless pointers, like Derby County is pronounced Dabi County not Debi. He pulled me aside one morning and suggested that I switch from Manchester City to Manchester United."Not in this world, Sir" was my polite reply. The dreaded HSC exam was lurking and he's promoting English football. On more than one occasions he’d break and casually quip “Bila Yeoh Keat Hian nak masuk Islam?” and then continue without missing a beat. Thing is, Fuad wasn’t in our class. We’re in arts class, he's mixing acids in the science lab. But what's in the teacher's mind was keen and clear.

We're still savouring this momentous occasion. Only Cikgu Shahrum's no longer with us. He passed away in 1996. (I choked up when I heard about it a few years later). If he were around, he'd be more than delighted now that Yeoh Keat Hian is a Tokoh Maulidul Rasul. The teacher's pressing question and deep wish have been answered and granted, many times over.

A New Year, A New Daughter-In-Law

It's a new year, and it's a new daughter-in-law for me and wife. No, I'm not replacing my daughter-in-law with a new daughter-in-law for the new year. Nobody does that as far as I know. People change or replace oil filters, but not daughters-in-law. Calm down, Azalia.

Actually we've just been blessed with another daughter-in-law when my younger boy married the only girl of his dreams (I don't think he had other girls or other dreams). His first morning at kindergarten seems to me like this morning. And how he quickly progressed by learning all the cranky wrestlers' names and fake moves. Time flew and who knew. His wife, Siti Sarah, is our new daughter-in-law. "New" here is strictly contextual and technical: she's new to us and we're new to her. That's all to it. Azalia, our first daughter-in-law, has been with us for slightly over a year now. So by all industry standards, she's no longer new to us, but she's not old, please. We're no longer new to her and we're, well, plain old. Semantics can be chaotic, sorry.

With two daughters-in-law now, I've become father-in-law twice. Two titles in two years, I'm luckier than Liverpool. But I'm still called father-in-law, because there's no English or Malay or Kelantanese term for somebody with two or many or too many daughters-in-law. There are thousands of living and dying languages in the world today and I'm sure there's one or two that make this important distinction. Or maybe it's not important. I mean it's not important and not urgent to differentiate or discriminate people based on the number of daughters-in-law. So there's no real need for any word or terminology for it. There's no medical breakthrough linking somebody's sugar content or arthritis to the incidence of daughters-in-law in his vicinity. This is why it's still unlawful for any desperate insurance company (meaning all insurance companies) to load up more premium on anyone with multiple daughters-in-law.

Whatever it is, I must say that this time around I'm better prepared. To be honest, there's nothing much to prepare. Nothing in the sense of having to conceive a clever transformation program or a five-year plan. If you're a colourless and redundant retiree, there's absolutely nothing to prepare. Just remain colourless and redundant. Your cholesterol and calcium would stay safe. Your daughter-in-law might even choose part of your name for her secure password. That's it. You're in seventh heaven.

Maybe not. Because there's nothing to profit from the status quo and ceteris paribus (what?). I still think daughters-in-laws in this day and age are a precious learning opportunity. Deeply literate and fiercely independent, they epitomize most of the newfound ideas and wisdom. You know, complex beliefs like "bigger burger is better burger". Or simple ones like "Wayne Rooney is either a born moron or born a moron" (my idea, but what the hell). You'll fall for their their fancy English and faux Malay. And they don't write the (archaic) way we write. They don't write, actually. It's just LOL, LMAO, he he, @$%# and all the wordless counterculture. Obviously there's so much for us to engage, learn and achieve here. It's easier for mothers-in-law to get on because they rule the kitchen. All daughters-in-law, new or not new, know well enough not to upset the foodchain. But a father-in-law is a pointless afterthought, just like the oil filter. He needs the extra guile and craft to get in the groove. But, who'd really know, with time and some luck "Di Ambang Sore" might find its way into his daughter-in-law's playlists. LOL.

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.