Keropok on a sofa

An Old Fogey's Raya

2009-09-27T16:37:00.001+08:00

When I was a kid, I used to wonder what it was that grown-ups spend so much time yakking about during Raya visits.

I mean, once I've downed that F&N oren, polished off all the sweets from the festive kuih raya tray and munched through endless handfuls of peanuts, I was ready to go.

But no, the adults have loads to talk about, says my mum sweetly as she gives me a discreet but really painful pinch on my thigh whenever I forgot myself and pestered her.

Trying to follow the conversations proved futile as there were too many references to past events and people that I knew nothing about.

Thankfully, most households we visited had kids my age, so we would normally leave the adults alone and made friends.

As time goes by, I realise that mostly everyone gets nostalgic over their younger days during this time - and old fogeys are the worst - hence the interminable conversations.

Since the Minx says I'm getting close to being an old fogey now, I think it's about time I imposed some of my Raya memories on you lot.
-----------------------------

The first inkling we would have of Hari Raya drawing close, would be the arrival of the soft drinks at our house.

Always a cheerful event -anything to break the monotony of the seemingly endless days of puasa - the deliveryman would call out in a singsong Chinese accent as soon he pulls up in the front.

"Ayer botol! Ayer botol" (old spelling, meh - in fact, this whole posting should be in sepia tones).

All of us would cluster around excitedly as he lugged the crates from his becha (rickshaw) into our store-room while my mum would supervise and keep us kids out of the way.

In those days soft drinks were only sold in glass bottles - the bottles are returned and your deposit repaid minus breakage, and they are washed and reused at the canning factory.

Historical footnote - A huge F&N factory used to stand beside the Bangsar/Brickfields traffic lights junction - the site is now part of the Sentral complex.

For the Raya celebrations, they are bought by the crate.

The crates were of seasoned wood, the yellow paint faded to a nondescript puke beige on its sides.

They are partitioned into 24 slots where the capped bottles stood soldier-like in three neat rows of eight - the one in the pic is the modern one of 15 per crate

(Pic "borrowed" from sparklette.net)

Each crate will carry bottles of the same flavour, though the sundry shop tauke was more than happy to mix-n-match a crate or two for his regulars.

My Dad would order the same flavours every year - they were usually Fraser & Neaves (F & N).

He'd order the bright Orange Squash, dark and broody Sarsaparilla, sparkling clear Ice Cream Soda and cheery red Cherry which was a pretty new flavour those days.

In those days Coca-Cola and Pepsi were newbies and were considered too pahit (bitter) for our teensy throats.

We (the kids, that is) would actually count out the whole inventory and would always bitch about there being too many Orange Squash bottles compared to the others.

Apparently most adults of that era preferred orange drinks.

The F&N Cherry was highly prized by the girls - *snigger* but I'm not kidding, it's really true - and my eldest sister would abuse her position as an almost-adult by opening up the storeroom and hiding a whole crate of them under some rags and other stuff.

My brother Jap and I, being junior citizens and the most oft-bullied, would sneak in when no one's looking and squirrel away a few bottles of our own.

I was partial to the fresh and tarty (heh!) taste of Ice Cream Soda while Jap was a Sarsaparilla fan.

Funnily enough, we graduated to vodka and Guinness respectively during our hedonistic phase later in life.

On Raya morning, each of us will be given the chance to pick a whole bottle for ourselves and it was supposed to last for the whole day.

As a result all of us became highly proficient at uncapping a bottle with minimum damage to the metal cap - and then re-capping our partially-full "personal" bottles.

When our friends came around, we would jump at the chance of opening up a brand-new bottle of our choice.

We would then sit around munching peanuts and discuss the various merits of soft drinks with an intensity that would have put professional wine-tasters to shame.

Besides the aforementioned brands there was the dark tea-coloured Sinalco - it's actually orangeade but alas is no longer available here though they're still in business in Europe.

Then there was Green Spot which apparently only rich kids would drink because the bottles are so small compared to the others

(psst ... catch that bloke trying to feed the girl his hotdog);

... and of course RC Cola which was the forerunner of Coke and Pepsi later on.

But we were not snobs ... we'd just as intensely discuss the merits of different sirap kordial at the homes of friends who were less well-off.

Anyway that's what we thought meaningful conversations ought to be about.

It doesn't seem to change much as we grew up though - the hottest topics still remain the best places to eat and drink. Funny that.

Anyway Hari Raya would also inevitably remind me of a particular conversation some years back.

Infected by a rare burst of Raya-related nostalgia, I decided to get some fireworks for my kids to light up the night with when we get back to Terengganu.

It wasn't just any fireworks that I wanted.

It was those primitive, red Chinese stuff that look like tiny dynamite sticks all wrapped in waxed paper and a mythical Chinese lady wreathed in clouds on the cover.

Yes, it's the stuff that I used to play with in my childhood.

Somehow I managed to get my hands on some - incredibly enough at the neighbourhood surau during a terawih prayer session.

Mind you there was even a comprehensive order list - I could swear that the only thing missing from it were Stinger missiles.

Anyway in a conversation with an uncle in Ganu some days later, I was crowing somewhat about this minor feat when he leaned forward and said quietly,

Abang Din: "Do you remember a few years back, a story that came out in the papers? On Harian Metro?"

Me : "Um, what story would that be?"

AD : "This was the one about the biggest fireworks seizure in the East Coast ever. By the Ganu police here in KT."

Me : "Oh yeah, I remember now. There was a picture of a warehouse where they found the stuff. Yeah, the whole place was filled with the stuff."

AD : "That's the one. There was a couple of tonnes of the stuff."

Me : "What of it?"

AD : "Do you recall the guy's name who was arrested by the police?"

Me : "Not really, no. Why?"

AD : "Well ... *snicker ..., it was me."

I got an earful from Lady C later on for my ROTFLMAO.

Anyway, SELAMAT HARI RAYA all ... eat well, laugh loud and drive safely.

Oh, I almost forgot our traditional Raya Greeting Card ...

... it's a special one this year ...

...

,,

,

.

SELAMAT HARI RAYA!!!!

dari Pertubuhan Seni Silap Gayung Malaysia

The Hanging Hungs

2009-06-10T16:51:00.007+08:00

Just a quick update in response to Maklongnya Bedah
------------------------------------------------

I've framed and put up the two Hungs on my walls last week.

As I had expected, the frames actually cost more than the paintings *hiks, but the real hassle was in putting them up.

As most people who had bought houses in the last 10 years or so would know, the walls are more sand than cement instead of the other way around.

And these frame paintings do have a considerable weight.

So just knocking in some nails in the wall* won't do - you'll have to measure carefully, drill the holes and then hit wooden wall plugs into each hole to strengthen them.

*An old riddle - what's always better than a nail in the wall?

All of which would take a considerable amount of time and energy.

And some French oaths as well.

But it's always worth the effort.

Especially when you have chosen your display spots well and thus, when you're done, able to sit back and enjoy the paintings in all their glory.

So dear all (and especially Maklongnya Bedah), I'm proud to present to you ... the Hungs at the Cipans'.

A dash of reds and blacks to warm up the dining area.

And some evocative browns to add a thoughtful tone to the living room.

A Man Called Hung

2009-06-02T21:35:00.000+08:00

It was already past nine but the air was fairly sweltering at the night market around Co Ben Thanh in downtown Saigon.

Now known as Ho Chi Minh city, of course.

Ho's City, if you're a Yank ... I guess.

Under my rucksack, my shirt was getting sticky but I was enjoying myself immensely.

It has been a while since I went abroad (Shanghai was the last one, I think), or had a proper holiday actually, and the break couldn't have come at a better time for me.

After a fortnight of crisis calls plus a project that took off unexpectedly like a runaway rocket, I was stressed-out, fagged out and almost brain dead on my feet by the time I boarded the Airbus at half past seven in the morning at the LCCT.

Was that sentence too long? Deal with it - it's a fair reflection of my working life since November.

Anyway, back in Saigon (I still prefer this old name, I grew up with it being on the headlines and on TV almost every day in the late 60s) I was taking in the sights and sounds (and smells) contentedly while cowering behind two female colleagues for protection from the many pretty ladies manning the various stalls.

Protection?

Yes, protection. Seriously.

You see, Vietnamese ladies are mostly pretty, have good skin, look and sound demure but are also very persistent in making their sales pitch.

Very much self-aware of their effects on men visitors, they would think nothing of grabbing you by the arm and crying out,

"A-baaaaang, come and see my things, I give you good price,"

and pretty soon a soft female hand will be stroking your manly chest to add persuasive punctuation to it all, while the sales pitch changes to,

"I like your smile, where you from."

And if you got a pot-belly, the stroking moves south and they'll cackle, "Little Buddha!" delightedly.

The outdoor night market is infinitely more preferable than the daytime version - which is more congested and, since it's indoors, definitely stuffier than muff-diving.

I mean, once I entered I had to go out again after the first five minutes cos I couldn't breathe.

Whereas I can muff-dive longer than that even with one nostril shut.

Anyways after my nipples had gotten overly sensitive with all that stroking, I spotted something on top of my shopping list.

A stall displaying original oil paintings by local artists.

For some time, I've been told that you can get art pieces at bargain prices, especially oil paintings, in Saigon.

Mostly I was told they got good fakes there but I was thinking, if they're so good technically, then the originals should be better buys.

So, having spent a good part of the evening watching over the ladies, and getting molested for my troubles, I got stimulation of the cerebral kind at last.

At first I was struck by the stall-minder's demeanour.

Unlike the typical pasar malam hustling, he had a quiet, pleasant manner.

Such a welcome contrast.

I tested him by leaving after just a minute of browsing but he remained coolly polite and even thanked me for my time.

So after a bit, I came back, sat down on a stool, rolled me a fag and struck up a conversation with the guy.

It turns out that the stall houses the paintings of Hung, my new friend, and three of his friends, and they take turns minding it.

Taking a close look at the wares on display (even an untutored eye like mine could discern the four different styles), I found that I really liked this quietly pleasant chap.

So I was pleased to find out that a series of abstracts that I really liked was Hung's handiwork.

Taking the conversation further I found out he's actually a Hanoi boy - thus the very different personality compared to his neighbours - and that four years of art college in Hanoi was followed by eight years in Saigon peddling his stuff.

The boy got grit.

And he was so humble.

I had decided to buy two of his paintings when I noticed that they didn't have any signature.

"Hey Hung, how come these paintings don't have your signatures?"

"You want me to sign them?" he asked.

"Did you paint these paintings or not? Or are they your friend's paintings?" I asked again, making sure we understood each other.

"Yes, I painted them," he replied.

"Then sign the damn things lah," I said, lapsing into Manglish momentarily.

He wasn't so sure he understood me.

"You really want me to sign them?" the fella went again.

"Of course I want you to, you're the painter, right?"

"Yes, I am,"

"Then you must sign it. Otherwise how would people know you're the painter?" I berleter again.

I swear the man looked stunned.

"Oh, okay. Can you wait for five minutes?" he asked.

"No problem, why?"

"I call my friend to bring a tube for the painting, then I have to get my brush and ink," he said.

When his friend turned out to be a pretty girl, I was kinda worried my nipples might get tweaked again. But she was a decent sort - his girlfriend actually (I asked) - and she came from the same village as Hung.

So sweet.

All in all I spent about two hours there, and they were pleasant hours, I must say.

And I ended up paying just USD90 for two oil paintings that I liked very much.

Originals by a man called Hung.

THE WAKE ....

2009-04-03T02:11:00.008+08:00

A

SIR CIPAN NOUGAT-TENUK PRODUCTION

P R E S E N T S

In association with

The Blogistani Anti-Hanjeng Society

A cultural tribute to Blogistan's Legendary-est Legend

...

..

.

Mamma Piah - AVVANG CIPAN

"She's been cheating on him since we don't know when,

But they can't make up their minds, if they want it to end."

"Look at him now, will he ever learn?

He don't know how but now he's just a cuckold,

She's a player without a soul."

"Well, it's like his nose is pierced with her ring,

Just one bonk and he forgets everything, o-o-o-oh ..."

Chorus:
Mamma Piah,
There you go again,
My my, all the tales you tell us,

Mamma Piah,
Please come back again,
My my, don't you know we've missed you

Yes, we're all chatterboxes,
Posting crap to each other,
My my, do we ever let it go

Mamma Piah, now that you've let us know
My my, we could never let you go ...!!!!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
SCENE 2, Act 1

Set rotates and morphs into a comment box ...

feminats :: gigihnya kau piah hapdet pagi buta sabtu. tapi bagus, aku sukak!

apesal kau tak citer pasal boyfie dia yg pak turut tu? yg walau berapa ramai jantan dia ada scandal tapi boyfie tu tetap setia menanti.
aBAIkan :: "seorang eksekutif syarikat minyak antarabangsa yang bawak keter BMW second-hand"??? mcm ciri2 abg ipar aku je tu.. oh tidakkk
akak tetap taste tinggi :
Choiii... tak discerning langsung la si Tattoo Kupu2 Di Tempat Empuk kalau betullah ada apa2 dengan blogger kat Timur Tengah tu.
Muka macam chief clerk JPJ pun dia sapu?: *kembang tekak*

nenen :

Tak ada ler cun sangat pompuan ni,mata pun kero sebelah.Macam dari kampong baru cina jer.

----------------------------

Act 2, Scene 2

Fernando - ABBA
"Fernando"

Do you like my bum, Fernando?

I remember long ago another starry night like this

In the firelight Fernando

You were humming to yourself and softly strumming your "guitar"

I could hear the distant drums

And sounds of bugle calls were coming from afar

Please hold me now Fernando

Every hour every minute seemed to last eternally

I was so afraid Fernando

We were young and full of life and none of us prepared to die

And I'm not ashamed to say

The roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry

There was something in the air that night
Your eyes were bright, Fernando
They were shining there from you to me
For sodomy, Fernando

Though I never thought that we'd get loose
There's no regret
If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando

Now we're old and grey Fernando

And since many years I haven't seen a hard-on in your hand

Won't you grab my bum Fernando?

Don't you still recall the fateful night we crossed the final line?

I can see it in your eyes

How proud you were to come out of the closet in the end

There was something in the air that night

Your eyes were bright, Fernando

They were shining in the dark at me

For sodomy, Fernando

Though I never thought that we'd get loose

There's no regret

If I had to do the same again
I would, my friend, Fernando

---------------------------------------------------------------------
INTERMISSION
-------------------------------------------------------------

NOTICE FROM MANAGEMENT

This musical will resume
as soon as members of the cast
can be persuaded
to return from their watering holes.

THANK YOU ....

---------------------------------------------------------

H A V E Y O U S E E N T H E M ?

The Missing Cast

Yunus Izam a.k.a. The Diva

The Chorus Line (L to R):
Kakikupendek, Tayar Banks, Courteney Cock, Joyah A, Joyah B, Joyah C, Angelina Jolok, Nicole Kick-Meng, Salmah Hayek, Yves St Limah

Thank God I'm A Man

2009-04-01T18:40:00.006+08:00

Click on pics to enlarge

"Let's go for a drink," said the man.

Yep, thank God I'm a man ... :D

A Pressie From Pussie ...

2008-12-01T14:17:00.006+08:00

... that was lovingly crafted by the whole team.

Two goals in three minutes - the first on the right boot from an offside position, the other a spinning left-footer into the left-hand corner - and we flushed The Shite right down the toilet.

We've not been doing well at all this year and Wee Willie talking through his dick made matters worse - or so it seemed.

But one very good thing came out of the whole mess.

Bad boy Cesc "The Fab" Fabregas has taken over The Armband, something most fans believe has been long overdue.

A squeaky 1-0 win over Kiev looked like a small office-party celebration for Cesc's ascension on Wednesday, while last night's win has given Gooners renewed hope that we would rediscover enough self-belief to put together a decent run at last.

We may or may not turn have turned the corner with this but what the heck ...

... it's the best birthday pressie I've got for ages.*

*Apart from meeting The Minx, of course.

:D

Ms Karma and I

2008-11-21T19:40:00.022+08:00

When I first started schooling at the Pasar Road English School (2) (it's somewhere near Pudu - pic "borrowed" from Fusion View), there was a steep slope rising beside the entrance gate that caught my imagination.

In those days Hollywood stars were real men (at least on screen) and would always emerge from spectacular crashes and explosions unscathed - except for a slightly disturbed coiffure.

And that steep slope looked exactly like the one where the hero and villain would tumble down, head over heels, in the climactic fight scene of, oh, practically every action movie that we saw.

And of course, it looked deliciously perfect for a young boy to relive those fight sequences that had pretty much stuck in his head.

Now, our Headmistress then was Miss Cheah, a statuesque Chinese lady in her 40s - you know the type* - a pretty face but with a strict demeanour.

With a modest yet elegantly dressed slim body.

All that she lacked was a scooped neckline, a whip and a pair of high boots for men to throw themselves and grovel at her feet.

Or so I felt at that time.

* A cipanesque detour : I met a lot of these Chinese spinsters in my life, most of them quite pretty which mystified me to no end ... that is until I discovered Lilytheliverbird's answer to the mystery.

The answer? Men are idiots (present company included).

Now Miss Cheah, being someone truly dedicated to her job, truly understood how young boys think. **

** Another detour : It wouldn't really surprise me if an ancient gentleman was to come up and tell me that she moonlighted in a bordello and was very popular with men who required intimate correctional services.

So she would unfailingly station herself at the porch near the slope when we were coming in; during recess when we would be at play; and when we were going home - when we would be at our worst.

So diligent was she in doing this that one day, after a couple of months, a like-minded friend and I couldn't believe our eyes when she wasn't there at the tail-end of recess.

So up we scrambled to perch at the very top and stood there daring the other to make that death-defying tumble down.

You see, it was really bloody steep and to top it off, at the bottom of the slope was a small concrete drain.

In order to not end up splattering your brains all over it, you'd have to retain enough presence of mind in the midst of a dizzying tumble to spring upright at just the right moment.

Spring up too early and you do a face-plant into the tarmac.

A fraction too late and you might just get away with a broken leg.

Being the stupider one (I was in Std 1E while the other fella was in Std 1A), I actually went for it.

And the angels were watching over me - I aced the timing and sprang triumphantly to my feet, incredibly unscathed with merely a slightly disturbed coiffure.

I whirled around in joy - only to see an ashen-faced Miss Cheah standing stock-still under the porch.

She gestured at my friend - who inched his way down ignominously on his arse - and then waited for us with folded arms.

"I don't want to scold you boys. But I don't want you to get hurt either," she said softly.

Aiyoh, die lah - I sure kena wallop by my mum when she hears of this - were the thoughts running through my head.

"So I want you boys to promise me - that you will never do this again," she finished firmly.

Our mumbled replies never sounded convincing, especially to our own ears.

"All right, go back to your classes," she said and we scrambled away.

I was her lapdog from that moment on.

--------------------------------------------------

But then Ms Karma has her ways of making me pay for that act of audacity ...

... in Std 5 ...
I missed a step at the ablution area in a mosque during Friday prayers and bashed my head into a four-pointed tap.

I bled like a stuck pig and was rushed to the hospital - but by the time the doctor saw me, the bleeding had stopped and he had a very hard time locating the tiny wound.

To be on the safe side, he swaddled a huge bandage around my head - the sight of which almost made my mother swoon when I got home.

... in Form One ...
at the Aryan Borstal for Wayward Boys, a stupid athlete friend accidentally stuck his spike shoe onto my bare foot and punctured an artery.

For the second time in my life I bled like a stuck pig, squirting blood everywhere until they got me to the hospital.

I left so many blood spatters that the sick bay's Matron's first words when she got there (well after we left) was, "Who just died here???"

At the District Hospital I consoled myself that there were distinct advantages in dying so young - but when the doctor took off the T-shirt they wrapped around my foot, the doc (again!) had a hard time locating the tiny puncture wound.

This time, since I was living in a dormitory, my mum was spared a second near-swoon, but I had to withstand the incredulous looks from my friends when I came back to the hostel.

After that dramatic (and bloody) scene, I came back with only a tiny band-aid over the now closed puncture.

... in Lower Six ...
at the Borstal still, while we were waiting for our educational fates to be determined by various parties, I broke my right wrist after a so-called friend sent me flying during a football game.

It could have been both collarbone and wrist (I landed on my right shoulder first) but it seemed Ms Karma had grown fond of me after all those years.

There was an eventful bone "realignment" session in the OR where I came out of full sedation to kick and hurl four-letter abuse at the doctor and assistants before passing out again from the pain.

Understandably I have only a hazy recollection of it.

-----------------------------------------------------

That was the last time she got physical with me, but Ms Karma merely became subtler in getting even with me.

From there on, the one thing of mine that she still kept on breaking regularly, was my heart.

------------------------------------

Since I'm leeching search hits off the HOTTEST blog in Blogistan currently, here's the NEW url for those poor souls who've missed the train as it left town ...

http://piahzadoralagi.blogspot.com/

Yeah, yeah .... I'm shameless liddat ... :p

Five Reasons ...

2008-11-11T13:54:00.005+08:00

... why I've not updated.

1. I'm currently domesticated - since we lost our maid.

2. Work

3. My kids sitting for SPM and PMR this year

4. Meroyan over the Gooners blurry form (until last Saturday that is, :D)

and last but not least ...

http://piahzadora.blogspot.com/

... oooohhh, ngeri weh .... *hiks

SALAM PERANTAU 2008

2008-09-25T13:30:00.005+08:00

"Kami, ..."

" ... William Ganas dari Kg Tok Rempit, Asnières-sur-Seine, Perancis ...."

"... Cek Fabregas Hj Soler dari Kg Bintang Terang, Barcelona, Sepanyol ..."

"... Theo bin Walcott dari Kg Compton Jawa dekat London, Ingerland ..."

"... dan Mael Almunia dari Kg Gantung Leman, Pamplona, Sepanyol ingin mengucapkan ..."

"SELAMAT HARI RAYA AIDILFITRI!!!

kepada Wak Cipan Nougat-Tenuk dan semua pembaca-pembacanya ...

MAAF ZAHIR DAN BATINNNnnnnn ...!!!"

Getting on Top of Things ...

2008-09-14T21:58:00.013+08:00

The only difficult thing for me during the fasting month, usually, has been the amount of sleep debt that I would accumulate as a matter of course.

The hectic Ramadhan routine normally sees me making do with a daily average of 4 hours sleep.

The breaking of fast at 7.15pm, Terawih prayers at 8.30pm, moreh at 10pm and a breather (usually rehydration) before bed after midnight is not so bad if it wasn't for the sahur meal at 5.00am.

Once I get up for that one, I'd never the chance to go back to bed.

It'll be washing-up, then subuh prayers, then send the kids to school, then get ready for work.

After work, it's another mad rush to the Ramadhan bazaar of your choice (plenty of them - read Leen's happy review here) to buy food.

Thank God for the weekends, otherwise I'd never survive.

Well, this year it got very much tougher.

This year our maid, despite her frequent promises throughout her seven-year employment, decided to do a runner.

Way back in late August, we let her go back for a ten-day holiday to see to her supposedly sick Mum.

It was the same old story - no calls after a week, then the neighbours' maid came over to pass the message that she's decided not to come back.

It took a while before the whole story came out into the open - she went back not to a sick Mum but to a new husband.

We were a bit puzzled about the subterfuge - after all we had told her we got no problems if she was to marry, just give us a bit of notice - until we were told that the wedding had to be held in a bit of a rush.

Apparently there was a loaf baking in the oven.

Let me state here that it's most definitely not my yeast that's making the bread rise - avang dinch taste, occay?

Needless to say, the domestic front went haywire, what with Ramadhan and all.

It wasn't too hard to rediscover long-lost skills to handle chores that we had delegated all these years - laundry, ironing, cooking, cleaning, dusting, sweeping and the washing-up.

The problem was trying to find the fricking time to do them all.

Which made me wonder how the maid found the time to do the fricking at all, actually.

The hardest part, however, was getting Haikal to adjust.

Poor Haikal had been very much attached to the now-absent maid (ever since birth).

Now he's expected to make do without her and start staying in a nursery for the first time in his life.

All of this at the age of three.

He cried his eyes out in the first 10 days.

So much so that the first thing the nursery bibik taught him was to stuff enough Kleenex in his pockets to last for the day.

We had expected that but it didn't make it any easier.

In addition to this, he fell prey to a few bouts of fever and the occasional nightmare.

What worried me most was his poor appetite. He grew thinner and had to be coaxed to take food.

We also had to constantly reassure him that yes, we will pick him up from the nursery every day - without fail.

While he looked convinced by that, disconcertingly he started following me around the house whenever I'm home - a sure sign of insecurity.

Anyway all of us persevered and eventually he managed to adjust.

He's now rediscovered his appetite and he's filling out nicely again.

He is once more the loud and happy pipsqueak that we all love.

It's been a characteristic of Ramadhan these past few years, to throw up a few lessons on the need for strength of character in facing adversity.

This year, however, those lessons were driven home into us by the fortitude of a three-year old named Haikal.

-------------------------------------------
... and on top of The Table

Bolton B*ggers ... 1
(Davies 14th)

Le Wengerboys ... 3
(Eboue 26th, Bendtner 28th, Denilson 87th)

Another match against a physical side - this time against the notoriously dirty pair of the Two Kevins.

Kevin Nolan has never been more than a bruising battler while Kevin Davies was once touted as being good enough for England by his then manager, Big Sam.

Their goal typified how this partnership works - off a Bolton corner, ball heads for Davies' head, Toure and Davies jump, Nolan holds on to Toure's arm under Davies' body, ball goes in and ref fails to see anything wrong.

Tw*ts.

I was going berserk but the lads kept their cool and patiently work their way through the challenges.

Ade hits the post, then Shittu (crap name innit?) blocks a Bendtner shot from six yards, then Song hits the post.

I was going nuts.

Then we slotted in 2 goals within a minute and I calmed down some.

Then Davies clatters into Clichy and the lad gets sent to hospital.

Tw*t.

Twas edge of the seat stuff till the 87th when Denilson slots home after a surging Theo run.

Game over.

And we go top of the table ... Wheeeeeeeeeee!!! Gayat, weh ...

Arsene Wenger puts in a strict regime for the team to follow this year -

no Teletubbies anymore on mornings of match days.

WHEELS

2008-08-25T20:10:00.020+08:00

I don't come from a well-heeled family - in fact we were firmly rooted within the working-class.

However, despite what seems to be a large financial handicap, we've always managed to have a car in the family.

It all probably started with my grandfather (me Dad's dad).

From a modest beginning as a "bottle washer" in the F&N works in Brickfields, this humble guest worker from Java managed to land what was considered a pretty plum job those days, even among the locals - no work permit required.

He became the driver for the orang putih (white man).

Twas a Morris Minor with those dinky signal lights that pop-up at the side pillars (between the front and rear doors) when you want to make a turn.

His pleasure in performing his duties must have rubbed off on my dad because even as I was born, he was already the proud owner of his own car.

It was a Ford Hillman (so I was told) and I remember vaguely that it was bluish-purple in colour.

Just like in this picture.

What I remember most about that car was that it was a two-door sedan.

My brother and I used to pretend to be asleep when we arrived home after a trip - just so that me Dad would carry us inside instead of undergoing the hassle of pushing forward the front passenger seat and all.

You see, I would always bang my shin, painfully, when getting out.

It didn't quite work out for me most of the time though.

Since I was the elder boy, my parents would shake me awake and make me walk - hobble (painfully) actually - into bed.

Then one fine Sunday, I was browsing through the morning papers (I couldn't read but I could understand the pictures just fine) and my Dad was lounging nearby.

Then I saw an advertisement. I looked at him and piped up bravely (those days one would speak to one's Dad only when spoken to) - "Why don't you buy this car, Pak?"

He slouched over to peer at it and surprised me by asking, "Why do you want this car?"

I simply said - "Because it has four doors."

Did I mention I was a focking genius at five?

Anyway whaddaya know - he actually ended up buying that car.

It was a light-blue Fiat 1100.

There's a lot of memories tied up with that car.

Picnic trips to PD, jaunts to me granny in Kg Batu Belah in Kapar, Kelang - heck, it was this car that carried me into exile at the Aryan Borstal for Wayward Boys.

Believe it or not, that car was still running in 1982 - probably an all-time record for a Fiat sold in Malaysia.

Apparently most Fiats in Malaysia die in infancy.

Thus it was with clear reluctance that my Dad sold off that Fiat.

Incredibly there was an eager buyer, a mad Chinese fella in Pudu who actually begged my Dad to sell it to him.

Right after that my brother-in-law sold my Dad his car.

It was an extremely reliable Opel Kadett

He kept this one running for another 12 years - until the inside door handles came off actually - before finally foisting it off to my eldest brother.

After that he never bothered getting another car for himself but instead drove around my sister's Mazda 323.

It took me a while to figure it out that one.

Then I realised - me Dad was really just a snob for continental cars.

-----------------------------------------------
Blackburn Bast*rds ... 0

Le Wengerboys ... 4
(der Pussie 8th, Ade 45th, 81st (pen), 90th)

The preceding week was all about young Theo's exploits at Zagreb - Croat Killer, Dream Teen and all sorts of monikers were thrown about carelessly by sports commentators who funnily enough were mostly negative for the majority of the game until Wooney scored England's third.

After which the gushing started over how the Three Pussycats have been transformed into rampant lions once more.

Anyway we were expecting another bruising battle at Ewood Park but it turned out Ince's men wanted to play the beautiful game instead.

We were up a goal in eight minutes - former bully-boys standing off as Theo went on a mazy run and teed up der Pussie superbly.

The rest of it was pretty much like a pre-season friendly and Adebayor made some headway to regain the goodwill of Gooners worldwide.

Then the Prof sent in Jack Wilshere - all of 16 years - and teased English fans already near-orgasmic over Theo's capabilities.

'I bring them out slowly, these English players,' smiled Wenger. 'He's another one who will soon play for you.'

As long as he's playing for Arsenal the rest of the time, that'll be fine with us.

Twente Questions, Part 1

2008-08-16T13:50:00.014+08:00

Controversial Captain Gallas celebrates his goal, our first in anger for the new season.

FC Twente ... 0

Le Arse ... 2
Captain Gallas 63rd; Ade "The Raise" Bayor 82nd

A game that Astro failed to show, which in hindsight was probably good judgement except that the screened Standard Liege vs Poo was a scoreless bore.

This game we won ugly ... sorry, that's not quite accurate - we won ATROCIOUSLY.

In fact we won despite FC Twente playing the sort of football normally associated with us in 06/07 sans Henry. Including the not finding the net part.

By most accounts, this game will make the doomsayers happy.

While we weren't sloppy, we were disjointed and struggled to find fluency in the centre of the pitch packed with Twente's five-man midfield.

We should have been two down in the first half but we weren't.

We should have been three down by the 60th minute - but we weren't.

Instead we went one up in the 63rd and then we pegged them back comfortably with a gorgeous second goal in the 84th.

In short we didn't have to play well to beat the Wally with the Brolly.

---------------------------------
Newsflash!!!

Arsene Talks Dirty at Interview

First he used the F-word ...!

... and then he said this ...

"This team gave me fantastic excitement last year and I want to finish the job with them,"

Cor ... that'll wet a few trousers fronts among the Pink Brigade, I bet ... :D

---------------------------------

Gooners, the 2008/9 edition

2008-08-01T12:38:00.011+08:00

Another year and another transfer window filled with Arsene Wenger keeping his cool and counsel amidst much gnashing and tearing of hair amongst the red-and-white faithful.

But there were signs that the Professor aka Godfather Arsene has heard a little bit that he thought he ought to do something about.

Funny enough though, it's the bit about how ugly the senior squad is.

So, ladies and gents ... Voila!

The Pretty Young Goons of 2008

AARON RAMSEY
("Goon ID" ... initials and shirt number ... : AR16)

First, the Welsh kid from Cardiff.

Not much in the face department but more of a Hunkyboy-next-door.

He turns 18 on Dec 26 this year.

SAMIR NASRI
(Goon ID: SN8)

This is the Algerian kid touted as the next Zidane.

The combination of impish cheekiness and dark brooding look reminds me uncannily of Robbie Fowler and Val Kilmer both.

He's 21 - young yet experienced .... probably in more than one area.

CARLOS VELA
(Goon no: CV12)

Boy wonder from Mexico who spent three seasons playing in Spain on loan for Celta Vigo, Salamanca and Osasuna.

Golden Boot winner and champions in FIFA U-17 World Cup in 2005.

Four goals in last four games for Mexico senior squad.

He's 19 this year.

His new hair makes him look a bit like Theo Walcott, innit?

Who's the pretty boy, then?

A Tale of Two Fathers

2008-07-04T19:11:00.011+08:00

A few weeks ago.

Late on a Wednesday evening.

I found myself, still in my office attire, watching over my son in the pre-surgical ward in a hospital in Shah Alam.

It had all started innocuously - I had suspected that the very vocal Mirza (seven) was just trying to skive from school in the morning.

But thankfully there was enough sense in me to take him to the doctor just to be on the safe side.

By the day's end he was being prepped for an appendectomy - and I was fretting on a hard plastic chair beside the bed.

It's always difficult trying to reassure a child when you are obviously a bundle of nerves yourself.

Yeah, yeah - I know an appendectomy is a simple procedure and that since we caught it at an early stage it should be a cinch but that's what fathers do, innit?

Reassuring everyone that everything's going to be all right while dying a slow death inside with worry over your child.

Then again there's that awful image that sticks out in my memory.

- a young grief-stricken lady weeping and moaning softly as she walked in her husband's arms. An attendant beside them slowly wheeling a hospital gurney bearing the lifeless body of their young son.

----------------------
It was also late in the evening fifteen years ago, when that scene played out at the KL Pediatric Hospital.

We were out on a stroll along the hospital corridors when we ran into the bereaved party.

It really hit home on me then, of the possible future that lurked - unseen in the wings.

My first-born asked me why the lady was crying.

He was two years old - then perched on a mobile IV-drip stand that I pushed around on slow walks when we both got restless.

On that mobile stand hung a bag of poison called Cisplatin, from which flowed a steady drip, through a needle that entered into my son's bloodstream.

It was the third of a series of week-long stays in the Pediatric Hospital - we were put up in a ward designated as KK3.

It's also known as the Cancer Ward.

-------------------------------
The nurse bustled along to our bed and told us the surgical team was ready for Mirza.

I stood up, picked up my sleeping child and we proceeded into the Operating Room.

Mirza woke up just as we arrived at the operating table and clutched at me.

"Nak buat apa ni, bah?" he asked, his fright plain for all to see.

I soothed him and the anaesthetist joined in, making a fun game with the mask and together we persuaded him to lie still and put the mask over his face.

Barely a minute later, he was under.

I gave one look back at his sleeping form as I walked out the room.

--------------------------
I was asked to leave the Operating Room as we waited for the anaesthesia to kick in.

The petite female surgeon had told me that the operation would take about 3 hours - they'll have to scrape away, delicately, the tumour that had wrapped itself around a major artery.

There was a large glass panel looking into the OR and they placed him beside it - so he could look out and see me waiting there for him.

I gave him a little wave, barely seeing him through glassy eyes.

Shaking my head slightly, I blinked them clear - and from under the blue surgical cap, his wide trusting eyes pinned my soul with a gaze full of unquestioning belief.

I watched as they slowly closed shut as he went under and then they wheeled him away.

Another waiting father down the corridor nodded his assurance at me - a kindred soul, we were brothers-in-agony.

I gave a sickly smile and turned away, unable to speak.

----------------------------------------
Lady C arrived around 9pm, with the bag of clothes - both mine and Mirza's.

He's still in the OR and we went into the waiting room, the TV screening a football match from the Euro 2008.

I nodded some people who were already in there and settled down on a sofa.

To again wait.

God knows I have enough practice by this time.

-----------------------------------------
"Abah! Sakit ...!" his first words as he came to.

His little hands clutched my shoulders frantically in pain as I turned my head and called the nurse, trying not to dislodge any of the five port-a-caths (IV ports) embedded around his tiny body.

The nurse told me there's no anaesthesia prescribed for post-surgical care.

A short sharp conversation ensued as I politely informed her that the surgeon had personally told me otherwise.

She went off in a huff and returned in a little while to roughly jab a hypodermic into my son.

He collapsed in blissful oblivion.

For five whole seconds, I seriously considered throttling the nurse to death right there beside my son's cot.

The madness passed and I recited a prayer of thanks instead.

Half an hour later she came over with a smile and tried to get back into my good graces.

Divine intervention, I guessed.

-------------------------------------
"Abah, abah!" his little voice jerked me from my slumber.

It was just after dawn - eight hours after the appendectomy after which I had carried him up two floors to our room.

Feelings of dread roiled within me as I sprang to his side to find out what was wrong.

"Mintak remote TV," he beamed innocently.

It was an early but sweet Father's Day gift.

------------------------------------
Dinner at my mum's.

My father in his white Pagoda T-shirt, looking tired but somehow jovial as he showed that his appetite was intact.

He asked about my first-born and we spoke together about the next appointment and how well he was doing.

He had come over regularly to see us during the chemotherapy sessions and to chat.

The doctors had told us it was a total remission - my son will see adulthood, God willing.

My son's hair, felled by the chemotherapy courses, had fully restored over the past year and he had regained his weight.

We had won, despite the odds.

Yet the tinge of sadness refused to move away from the dinner table.

"I've closed all my accounts," he said in that quiet yet jovial manner he had.

I raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Everything. I've taken all my money out and given them to your mother," he gave a snort of laughter.

"So now your mother can kick me out if she wants to," he smiled widely at his own joke.

I gave him one of my sickly smiles and kept my eyes on the food.

Six months later I was tossing clumps of earth into his final resting place, silently weeping behind dark glasses.

The doctors had given him two months but the tenacity that was his hallmark (centreback for Selangor, HMS Malaya Cup squad) came to the fore for one last final battle.

But there was no denying that tumour in his brain.

He passed on two weeks after my third son was born - in the third week of June.

A good man. A great father.

God bless you, Pak.

And a Happy Father's Day, too.

------------------------------------

Saving Your Energy

2008-06-05T12:33:00.009+08:00

Twas a dark and stormy night.

In the drenched byways of KL, mamak joints lay deserted -

Floppy roti canai lie cold and neglected in metal basins while day-old dhal curry congealed under the flickering fluorescent lights.

Troubled Indian waiters mill about uneasily in the uncommon quiet, peering around vainly for a glimpse of their regular patrons.

It was too quiet - even for a rainy evening of a working day.

The missing patrons though, were locked in mortal struggle.

Pinned within their metal chariots, crazed corporate warriors were vying with blue-collar studs while grungy pasar malam traders pressed against maniac taxi drivers as they converge and battled on roads as clogged as the DBKL monsoon drains have been all year.

Lips tightly set in cruel grimace, clenched knuckles hidden in shadows, ulcers and migraines throbbing under sweaty brows - all eyes remained locked on their prize.

Which lie glittering under garish bright lights - cool and distant despite being inundated by the frantic swarm.

It was a wild frantic demonstration of mass knee-jerk reaction to the government's announcement.

Petrol up 41%.

Diesel up 63%.

And what looked like the whole driving population of the city took to the pumps last night.

I mean, really ...

... exactly how much can one hope to save with this last-minute madness?

My car was still half-full.

A quick calculation told me exactly how much I would save if I were to join in the unholy scrum.

Yeah, a princely sum of RM16.70

--------------------------------

So instead I had a great time at dinner, talking and bargaining with the lovely Minx over a used handphone.

And that's how instead of saving RM16.70 last night, I stole away with something definitely better.

A barely-used Nokia 6300 that, like its previous owner, is simply gorgeous.

Let the Sunshine In ... the Bag Tag

2008-05-22T19:30:00.004+08:00

Dang ...

Can't you guys let a sleeping cipan lie?

... and me right in the middle of a wet dream ... sheesh!

And Babe, you can put that lastik (slingshot) away ... my teloq (nuts) are well-padded and thanks to your interrupting, still fully charged as yet.

Bummer ...

And wot's this now ...?

Oh ... I'm supposed to tell the whole world what I carry in my wallet ... eh?

Look, Lillums - men carry around just a dinky leather thingy called a wallet.
(Well in them old days they did carry around leather thingies called codpieces but that's another story.)

Which, unlike my teloq, doesn't carry much of a potent load.
(Some of those codpieces were REALLY loaded, though ... )

We use other things to carry our stuff around - like pockets.

Or carry-alls.

Or cars.

But since I already owe you one tag, I guess I ought to oblige this time.

So - in the interests of social studies, here's what an articulate cipan carry around on his person.

Left pants pocket -
a really basic Nokia 2610 handphone
(After losing one and damaging four, I've given up owning the more expensive models. In any case I only need this to call and for text messages.)

Right pants pocket -
a Korean (I think) "Giorgio Ferri" key-wallet
(containing the car remote, the car keys, car pedal lock key, office key, bedroom key - in case Lady C tries to lock me out).

Left pants back pocket -
nothing
(it's always left empty for females to slip their hand in - and I frequently go commando, 'kay?)

Right back pants pocket -
unbranded wallet
(it's a corporate gift with corporate logo - very hardy, made in Finland)

Wallet -
Credit cards - Citibank, CIMB
ATM cards - Maybank, CIMB

Loyalty cards - Bonuslink, Body Shop, Coffee Bean, Tesco (My boys eat so much that I'm almost a shareholder, lol), Domino's Pizza (buy one, get one free card - most frequently abused during fasting month)

Other cards - office panel clinics card, ING medical insurance ID card, AAM member card (just renewed, meh), AAM Breakdown centres phone info card (I have a phobia about breakdowns, having had two unpleasant experiences) and a Bowling membership card (expired ...)

Other debris - driving license (expires July 2008), MyKad, two old 1-ringgit notes, two stray name cards, the spare car key.

-----------------------
Next, my carry-all - a black fake Slazenger satchel ...

... this carries ...

A book (currently Gore Vidal's Hollywood)

2 thumb-drives
1 Nokia hands-free kit

I use this satchel to carry homework, so it's empty most of the time. Heh!

-----------------
Now, my other carry-all (actually my gym bag) is a KL '98 Commonwealth Games commemorative Pro-Specs duffel bag.
Damn - it's 10 years old now and is still in good condition. Hmmm maybe Ebay ... but it's effing ugly ...

... now this contains ...

One pair Kronos futsal boots
A pair of Byford boxers
A pair of dark blue knee-length shorts
One sleeveless John Langford black workout cotton vest
Socks I keep in a spare drawer in my room ...

One Bozaki bag for toiletries containing,
one Dashing underarm deodorant,
two bottles Body Shop patchouli perfume oil,
one tube Hero hair cream,
two toothbrushes,
one Head & Shoulders shampoo,
one Protex shower gel,
two Playsafe,
one Durex,

... and a partridge in a pear tree ...

Now, can I get back to sleep?

I think I still remember where I was before I woke up ...

True Love Means ...

2008-04-11T18:19:00.006+08:00

Salford Scum ... 2 (Cronnie 52nd pen, Hargreaves 72nd)

Gooners ... 1 (Ade 48th Hand of God)

That's the Implosion completed - starting from Eduardo's horrific injury and last minute penalty that seemed to kick off a stream of dubious refereeing decisions that slapped our faces and kept the implosion going until this inevitable end at the home of the auld enemy, Old Trafford.

In a perverse way, I'm rather glad Ade's goal didn't win the match - I'd rather we lose than win a game with a goal like that.

Still, thanks lads - for a roller-coaster of a season and for over-performing even against unreasonable odds.

Twas not to be a trophy-winning season, but it was certainly wank-worthy, innit?

Bless you and here's to next season.

*click the play button to load and listen while you read

Love hurts, love scars,
Love wounds, it marks,
Any heart, not tough,
Or strong, enough
To take a lot of pain,
Take a lot of pain
Love is like a cloud
Holds a lot of rain
Love hurts, ooh ooh love hurts

I'm young, I know,
But even so
I know a thing, or two
I learned, from you
I really learned a lot,
Really learned a lot
Love is like a flame
It burns you when it's hot
Love hurts, ooh ooh love hurts

Some fools think of happiness

Blissfulness, togetherness

Some fools fool themselves I guess

They're not fooling me ...

I know it isn't true,
I know it isn't true
Love is just a lie,
Made to make you blue

Love hurts, ooh,ooh love hurts
Ooh,ooh love hurts

----------------------------------

But damn if I don't still love you guys.

Gooners Forever!

One Last Great Charge

2008-04-07T16:29:00.011+08:00

*sigh ... lately I can't help but see this mental picture every time the ref blows the final whistle at the end of an Arsenal game.

Like the proverbial Big Bad Wolf, we'd huff and puff and, blimey if we didn't bring the house down - usually with some nifty and fleet footwork - by sticking it in whenever we could.

But not lately, innit?

And so, while we still have a bit left to try salvage the season, it's a no-brainer that we'd have to choose between the EPL and the CL.

The EPL has just 4 games to go - but we've 6 pts to make up.

The CL has also 4 games to go - but we're in with a decent shout.

So come ON, Gooners! Once more into the, *cough breach!

So let that beast out.

Get stuck into THIS already ...!!!

*this is an old school visualisation technique ... really.

12 Days of Destiny

2008-04-02T13:30:00.010+08:00

------------------------------------------------

"Going into March and April, if you've done well in the season up to then it's the moment of truth. You work the whole year for that. This will be the highest challenge for me in my career. The next 12 days will define our season ..."

-------------------------------------------------

... and here's hoping for a really magical march into May.

Confessions of a straight man

2008-03-31T01:18:00.008+08:00

What is most beautiful in virile men is something feminine; what is most beautiful in feminine women is something masculine.
Susan Sontag, Against Interpretation, 1966
US author & critic (1933 - 2004)

Knowing that I had graduated from the Aryan Borstal for Brilliantly Wayward Boys, the Minx once threw me a loop.

She asked, "Have you ever had any gay experiences?"

Interesting question.

In my days, it was usual for boys over there to holler and chase a schoolmate in order to gleefully grope a pair of over-sized pectorals.

Or give catcalls and wolf whistles at the jambus* parading below while hanging out at the corridor balconies of the dorms.

*jambu = a young junior boy who happens to be pretty. A jambu ceases being one when he becomes a senior (Fifth Former).

These are pretty much the usual boyish hi-jinks and don't really mean a thing.

But there was something that stood out - it goes like this ...

One day, at the tender age of 16, in the Borstal grounds, I was walking with a friend when a wolf whistle trilled from the balcony above.

I looked up and a geeky senior gave a big smile and said, "Haaaiiii ..." in that typical itch-ified male tone.

Needless to say, I was flabbergasted.

I mean I was an athlete at school. I played rugby and football, got into fights, smoked and generally all-round bad example to young children.

In short, I was the typical Aryan Malay kutu. (*translation - a Malay yob)

And this bookworm geek, with coke-bottle glasses so thick that he could hardly see through them, was saying that he finds me hawt?

I thought it must be some sort of mix-up (he was short-sighted, after all) but no.

By the next week, it was all over the school - Geeky had the hots for me.

That wasn't all - he took to playing sepaktakraw in the courts in front of my dorm every evening.

My mates found out from the seniors that he was trying to attract my attention - that sent them rolling on the dorm floor laughing like the insensitive pigs that they were.

So picture this - there was this geek, togged up with headband and all, looking really gawky while trying to do those heroic takraw acrobatics and everything on the court.

All that - just to impress me.

It was awesome.

Really.

The matter died out soon after, though.

Probably someone who knew me well told him that I'm liable to kick in his nuts if he tried taking it any further.

So I never did find out what it was like to actually have a boyfriend.

So there you have it - I've never had any gay experience.

But I know how it feels like - to be wanted by a man.

Even if he can't really see very well.

An Update

2008-03-26T12:36:00.008+08:00

*Y-A-A-A-A-W-N ...*

Uh ... hullo, peeps.

Nice to be alive again.

Sorry to be away for so long but then it's been a very intense month for me. Right up to the elections.

Then it was catching up with everything that was KIV-ed because of the elections; that took another ten days to clear.

It was so bad that the kids were temporarily adopted by Lady C's sister over the school holidays.

And it was so tiring that the first 48 hours of the four-day weekend I wangled at the end of it was pure flake-out.

But now I'm back and hope to have something wonderfully indecent posted up here soon. :D

In the meantime, here's something I found recently.

An anti-kepam kit ... lol.

2008-03-11T13:17:00.008+08:00

3,064 votes nothing to sneeze at

From the TIMEly correspondent

Kapar : It is not the PWTC, the plush venue where members of the ruling party loll in comfort while viewing election results, but it was no less, er, plush at the HAWT-ktv in the depths of Kapar, Kelang.

This "entertainment" centre, little-known outside a discreet circle of regulars, had for the past fortnight been converted into an elections operations centre - to the immense glee of its employees.

Ms Puta Madre, the expatriate South American manager said, "I've never seen the girls so excited about work before. The Pundak people are pretty much a vibrant bunch."

Asked to elaborate, she coyly replied, "Well, faced with mounting challenges, they never seem to deflate." Obviously meaning every innuendo.

On Saturday night, while the whole nation rocked to the sweeping tide that knocked off stalwarts like Toll-booth Samy, HAWT-ktv partied all night long as local hero YB Wak Cipan racked up the highest number of votes ever in the (short) history of the party.

TIMEly has an exclusive interview:

TIMEly: To what do you attribute this success?

"Oh of course everyone worked hard and I had solid support from my family including my relatives - all 3,063 of them."

TIMEly: That was all family?

"Hey, it's not easy to control your family, innit? Look at the Big Fella - he can control or not his family? I had to use all the perayus at hand.

You know we had to order extra lube - er, I mean lotion! Yes, lotion. And also extra protection."

TIMEly: From the sun?

"Yes, yes - and also the daughters and mothers and aunties, of course. Protection for everyone. Play safe, we always say ... YB Tigershow was very efficient in this aspect (referrring to the Pundak candidate in Bukit Bintang)."

TIMEly: Oh, uh, never mind. What about these rumours about you replacing Pundak president YB Pazuzu?

"No, no, no such thing lah. Why should I? My father, God bless his soul, always told me that the highest position in any structure is the lightning-rod. I don't like kena lightning woh."

TIMEly: Fair enough - we're very much impressed with your performance, elections-wise, how do you do it?

"Oh well, that ah ...? I had this friend who introduced this special coffee, you see ... it's called Kopi Kucing Galak (trans. "Frisky Cat Coffee") ... yeah, all the way from Terengganu - works just like that - oh, you mean the elections ... well, I think the campaign song had a positive impact ..."

TIMEly: Campaign song?

"Yeah ... it's pretty catchy ... Undi Lah Cipan, Undi Lah Cipan ..."

TIMEly: Oh, Bob Marley?

"Yeah, yeah ... Bob Marley is always popular here. In fact I think we'd done better if we had a different campaign song for the whole party - that Kathrika anthem was pretty good but I personally think we would have done better if we had adopted the Menuju Pundak song."

TIMEly: Oh ... how does that go?

"Menuju PUNDAK, Gemilang cahaya
Mengukir cita seindah rasa
Menuju PUNDAK, impian di hati
Bersama janji kawan sejati
Pasti berjaya di Malaysia Fantastik ...o ...yeaaah ...

Thank you, thank you ..."

TIMEly: Oh, that's the AF song ...

"See? Even you would have loved it. But our local anthem did the job for us here - some guys were saying that we would have done better if it wasn't for some dirty tricks from our rivals but I don't -."

TIMEly: Dirty tricks?

"Well, ya lor - nearly at the last minute there was this whispering campaign designed to woo the women voters to the ruling party."

TIMEly: How did that go?

"Barang Naik, Isteri Sayang ... but I'm happy to say it didn't really take off here in Kapar"

TIMEly: How come?

"It just doesn't have the same effect when an elderly woman candidate whispers that in your ear, innit? Even the men will probably pucat (trans. - "blanch") "

TIMEly: What about from the opposition parties?

"Same also, dirty b*ggers. There's the gaji cukup bulan, raya tengok bulan, undi pangkah bulan campaign, that was tougher to counter."

TIMEly: So what did you do?

"We came up with Datang Bulan, Mana Boleh Pangkah - it wasn't the best but it did work."

TIMEly: Thank you, YB for such insights.

"No problem - you want short-time, ah? Mummy Puta ... tiga-minit satu!!!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Kenapa anda patut undi Wak Cipan,

2008-02-29T18:36:00.010+08:00

Jika anda seorang pengundi dikawasan Parlimen P109 Kapar ...

Jika anda masih belum pasti siapa calon yang anda mahu ...

Maka sebelum anda membuat keputusan ....

Anda bacalah pantun empat rangkap ini ...

Perdana Menteri Malaysia memakai songkok ....

Tuan Guru Nik Aziz pula memakai serban,

Wakil terbaik mestilah local boy, iye kok?

Yang pakai blangkon* hanyalah Wak Cipan.

*blangkon = topi Jawa

UNDI LAH WAK CIPAN
Pemangkin Perpaduan Bersama

Iklan ini ditaja oleh Persatuan Perokok Gentel dan Gulong Selangor

Perjuangan Kita Bermula!!!

2008-02-25T15:04:00.012+08:00

(Mengikut irama No Woman, No Cry ciptaan Sdr Bob Marley)

No tempe, he'll cry,
No tempe, she'll cry,
No tempe, they'll cry,
No tempe, we'll cry!!!

Kau perlu tau, janji-janji ku
Pabila Pundak menang nanti
Kara -, kara-oke setiap malam
Di subsidi kerajaan.

Perayu comel, oh perayu kekar
Turut serta
Kita boleh ubah, masa depan kita
Beri kami undi anda ...

Undilah, Cipan
Undilah, Cipan
Undilah, Cipan
Undilah, Cipan

Persatuan Rasta SeMalaysia (PERAS), parti komponen PUNDAK,
mengiringi Wak Cipan (berkot tanpa cermin gelap) pada Hari Penamaan Calon.

Bila menang, kita berpesta!
Bila menang, kita berpesta!
Bila menang, kita berpesta!
Bila menang, kita berpesta!
Bila menang, kita berpesta!
Bila menang, kita berpesta!

Undilah, Cipan
Undilah, Cipan
Undilah, Cipan
Undi Lah Cipan!

A FOCKING BASTARD

2008-02-24T02:48:00.017+08:00

Football has been, and will continue to be, a significant part of my life.

My late dad was the inspiration to all of us in the family.

All of us boys played the game - all at various positions and me at right back (or wing-back, fullback? God knows what they call it nowadays).

But none of us ever reached the heights that our Dad did.

Me Dad played at centreback - and he was good enough to have played for Selangor in the days of the HMS Malaya Cup.

He even got a winners medal and made that position a somewhat hallowed one for us.

It therefore pains me to see someone, especially a so-called professional, who plays in this position commit an act that even Vinnie Jones would have thought twice about.

Especially when such an act, despite the protestations of this player's manager, was aimed at hurting an opponent.

This bastard, whose name I will not let sully this blog of mine, is the Birmingham City centre-back.

And a twat named Steve Bruce says this doesn't even warrant a yellow card.

And last night he made a studs-up challenge on Eduardo da Silva in the 3rd minute of the game.

The challenge trapped Eduardo's shin against the ground and proceeded to snap our Crozillian's tibia and fibula.

In short he broke both the bones in Eduardo's leg.

And pictures showed a bone shard poking through the flesh and stocking of the player.

Cesc Fabregas, who was closest to the scene, was almost moved to tears while other hardened professionals struggled not to vomit at the sight of his twisted limb.

It took more than eight minutes to treat him on the pitch before they moved him to the hospital.

Ambulance men were reportedly ashen-faced after treating him.

And Sky TV refused to show replays of the incident - deeming it too horrific.

Eduardo will not only miss playing for Croatia in the European Championship, but it is also possible that he will never play professionally again.

Here's what the bastard looks like.

Already his manager, Alex MacLeish, is protesting that he's "not kind of person".

But then, that's what some people would always say when someone's unmasked as a serial killer.

I don't want to kill this bastard, or cause him bodily harm.

But just like Arsene, I just don't want to see him on a football pitch again.

Ever.

Focking Bastard.

The Focking Bastard was actually grinning ...

http://youtube.com/watch?v=5bVmG92ykl0

--------------------------------------------------
Update:

Eduardo's wife is quoted as saying that only the fibula (outer bone) was snapped and the tibia is still intact. She also said there were no complications, so I'm hoping that's all true.

The Focking Bastard is still a focking bastard anyhow.
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Angry football fans (especially Gooners) - go and sign this. It'll make you feel better.

The Ban Martin Taylor For Life Petition