A Pressie From Pussie ...

... 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

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 ...

... 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

"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 ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 ...

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!