Kill Them Young

And yet another scare tactic has been prescribed for infanticide and baby-dumping. If the Women, Family and Community Development Ministry has its way, the cases would be classified as murder and attempted murder respectively. This comes in light of yet another baby discovered dead floating inside a sewage tank in Jeli, Kelantan. While I am for sterner actions against those who dump and allow their baby to die, I still think this has to be a multi-pronged approach.

Condemning these young ladies to death, in my opinion, is not the answer. It is true that what they do is horrendous and unthinkable, but why are we stereotyping them as if what they do is purely out of fun with little regard for values? Meting out such punishments may pose as a deterrent for would-be reluctant mothers, but to blame them alone, having them to face the music for something that is the result of a shared communal responsibility.

If you drive around late at night, you will see that the roads are being roamed mostly by the underaged. At mamak shops, you see school-aged children happily puffing away on cigarettes or its unfiltered equivalent – the Shisha (Hookah to some) and this goes on until the wee hours of the morning. You see boys and girls riding motorbikes in housing estates at these hours without helmets and so on. My question is, where are the parents? Parents often leave their children to wander around at night aimlessly thinking “If I don’t see them do anything bad in front of me, then they must be well-behaved” only to cry foul when their kids get arrested or shot dead in the middle of the night. Then they’ll go, “I know my child well! They are not criminals!” If you know them well, why didn’t you know that they’ve been loitering around at night when they should be at home sleeping or studying?

The lack of supervision and guidance at home is one of the reasons children grow up experimenting things they should not. And in this case, only the parents have themselves to blame.

Many young mothers also come from government housing scheme flats – two-bedroomed flats that could hardly fit in more than 4 people at any one time, to cater for a family of at least six. There is little privacy at home and there are no facilities for the youths built anywhere near. The most they would usually have is a playground that is strewn with rubbish, broken slides, swings and see-saws; but nothing else for those above the age of 12. So, where do they go for entertainment? Hang around with kids their age, and soon one will bring a packet of cigarettes to be shared amongst them. This bad habit will soon progress into something else with gangsterism and drug-addiction at the apex of this evil pyramid. Being naturally anti-establishment, these youths will soon have their own territory and the girls, wanting to be part of the gang, become the gang’s ‘assets.’ You think this is a far-fetched theory? Back in 1991 I personally had to help a friend who was also my subordinate to look for his missing 14-year old daughter, who joined one of these gangs at one of the Bandar Tun Razak flats. He was stationed with me in Penang while his wife worked night-shifts in Balakong to supplement the family’s income. With the help of other members of my squadron, we rescued her from a budget hotel along Jalan Alor in Bukit Bintang after four months of tracking her down. Was she thankful? No. She went missing again a month later.

A screwed-up approach in religion is also another culprit to be blamed. We are so bent on punishing people for the bad things they do that we tell them that God does the same, too. How often do we hear warnings such as, “God will cut off your hands if you steal” or “Cut off your tongue if you lie” or “He will hang you by your hair and burn you in hell for not wearing the tudung”? God is always portrayed as being God the Merciless. Whatever happened to God the Merciful? Can’t they instead say that God loves those who abide by His books and live the way of life that has been prescribed? Heaven and Hell are intangible. No one gives a damn about Heaven and Hell because they cannot see it. Before telling them about God’s love, show them love and guidance instead. We never show love to youngsters, that when they get pregnant, we shun them. If they get out of jail we shun them. We are more sensitive about what people would say about our family than placing importance on keeping the family unit together as one. Where are these people to go if they are not allowed to return to their own home?

How many of their children actually roam around stateless? It is so difficult to get a birth certificate because these children were being born out of wedlock and would be even more difficult for them to be registered in clinics, hospitals and schools. Why can’t the government think about this? A birth is a birth be it illegitimate or otherwise. Everyone is entitled to his/her birth certificate to show that they exist on this earth.

I cannot imagine when one of these mothers who have been living life unguided and is confused, is being condemned to death. I don’t think the first thing they wanted to do was to kill their child, but what other choices do they have other than to abandon them or kill them to stifle their cries? Have we ever given them a way out?

For every dead or abandoned baby that is discovered, for every young reluctant mothers we condemn, we destroy ourselves bit by bit.

Don’t Leave Home Without Brain

I sit here in my room, my mind numb as it suffers from having to read a plethora of stupid political issues day in, day out. The ignominy fence-sitters like I have to experience, reading about immature power-crazy politicians, and the comments made by their equally imbecile supporters on online social networks crying foul over every single thing the government of the day does. Every single excruciating whimsical cry pierces through my sanity that I wish I could just bitch slap each and every one of them on a daily basis for tormenting my soul.

Then there’s Ramadhan…

Then somehow virtually everyone becomes religious, starts talking about religious stuff; previous profile pics of clubbing scenes were immediately replaced by pics of the blond hair being fully-covered. I guess we love that – being seasonally-religious.

I guess it’s human to want to hope for something, up to the point of sucking up to other people’s ass and so on, as long as we can get some form of reward. And given a choice between two beneficial deeds, we would perform the one that benefits us most. Virtually every Muslim I know planned on what nights to attend the Tarawih prayers simply because there is a Hadith of the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) that lines up every single night’s reward for performing the prayer, even when it has been proven that the mentioned Hadith is false (Maudhu’).

A couple of weeks ago, Facebook status from users glorified the night of the middle of Syaaban (Lailatun Nisf min Shaaban). Everyone started fasting and suddenly everyone turned religious on that one day only, prayed as if that was THE night to pray and so on. Then they would quote Hadiths stating how special that day and night is, and that the revelation of the Quran was on that night; but when asked what is Nuz al-Quran if it’s not the night the Quran was revealed, the most they could answer was, “Oh, you are not a learned. Therefore, you should not ask these things.”

I may not be a learned but I know that God gave me a set of brain so I could weigh pros and cons, good and bad, logic and stupidity. Why the hell would God want you to pray five times a day when praying on a certain day equals to 10,000 prayers? All I need to do is pray on eight of this Syaaban day, year after year for eight years and I would have prayed the equivalent to my current lifetime! It’s a shortcut! And it is only human to love shortcuts! So, is that logical that there ought to be one special day to do a lifetime’s prayers? You have your brain, so use it. I am not going to answer that for you.

The Quran is there for you. But you should not just read it at face value. I do not see the point in memorizing the whole Book of God in its original language when I know jack what every verse is about, what the history behind the revelation of that verse was. For that reason too, I do not know why is Arabic made compulsory in schools for Malay/Muslims when I would rather have my children learn Mandarin and Tamil so they can grow up to learn about their Chinese and Indian brothers. What is this talk about being a Hafiz? About creating schools to churn out Huffaz? (Hafiz means ‘Guardian’ and Huffaz is its plural form). I doubt that every single Hafiz could memorize each word by how it was spelt in Arabic. But wouldn’t I be a Hafiz too, if I PDF the Quran onto a DVD and make thousands of copies? Children need to grow up as children; you can’t have them go to school in the morning, then have them attend religious studies in the afternoon, only to have them to be able to study and do their homework after all that! Even we adults feel exhausted after a day at the office. We are only better off because we do not have homeworks and exams like they do. After all, they already have religious studies class in school.

The problem with us is that all of us think we are better than God. When I was 16, I used to go out of my dormitory at night, especially on Thursday nights, hunting for house lizards, just because there was this tale that a lizard’s sound almost gave Muhammad away to the Quraisy who were after him. So, there I was with my friends all geared up for war against one of God’s supposed most-hated animal. The problem with that was, I once told myself,

“Wait! If God hates this creature so much, why is He being such a wimp, asking mortals like me to wipe out the world’s lizard population when He can wipe out the whole existence of what He created faster than I can blink?”

See, I have a brain to think with, to rationalize. Unlike some stupid cow-shit-for-brain Soldiers of God who went around petrol-bombing churches, decapitate non-Muslims, blow up innocent people be they Jews, Buddhists, Christians or fellow Muslims alike – ALL in the name of God, because to them God is such a penis-less being that cannot take care of His own divinity. These are people who say they are the learned ones but learnt nothing of the Quran.

So, that’s it. My first posting for this month of Ramadhan that until now has yet to have a title. Therefore, whatever title I decide to give it may or may not reflect the content of this posting at all.

To all Muslims, fast as you are told to, not because you seek divine rewards, but because you love to fast and not because you were told to, or because if you don’t then the person in the cubicle next to you is going to tell everyone at the office including the tea lady that you don’t fast.

You have a brain, use it.

Making A Life

The meeting I was supposed to attend is now probably into its first hour. However, I am still in bed. Life has been such a rush lately that I seem to have put more important things aside.

MY LIFE

Everything at the office have been moving at such a high pace, trying to complete in two months what the previous partner could not in two years, and at the same time having to hop between offshore platforms and doing other work I term as ‘normal’. My mind has been so preoccupied with work that I am more withdrawn now, grumpier, at times lost in my own world, and suffer from BLANK-OUTS – eyes open but don’t seem to register anything.

One episode of a blank-out caused my car to hit a post as I drove out from the office parking. I have yet to send the car for repairs.

I talk less to the wife and kids. And my work schedule made me miss seeing my children for a whole month. I had to make trips out of KL starting on weekends and away for a week or so. I get irritated easily, and things I am normally sensitive towards I now find petty. When I get home, I no longer make a stop downstairs to say Hi to the kids, or grab a cracker from the kitchen. Nowadays I just walk straight to the room and there I’d stay until I leave home for work the next morning.

And yes, my only meal yesterday was lunch. I have yet to have breakfast today.

And I have trouble sleeping at night. It is always that endless tossing and turning and finally sleeping at around 4am, only to wake up two hours later. The only time I got to have more sleep was when I was on board the rig recently – at least four hours a night.

Usually I’d call my kids daily. Now there has even been a long stretch of more than a week of not talking to them over the phone, even when I was away.

Don’t even mention about going diving. I cannot seem to find time in the near future to plan a trip. From next month onwards, I will be going to the rig every month, spending between 4 to 5 days on board. That translates into at least 7 days a month being away just for rig audit and inspection. I haven’t added other outstation trips I know I’ll be making, like doing audits and inspection at our forward bases in Labuan and Kemaman. The only consolation is I no longer have to look after the vessels. Just the drilling side.

I miss going out for movies, I think the last movie I watched was Michael Jackson’s “This Is It.” I miss driving around at night. I miss walking around with the wife aimlessly. I miss listening to laughter. I miss seeing my friends, not just the friends I made when I got to know my wife, but my friends – my dive buddies, my college mates, my Air Force squad mates.

In short, I miss my life.

I have been too busy making a living that I forgot to make a life.

Losing The Kith And Kin – Part II

This morning I felt upset with Wifey for pulling a long face. Then I saw tears well in her eyes. It frustrated me even more when I asked her what was wrong but received no satisfactory reply. After a few quiet moments, she said:

“I miss my grandma.”

Then I motioned her to come close to me and held her, thinking back to the day her grandmother passed away.

It has been 2 years and 4 days since her grandmother left us. And 12 years since the last set of grandparents of mine left us. Yet, lately I have been thinking a lot of them, and of friends I have lost along the way. My maternal grandfather passed away in February of 1998, a month before my expedition to the North Pole left Malaysia, while my maternal grandmother left us in September the same year. When they died, I lost the very two people whom had stood by me when I was down, and whenever the world seemed against me. And three months later, when I went for my minor pilgrimage (Umrah), I would perform the Umrah for them after completing the obligatory one for myself, for my paternal grandparents, my late uncle Ainuddin (my father’s younger brother who apparently played football together with my friend Renek’s father), my late Auntie Zahariah (my mom’s younger sister), and my late elder sister, Juliana. I did this every year for four years, culminating in my Haj pilgrimage in March 2001. At one point while still in Mecca, I dreamt of my grandmother, her feet covered in blood, trying to clamber up a hill after my late grandfather. She turned to look at me and asked me for help. I got up, went to the mosque and prayed for her.

Just a couple of weeks ago after having a bout of anxiety, I had a vivid dream of an old friend of mine, Jamsuri Hashim, who was the telephone supervisor at the then-Air Force Air Training Command HQ in Tanjung Bungah, Penang. We became so close that when I was going to marry my first ex, he became my spokesman. He had this banged-up white 1968 Volvo 144S, the kind you could see in P Ramlee movies. It was in that car that he, another late friend of ours and also my Warrant Officer Abd Rahman Said (Rahman Senget), my Flight Sergeant Zakaria Din, and I, would go in for late night Char Kuey Teow sessions at Tanjung Bungah. I last saw him back in 1996 or 1997 after he had retired, by that time his eyesight was about gone because of cataract. Rahman left us in 1996, apparently a victim of his ex-mother-in-law’s magic spell (I saw how he puked out a 6-inch corroded nail along with other crazy stuff) when he underwent traditional treatment.

In that dream, I traveled with Jamsuri inside his white Volvo to a food court. But instead of having food at the food court, he got some pre- packed Char Kuey Teow, laid down some newspapers for us to sit on, and there we were, having a picnic by the drain next to the food court talking about old times. I don’t know what the dream meant, but I remember telling him I had to get and and go, and when I woke up, my heart felt heavy and sadness engulfed me.

And this all brings me back to my mention of Heraclitus’s Panta rei in my previous posting of the same title mashed up with the interpretation by Plato:

Ever-newer waters flow on those who step into the same rivers.
Everything changes and nothing remains still.
We both step and do not step in the same rivers. We are and are not.

Power Off! Brakes On!

It is the order I would give to the jump-pilot prior to dropping my skydive students from the Cessna 172 aircraft from an altitude of between 4,000 feet to 6,000 feet above ground level. The jump-pilot would then put the aircraft in a slight dive, throttle back to idle, and apply the parking brakes. By this time the aircraft would be directly overhead the drop zone.

“Out!” I would signal the student who would in turn clamber out the aircraft, hands on the wing strut and one foot on the wheel. The aircraft would then be slightly upwind and I would then look at the student and shout, “GO!”

Five minutes later the student would be back on ground euphoric.

My first exposure to skydiving was when I followed my father when he opened the Benta Police Field Force (now General Operations Force) camp in Pahang in the late 1970s. Members of the crack police commando battalion, known as the VAT 69 or Komando 69, jumped off Cessna 182s using their GQ Parachutes. Then, during the 75th Anniversary of the Malay College back in 1980, members of the Army’s Special Forces Regiment (now Special Forces Group) jumped off an Air Force S-61A4 Nuri helicopter and sailed down using their Parafoil chutes.

My first jump was performed out of a de Havilland Canada DHC-4 Caribou one January morning in 1989 from an altitude of 1,000 feet above ground level using the KS T-10 static-line chutes. I did a total of seven jumps before qualifying as a paratrooper. I did a total of 52 static-line jumps both with and without combat equipment using both the KS T-10 and MC1-1BD chutes before progressing to freefall parachuting in January 1993.

Above Gong Kedak, on the Terengganu-Kelantan border in 1993
Above Gong Kedak, on the Terengganu-Kelantan border in 1993

On the upside, I became the stunt double for my friend, actor and former model Ridzuan Hashim, in the movie Lurah Dendam in 1995. It was during the shooting of the opening scene that I experienced my first cutaway when my parachute had a total malfunctioned.

Two years later, in March 1997, I was selected to represent Malaysia in the International Parachuting Competition held at the Phra Ram 6 Camp at Cha-Am, near Hua Hin, Thailand. 11 months later, I represented Malaysia as part of the parachuting expedition to the North Pole. I capped that by being the first Malaysian to perform a BASE jump and did that off the KL Tower on 3rd October 1999. In 2000, I was involved in the first Survivor series shot on location at Pulau Tiga off Sabah. My role was to drop an air cargo for the Immunity Challenge.

Landing at the North Pole at 1.48am, 21st April 1998
Landing at the North Pole at 1.48am, 21st April 1998

The cargo and back-up cargo for the Survivor series drop
The cargo and back-up cargo for the Survivor series drop

Me (right) en route to Pulau Tiga
Me (right) en route to Pulau Tiga

And along the way, I have had lots of students; including from the US, New Zealand, Japan, Singapore, India, Malaysia – and some are still in touch with me. They include my wife’s batchmate Rasidah Salleh (Course 07/2000) and Clement Thoo and Norikazu Kinoshita (Course 08/2000).

Rasidah (right most) after receiving her certificate
Rasidah (right most) after receiving her certificate

Clement Thoo upon landing at the Jenderata airstrip
Clement Thoo upon landing at the Jenderata airstrip

Nori receiving his certficate from Perak Aero Club's RFI, Captain Tony

The last time Rasidah, Clement and Nori jumped together was in June 2000 in Sitiawan during an air carnival. I could still remember how gusting and dog-legged winds blew most skydivers off the drop zone. But it was fun.

Sidah and Clement inside the Police Air Wing's Pilatus PC-6 in Sitiawan
Sidah and Clement inside the Police Air Wing’s Pilatus PC-6 in Sitiawan

Last night, after 10 years of leaving the world of parachuting, I met up with Clement and Norikazu (or Nori as we call him) again. Clement still works for a software company while Nori now works for a power plant west of Kobe, Japan. It was good to see them again. Both Nori and Clement quit skydiving not long after I did. Clement got hooked to riding big bikes before an accident put that aside. He now scuba dives as well. Nori left Malaysia in 2006 and both Clement and I have asked him to take a longer leave to take up scuba diving in Malaysia.

Clement and Nori at the Bangi Kopitiam, Wangsa Walk

Clement, Nori and I at the Bangi Kopitiam, Wangsa Walk

Yes, I miss skydiving, the freedom of “flying” through the air at almost 200km/h before opening the chute. I miss diving out of the plane and watch the ground rush up to me. But I would like to remember skydiving as that favourite sport for what it was, not for the politics involved.

And I would just like to remember that last jump I did over Dataran Merdeka for the Merdeka Fund fundraising, officiated by the then-Prime Minister, Dato’ Seri (now Tun) Dr Mahathir. It was from the Fire and Rescue Services Mi-17-1V helicopter, 6,000 feet above ground level. I was jumper number six. I leapt off the helicopter, face down, watching the AgroBank and Dayabumi rushing up towards me. I tracked for a while, increasing my vertical speed to beyond 200km/h before arching my body to return to terminal velocity, stable out and deploy my chute at 3,000 feet.

I shall never forget that feeling, the feel of the resistance of the air that I felt on my face, and that sense of freedom. And that is how I shall remember skydiving.

On finals at Mersing airfield in 2000

Racing Stripes

I have been so engulfed in work, firefighting here and there, and I know I will be doing so for at least another month before I would be able to take a breather. For more than a month, I have butterfingers, my concentration just about gone that I am unable to fathom what was said to me by anyone at all. Fatigue has taken its toll and my car has suffered for it. As I drove out of the basement parking lot, I slammed the side into a post, damaging the bumper. Eyda, a friend of the wife, told me to think of it as racing stripes. However, I am more inclined to think of the speeding tickets I’d receive, and the ones I’ll be receiving as my racing stripes. The only consolation I get after being burnt-out for the day is my wife’s cooking, or the things she makes me eat. It is almost an inconceivable thought that there are women who cannot cook.

Unfortunately, there are.

I had an ex who cannot cook at all. She can eat like a mammoth, but she was hopeless even at frying eggs. She would rather put her aunt through the trouble of cooking what she likes to eat, have them packed into a Tiffin carrier, and sent over to our house. With my horrible cooking skills, I would seem like Gordon Ramsay put next to her.

This is a busy world that we live in. Wives no longer assume just the responsibility of looking after the household – doing household chores; but women also go to work to supplement the household income (or to have more of their own money to shop so no one can say anything). Cooking is just another item on the long list of household chores that need to be done in a hurry each day after work. However, this applies only to those who can cook. What about those who can’t?

Female ineptitude in the kitchen, or a female being totally devoid of culinary skills are the results of upbringing or attitude towards cooking. Or perhaps, there is something intrinsic about it all. Fear of failure could be one – oh, what fun is it to be ridiculed by the mother-in-law, or the husband? But good cooks are those who take risks and learn from their failures! It’s part of Life’s 101! It is easy for me to dish out nasty male criticisms, but these women ought to know that to win a man’s heart is through the stomach! And if you have children, you want them to remember something about you, something for them to miss when you’re gone. I’m sure you would rather have them miss your cooking than be glad you’re gone because you were such a hopeless cook. And never mind being a plank in bed. If you’re a superb cook, he will come back to you every night and not stray away. Of course, if you are that dream-slut of his, you not only have him through his stomach, but have him by his balls too! Literally!

You can try dismiss this by saying, “Ah, I’m going to order takeaway/delivery every night from the most expensive restaurant” or “I’ll just turn gay and not marry or have kids.” But let me tell you this, I have a gay female friend who can cook and prepare food better than some wives I know. And I do cook once in a while, my style. At least every time I receive feedback on how crappy my cooking tastes, I’ll just cook the same thing again until I get it perfect. Let me tell you this, seeing the wife and kids enjoy my cooking is like eating two kilos of the best dish straight from the wok. And mind you, this is the father to seven children doing the cooking.

So, for you women out there who can’t cook, you will lose a lot. And you definitely have not earned your “racing stripes.”

Cheese Cake

My wife sent me a message asking me to buy some cream cheese for dinner tonight. I responded by asking her how does the package look like.

“I’m sure you’ve never bought cream cheese before,” she wrote on her message to me.

“Nope,” I replied.

“I’m sure your ex’s have never made you a cheese cake,” she asked.

“Cheese Cake? Never,” I replied. “One makes CORN CAKE with other people while the other makes cheese in her mouth and down there.”

As I Turn 44

This would be my 5th birthday post on this blog. I turned 44 today. I am overwhelmed with wishes on the phone and especially so on Facebook. I had this list of names of those on Facebook whom have wished me, thinking I could type them all here. Alas, the names ran into the hundreds. So, to those of you who wished me in any way and form, I would like to say a big thank you from the bottom of my heart. You know who you are.

So, what have I done for the past one year?

July 09

Delivering a speech before launching the vessel
I launched our company’s first offshore support vessel on my 43rd birthday.

Posing at 58 knots
Posed at 58 knots on board a Ultrafast Patrol Boat with Khun Sateeb

AUGUST 09

Wifey and I at 24 meters
Wifey finally becomes a diver

Attending NEBOSH
I attended what was the toughest short course ever…and passed with Credit while some failed

Diving during the fasting month
During the fasting month, we went diving at Tioman

SEPTEMBER 09

Eidul Fitr with the BP family
We celebrated Eidul Fitr in Batu Pahat

At Tulai island off Tioman
We went diving in Tioman on the 3rd day of Eidul Fitr

OCTOBER 09

Sailing to Bintulu
I spent 15 days offshore between Miri and Bintulu

Hana and Wifey off Tioman
And I took my daughter Hana to dive in Tioman before her SPM examinations

NOVEMBER 09

Wifey in Genting Highlands
I took Wifey to Genting after work for a surprise dinner date

DECEMBER 09

Ushering in MMX
We had a dinner at home with friends ushering in MMX

MARCH 10

Wifey with my photo
My photo was one of 42 chosen to be displayed at the National Arts Gallery

I attended two more courses
I attended two more courses back-to-back

APRIL 10

On Erb West Drilling Platform B
I went offshore again to do a platform inspection 80km offshore Sabah

Group photo at Sipadan
We went for our first trip together to Mabul/Kapalai/Sipadan

MAY 10

Shah and Wifey underwater
Shah took his open water diver’s license

JULY 10

Approaching PC4 drilling platform
I did another platform inspection 200km offshore Miri

Wifey watching Germany vs Argentina
Of course it was World Cup 2010 season too

As I turn 44
And this was me as I turned 44…

It has been a great year for me.

Play Ball

If you know London well enough, take a walk down the Mall; no, not a shopping mall, but Pall Mall. The name was derived from a mallet and ball game called Pell Mell or Paille-Maille that was a favourite game of King Charles II.

That, and badminton, are probably as English as games can get. Golf is Scottish while football (soccer to those who seem to think the World as we know it, lies in the North American continent) has been played for thousands of years by countless ancient civilisations. And in the modern context, the world would be watching one event every four years – the World Cup.

Since this blog came about, this is the second time that the World Cup is being held. And never in the dreams of both Dr Samuel Livingstone and Mungo Park would people from all continents converge onto South Africa to watch people battle it out on a pitch, country against country, tribes against tribes, and nobody dies. And it is during this month-long event, will one catch me watching football. Forget La Liga, EPL and what-nots. I just do not like to watch football.

Well, that statement above is NOT entirely true! Once upon a time, I used to watch Malaysians play football; and the Malaysian team of the 70s through the mid-80s was a force to reckon with. South Korea and Japan were nothing compared to our team. Hell, we even qualified for the 1972 Olympics! That was the epoch of Malaysian football. Somehow, the aspiration of players nowadays differs, and material gains are what drives the current players. I stand corrected but seriously I don’t think we can ever beat South Korea – ever again. I strongly believe I will never see the likes of Soh Chin Aun, Mokhtar Dahari, Santokh Singh, V Arumugam, Wong Choon Wah, ever again – not in this lifetime, judging by the way people play nowadays.

Therefore, I am so sorry when football officials make statements like, “We should support our local football teams.” I won’t waste my money watching people play worse than Seafield Estate United versus Castlefield Estate Rovers.

Unless someone has the guts and stamina to change the mentality of both the players and that of the officials of the Football Association of Malaysia.

Therefore, I shall enjoy the semi-finals and final games of the World Cup 2010, and not look forward to seeing Malaysia beat Red Star Belgrade ever again. Yes, we used to beat them too. And I used to enjoy watching football from on top of a FRU Truck, eating my cold One Ringgit Burger that a pedlar sold me. Those were the days of football at the Merdeka Stadium.

Oh, Seafield Estate is where UEP Subang Jaya (or more commonly known as USJ) is now, while Castlefield Estate is where the IOI Mall of Puchong is now. The football teams, however, are fictitious.

Anyhow, there is a joke on Facebook that’s going around that goes like this:

Three football fans died. A Japanese, A Korean and a Malaysian. They were all granted a question each to God.

“When can Japan win the World Cup?” asked the Japanese fan.

“In 200 years,” God replied, to which the Japanese fan cried.

The Korean fan then asked, “When, oh Lord, can the Korean team win the World Cup?”

“In 300 years,” God replied, and the Korean fan bawled hysterically.

Then the Malaysian football fan approached God.

“When will the Malaysian team win the World Cup?” he asked.

God cried hysterically.