Author: jayasankarankk

OUT OF THE BAG AND ON TO THE ROAD 

I must confess I’m more a dog person than one of those cat types. 

It’s something most people readily understand. Dogs are unselfish creatures that simply ooze adoration every time it sees you. Every time, all the time. Or to put it another way, a dog is a nicer person that the average person. 

Cats are a different breed. They are fastidious creatures that allow us the pleasure of their company, we don’t own them. And they’re calculating as all hell, always giving you that measured, what’s-in-it-for-me look.

In fact, they can sit and regard you silently for ages, which can creep you out until you realise it’s wondering when Moron’s going to open the door so it can go out! 

Cats are, apparently, the only mammals that cannot taste sweetness which is why they walk around with a perpetually superior attitude that vacillates between condescension and hauteur. Man has diagnosed it as a disagreeable expression which is how the term sourpuss evolved. 

You might say I’m a tad prejudiced against the species. That’s why I was pleasantly surprised to read about a cat that traversed almost the length of the United States – from Wyoming to California – and lived to tell the tail.

When Benny and Susanne Anguiano planned a camping trip to Yellowstone National Park with their two cats, little did they know that catastrophe lurked around the corner.  

The term could also be applied to one of their cats. It isn’t clear if Islamic law mandates a public flogging for cat owners who name a cat Rayne Beau – pronounced “Rainbow” – but I guess there’s no rest for the hoity-toity. 

The couple plus their two cats arrived at Yellowstone’s Fishing Bridge RV Park on June 4. It was the first trip to the forest for the two cats. On hindsight, this might have been a mistake and a pre-trip briefing to the felines might have been in order. 

It wasn’t done and, sure enough, Murphy’s Law prevailed. Soon after they arrived, Rayne Beau got startled and ran, panic-stricken, into the nearby trees.

The couple looked for him for four days, even laying out his favourite treats and toys. When they finally had to drive back to Salinas, California, on June 8, Susanne Anguiano said she was “crushed” but nevertheless, had this feline.  

“We were entering the Nevada desert and all of a sudden I see a double rainbow. And I took a picture of it and I thought, that’s a sign. That’s a sign for our rainbow that he’s going to be okay,” she said. 

The reader  would do well to question Ms Anguiano’s smoking habits at this point, but she was, apparently, dope-free and dead serious. 

In August, the Anguianos received amazing news. A  microchip company messaged them that their cat was at the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals in Roseville, California. That’s almost  900 miles (1,448 kilometers) from Yellowstone and only 200 miles (322 kilometers) away from Salinas.

A woman saw Rayne Beau wandering the streets of the northern California city fed him and gave him water until she took him to the local SPCA.

The next day, the Anguianos picked up the cat, 

“I believe truly that he made that trek mostly on his own. His paws were really beat up. Lost 40% of his body weight, had really low protein levels because of inadequate nutrition. So he was not cared for,” Susanne Anguiano said. 

For all that, the cat only lost 6 pounds.

The cat couldn’t understand the fuss. All it wanted to do was to sleep after changing its name. His new moniker is Beau Legged for obvious reasons. 

Now isn’t that a pawsome story? 

ENDS 

BEWARE THE VILLAGE IDIOT 

Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were running for President, but I repeat myself. – With apologies to Mark Twain

I’m not sure if you guys watch The Graham Norton show because it’s great and you should.

We recently watched it just in time to catch Charlie Sheen launching into a Donald Trump story. 

Sheen was at a restaurant meeting his in-laws for dinner when the Donald came over to apologise for not making the wedding, which was curious to Sheen as he’d not been invited. 

In any case, the soon-to- be-President grandly whipped off his cuff-links and presented them to Sheen as a belated wedding gift, noting airily they were genuine Harry Winstons and studded with diamonds. They were also stamped DJTRUMP for good measure. 

The gesture floored the whole table, probably its intended consequence.

Fast forward a year and a valuer had just finished with some Sheen heirlooms. She was leaving when Sheen remembered the cufflinks. 

It took the appraiser all of four seconds to recoil, shuddering. “Cheap pewter and even cheaper zirconia,” she declared. 

Why would a self-professed billionaire do something like that? 

Why indeed? 

The man was always weird but, in his dotage, he appears to have become “mystifying” much like TS Elliot’s Macavity the Mystery Cat. 

Don’t repeat that. 

Too late! 

Just then, Al Stewart’s Year of the Cat came on the radio and the Donald just intuited it. Call it his stable genius or what you will, the man had it in spades. 

He’d gotten it and knew he was right. Macavity was yet another morsel on the menu of the malefic migrants who’d taken over Springfield, Ohio. Yep, those horrible Haitians were now eating the hamlet out of its pets, ducks, and geese. 

“Jeez,” exclaimed Kamala Harris in disgust and wondered, yet again, how a man so profoundly stupid, so morally bankrupt, could be considered Presidential material?

This was the fellow who incited an insurrection to overturn the 2020 election, who seemingly acquiesced with the mob’s resolve to “hang” Mike Pence, his deputy of four years; and who watched the whole, ghastly drama on TV for three hours without doing anything.  

He’s also the fellow who now promises he’ll pardon the “hostages” (the jailed members of the mob) when he’s President. 

Yet, it isn’t held against him. He is, instead, once again the Republican candidate for President. It makes you wonder about the minds among the great, unwashed masses of the Land of the Fee and the Home of the Knave.  

As for the rest of us, let’s put it this way: there is a charging rhinoceros bent on retribution out there and the only one in its way holding the tranquiliser gun is Kamala Harris. 

So far so good. I watched part of the debate and thought he was dismal, scowling and rising to her bait. In contrast, she was smiling, appearing to enjoy herself. 

Even Fox News conceded he lost. Moreover, the polls are beginning to indicate that she is pulling away. 

The problem with Trump is that he must have stopped at least once to think and just forgot to restart. 

He’s gotten by with inanity and confident procrastinations ever since. While President, he promised to replace Obamacare with a better plan “in two weeks.” 

That’s the line now, eight years later, except it’s changed to “concepts” of a plan.

He thinks that’s rope-a-dope. 

It’s him, just your average, ordinary, village dope.   

ENDS

GROWING OLD LESS THAN GRACEFULLY 

Instant gratification takes too long. – Actress Carrie Fisher 

The idea is to die young as late as possible – Moral to live by 

Who’s the nitwit who came up with the notion of old age as something romantic and bittersweet? Who conjured up the vision of grandpa and grandma walking hand in hand towards a glorious sunset, against a backdrop of heavenly chorus and a thousand violins?

If you still don’t know what I mean, I refer to the poet Emerson: “The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddle.” 

Bah, humbug and claptrap, I tell you! 

When I was young, I used to spring out of bed like Bertie Wooster, with a song on my lips and joy in my heart. Nowadays, an unintended spring in one’s step is generally a harbinger of cramp. 

Nothing’s the same anymore. An affair of the heart these days might be, at best, heartburn.  Worse, it could mean a bypass in which case the only one with a song on his lips and joy in his heart is the surgeon. 

Irony abounds. When I first graduated, I was sent to a state hospital to run its biochemistry lab. But because all the technicians were older than me, I grew a beard to appear more mature than my years. 

Unfortunately, the plan got nixed by my then-girlfriend who declared that if she wanted that sort of thing, she would have dated a gorilla. 

Life’s unfair. If I suddenly decided to sprout some facial foliage now, for example, gorillas would probably flee screaming into the night. 

In her old age, my wife has become slightly dictatorial. Example: she signed me up with a fitness instructor without my knowledge.

The guy is seriously buff. I mean, even his ears have abs. He also has the heart of a Heinrich Himmler because he does not realise I’m at that age when taking a nap after lunch ranks right up there with One of Life’s Pleasures. 

But my instructor looks on these things with the horror of an un-scrubbed surgeon. Afternoon naps after food guarantee increased body weight, he declares with the rectitude of a killjoy who knows he is not only right but has God on his side.

Now, I feel aches and pains in body parts and muscles I had no idea I possessed. But I’m told I’m now bursting with fitness, health and vigour. 

Endorphins are positively coursing through the old bloodstream, but you won’t see me ecstatically kicking up my heels any time soon. 

Indeed, if I get any healthier, it may be too much. There’s only so much pain a body can bear. 

In short, growing old sucks and there’s no getting out of that. Or as Woody Allen observed: “Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering…and it’s all over much too soon.” 

Even so, there are benefits along the way.  More often than not, there’s the good drink, the great meal and the belly laugh amid the company of friends. 

There’s the love of a relationship or the sudden nostalgia generated from the smell of freshly cut grass. There are the memories that can trigger a smile, or a tear, amidst the flotsam and jetsam of a life well-lived. 

Time marches on over our faces and much of everything else. But we should not complain: when you don’t have a leg to stand on, it’s best not to kick.

The alternative does not bear thinking about.

ENDS

IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED, TRY, TRY A GUN

I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones – Albert Einstein   

The schools are safe in the United States. It’s the people there that are scary. 

On Wednesday,  yet another school shooting happened. 

 This time, it was in Apalachee High School in Georgia; a 14 year-old teen shot and killed two of his classmates as well as two teachers.

School shootings are a shockingly regular occurrence in the US, where guns outnumber people and regulations on purchasing even semi-automatic assault rifles are lax.

Every year, more than 4,000 children and teens are shot and killed and over 17,000 more are wounded.

No other country in the world would tolerate such insanity, where sending your child to school might mean playing Russian Roulette with their lives.  Indeed, any self-respecting nation would attempt to change things: New Zealand springs to mind. 

There is something fundamentally  flawed about a society that’s known these numbers for years but does nothing about it. I mean, in the face of  overwhelming evidence to its detriment, the Second Amendment continues to  be a sacred cow. Given the country’s gun violence, the right to bear arms sounds only slightly less asinine than the right to arm bears. 

Why not a middle ground, you ask reasonably? 

Nope. Even basic common sense legislation like universal background checks for potential gun-buyers, is virulently opposed by the National Rifle Association, an extremely well-funded lobby group that ensures political compliance. Its credo to live by goes like this: “I’ll give you my gun when you pry it out my cold, dead hands.”  

Incidentally, numerous polls indicate that background checks are supported by a vast majority of US citizens. The NRA could not care less. 

You might say the NRA gets pretty much what it wants. Or, as they say in Washington: “If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.”

Perhaps America was always bloodthirsty. It was Thomas Jefferson who observed: “People who beat their guns into ploughshares will plough for those who don’t.” The corollary to that must be: “Those that live by the sword get shot by those that don‘t.”  

It was another American, Al Capone, who famously said; “You’ll go much further with a kind word and a gun than with a kind word alone.” 

Or as Rush Limbaugh, a thoughtful, writer much admired by Donald Trump, sagely advised President Ronald Reagan: “The only way to reduce the number of nuclear bombs is to use them.”   

Aesop was the Greek slave who made up over 500 fables. He was also renowned for coming up with this trenchant observation: “We hang the petty thieves and elect the great ones to public office.”  

He could be talking of Najib Razak. Or Donald Trump. 

In those days, the Watergate felons were charged with perjury and  obstruction of justice. Things have certainly changed: nowadays that’s just your average, routine, run-of-the-mill Trump press conference. 

You might think he is an optimistic fellow. He isn’t worried about a 3rd World War at all. As far as the Donald is concerned, that is a Third World problem and not America’s to worry about. 

The Donald only worried about the big picture and it didn’t get any bigger than winning the Presidential race this November. 

Because only the winner got to decide what was criminal and what wasn’t.

It didn’t get any bigger than that. 

ENDS

GOING GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

I am about to take my final voyage, a great leap in the dark. – Philosopher Thomas Hobbes

The military has sought to glorify it, poets and lovers have romanticised it, and science has attempted to explain it. 

But it’s out there, the unmentionable that remains forever inexplicable. It’s the ultimate final frontier, a debt we are all owed. And it is an enduring irony that its cause is birth itself. 

We are, of course, talking of death. 

It has been described in myriad fashion, the best of which must surely belong to the French. They described an orgasm as la petite mort (the little death). The expression describes the weakening or loss of consciousness following climax. 

If that’s how it goes, methinks everyone will be for it. 

Woody Allen thought the same way. “Sex is like death,” agreed the American film-maker, “only after death, you don’t feel like a pizza.”

You could tell US actor George Gobel took his hard luck stories to the limit: “I’m the kind of guy who’ll have nothing all my life and then they’ll discover oil while they’re digging my grave.” 

Malaysian politicians should take note of Benjamin Franklin’s advice: “Death takes no bribes.” Actor Frank Dane must have seriously disliked politicians because he  thought the death of any politician should be listed under ‘Public Improvements.”

Ruminating on people who’d passed away, actor Bill Murray mused: “A few decades ago, we had Johnny Cash, Bob Hope and Steve Jobs. Now we have no Hope, no Cash and no Jobs; please don’t let Kevin Bacon die!” 

The strangest final words by anyone have to belong to Australian pilot Frederick Valentich. In 1978, he reported to Air Traffic Control he was “being pursued” by a purported Unidentified Flying Object. His last words sounded scared: “It is hovering, and it is not an aircraft.”

Neither Valentich nor his plane were ever found.

The American author William Saroyan was quizzical on his deathbed: “Everybody has to die but I always believed an exception would be made in my case.”  

Terry Keith, the founding member of the band Chicago didn’t know it was to be his last words when he reassured his girlfriend about the gun he was cleaning; “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.” 

Apparently, you should also never say never. Consider the English statesman Lord Palmerston who felt outraged after his doctor said his heart was so weak he could go anytime: “Die? My dear Doctor, that’s the last thing I shall do.” 

It was the last thing he did. 

Scriptwriter Stan Laurel’s bark could never be effected: “If anyone cries at my funeral, I’ll never speak to him again.”  

I’m not sure who said this, but it sure conveys a whole host of emotions. “I want to die like my grandfather, peacefully in his sleep, not like the other screaming and panicked passengers in his car.” 

Oscar Wilde was witty right to the end. His last words: “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. Either they go or I do.” 

Surprisingly, so was convicted murderer James French, albeit in macabre fashion. While being led to the electric chair, the convict yelled out to the assembled press: “Hey fellas. I’ve got a headline for your paper tomorrow. “French Fries!”

Peter Pan called it the “next, great adventure.” But what has fascinated mankind throughout the ages is its ineffable mystery: the knowledge that must lie out there. 

Why would Steve Jobs have muttered what he did when he was about to pass? Ministering to him as he lay on his deathbed, Jobs’ sister distinctly heard her brother breathe: “Oh Wow. Oh Wow. Oh Wow.”

I wonder what he realised.

ENDS

TRUST BUT VERIFY

Going to war over religion is basically just killing people over who has the better imaginary friend – comedian Richard Jeri 

I studied history in high school and took the story of the Malacca Sultanate for granted. That included the Sultan’s four brave hulubalang (warriors) led by the redoubtable Hang Tuah. 

In my adulthood, all sorts of new theories have emerged. For starters, it was posited the four were Chinese sent by the then-Emperor to protect the Princess: then it was said they were eunuchs, the better not to be tempted by the fair Princess during the long voyage to Malacca. Finally, Khoo Kay Kim, an Emeritus Professor of History no less, dismissed all these theories as bunk and stated the four were myths, nothing more and nothing less.

That is to say they only exist in the minds of wishful-thinking, kris-wielding, slogan chanting, right-to-discriminate-believing, and card-carrying members of the United Malays National Organisation. 

That’s belief for you. One day, you’re brought up to trust George Washington never told a lie; the next you’re grown up, exposed to Donald Trump and the belief gets finessed to Farmer George never lied, stole or cheated unnecessarily.

Richard Dawkins is a militant atheist. The author of The God Delusion gets annoyed or impatient with the “deluded” people who believe in an omnipotent,  omnipresent and omniscient Power, a Creator, if you like. He thinks that’s moronic and, what’s more, believes it with the certitude of a Flat Earther. 

To say Mr Dawkins is dogmatic is to understate things considerably. To him, an absurdity would be a belief or a finding that is manifestly at odds with his opinion. He’s more in the mould of Sam Goldwyn: “If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you.”

When interviewed by Piers Morgan on British television and asked what he thought was waiting for us post-death, he replied famously: “Blind, pitiless indifference.”

In short, nothing. 

He was talking about the unknowable so he secretly must have hoped, when his time came, that the Lord would do nothing to disturb his disbelief.  

He should have been prudent like Bob Hope’s reason for doing benefits for all religions: “I’d hate to blow the hereafter on a technicality.” 

When it comes to the crunch, however, God is alive and well. So long as there are wars anyway. Why do you think there are sayings like, “There are no atheists in foxholes.”

When it comes down to it, the debate could be much ado about nothing. Or, as Woody Allen put it: “To you, I’m an atheist; to God, I’m the Loyal Opposition.” 

Donald Trump hated any opposition, but he especially hated the liberals. They sometimes felt unworthy of their possessions, but he firmly believed he deserved everything he’d stolen. 

He also thought Thomas Carlyle – “A lie cannot live” – was a wimp: he clearly didn’t know how to lie with aplomb. 

Finally, like Dorothy Parker, he didn’t care what was written about him as long as it wasn’t true.   

If he’s not careful, the Donald’s economic use of the truth could follow him to posterity.

It actually happened to one lawyer: his wife must have wanted the world to know his true nature because his tombstone gave it away.

Sleep Master John Gill; By lies when alive, this attorney did thrive, And now that he’s dead, he lies still.

ENDS

ALWAYS TAKE THE WEATHER WITH YOU 

The world is full of strange phenomena that cannot be explained by the laws of science or logic. Hadi Awang is only one example

It’s cool this morning. In fact, the Kiara hills outside our apartment are cloaked in mist. 

OK, Siri says it’s a 28-degree morning and accounting for winds, a person accustomed to daily 32-degree swelters might consider it a chilly day.  

On mornings like this back when I was working, I used to wish it was a holiday. It’s grounded in science too: bodies in motion tend to remain in motion while bodies at rest – on a cool morning no less – tend to remain in bed. 

OK, I digress but if you think I’m exaggerating about the chill, three days of this weather in Singapore is, officially, “sweater weather,” ergo  the prudent make a beeline towards Uniqlo where long lines of palm-blowing shoppers have already gathered.

My daughter, Raisa, wishes Malaysia was cooler. 

Although born and bred here, she’s been living in Europe for over a decade, and it shows. Beads of sweat pop out on her forehead the minute she steps outside KL’s airport. It necessitates a mighty effort from the car’s air conditioning to reach a sufficiently Artic equilibrium to satisfy her. 

But she snaps back quickly and is acclimatised in no time at all. I suppose we all possess it to some degree. 

Example: Singapore is far more humid than Malaysia on account of it being an island, but we rarely sweat even when we walk. That’s unlike most tourists who sweat profusely and very obviously. 

In fairness, they might enjoy it. They would if they were, say, from Alaska where, because of climate change, the winters have become so cold even the polar bears are holding out for fur coats.

It’s interesting to observe things from another perspective. The English husband of my cousin visited our place the first time he visited Malaysia. A downpour ensued and he seemed fascinated by its severity. 

Then he walked into the deluge, and I was surprised to see him grinning, “It’s warm,” he said, delighted. He had the same reaction when he plunged into the sea off Langkawi. 

An American friend who’s been in Malaysia for over forty years once told me that he could no longer abide the cold, and he couldn’t think of living anywhere else. I knew exactly what he meant, and I share his sentiments.

I was in my 30s when I first went abroad for higher studies. It can get very frigid in New York, but it wasn’t so much the cold that bothered me.  It was the limited light.

Trudging to classes in the cold and dark at 4 in the afternoon is a grim prospect at the best of times. One suspects that man, like all life about him, not only needs the sun, he craves the sun. 

And yet, he is admirable because he has a tremendous ability to adapt. Consider the person who lives happily in Norway, the Land of the Midnight Sun, but where entire months go by in darkness.   

My daughter says she prefers the cold of Amsterdam.  So does my brother who lives in an even colder place, Connecticut. After Hurricane Sandy lashed America’s northeast, he sent me photos of his backyard. The snow had piled up to the top of his garage. 

Shiver Me Timbers! 

Now we might say we don’t want that but I remember most of my US classmates either gave me pitying looks or looked aghast when I said we had no seasons in Malaysia.  

They need the changes. “If (the weather) didn’t change once in a while, nine out of ten people couldn’t start a conversation here,” noted journalist Frank ‘Kim’ Hubbard by way of explanation.

It’s as good a reason as any.

ENDS

GOING BY THE BOOK 

For those of you who don’t know, Jeffrey Dahmer was the complete psychopath. Like Hannibal Lecter, he often dined on his victims. 

He was finally murdered by a fellow inmate in a US prison, which you might say was his just desserts. But if he ever wrote a book, it would probably be titled The Body Shop. 

OK, I made that up, but the following books are the real thing.  

David Benatar must have been a real misanthrope because he sounds like he really dreads life. His book is titled Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming into Existence. Avery Monson seems equally miserable because his is titled All My Friends Are Dead.

Meanwhile, Yoga Pants, Minivans and Selfies might give Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance a run for its money where book titles coming out of left field are concerned. 

And what would the Vatican have made of Christopher’s Moore’s Lamb?

According to the book’s sub-title, it’s the Gospel according to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. It’s a wry, often moving, take on Jesus’s lost years. It went on to become a serious best seller. 

The American Association of Patriots has actually come out with How to Talk to Your Cat About Gun Safety, while Judy Sheindlin seems embittered about something: Beauty Fades, Dumb is Forever. 

673126 – presumably his inmate number – is recruiting with How to Be a Drug Dealer, while Robert Rankin has the interestingly-titled Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls. Rankin has also got the killer Nostradamus Ate My Hamster and the sinisterly-named The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse.

Meanwhile, Paul Photenhauer seems to have a fixation with sperm. His two books are, respectively, Natural Harvest (a collection of semen-based recipes) and Semenology: A Semen Bartender’s Handbook. 

It may be best to avoid his parties. 

Ann Druffel has some practical advice – How to Defend Yourself Against Alien Abduction – while Marilyn Schwartz stresses the importance of a girl’s choice of sorority – A Southern Belle Primer: Why Princess Margaret Will Never Be a Kappa. Kappa, Gamma.  

Dr Stephen Larkin PhD has some surprisingly risqué advice: Beat Your Way to the Top – Masturbation as a Technique for Business Success.  

David Sedaris must have had Arnold Schwarzenegger in mind when he wrote Me Talk Pretty One Day. 

And no, it wasn’t Donald Trump who wrote Anyone Can Be Cool…But Awesome Takes Practice. It was Lorraine Peterson.

Apparently, anyone can do it. Goblin-proofing One’s Chicken Coop and Gnome-proofing Your Garden are both books by Reginald Berkeley. 

B Koz has a thing about being masculine. His books include The Manly Art of Knitting and 50 Ways to Use Feminine Hygiene Products in a Manly Manner. 

Theo Lorenz clearly has issues. Consider his Unicorns Are Jerks. 

Two women seem to have a thing about balls. One, Melissa Haynes, also has a death wish – Learning to Play With a Lion’s Testicles. The other, Mary Pierce thinks castration is the way forward – Goodbye Testicles.

Matthew Inman has some tips for pet owners in How To Tell If Your Cat is Plotting To Kill You, while psychiatrist Michael Bennett claims to have the answer to all problems – F@ck Feelings: One Shrink’s Practical Advice for Managing All Life’s Impossible Problems. 

And there you have it. 

ENDS

SCHOOLS JUST WANT TO HAVE FUNDS 

If you think education is expensive, try ignorance – Bok’s Law, a spin-off of Murphy’s. 

“What would you like Normie?”

Norm Peterson: “A reason to live. Give me another beer.”

As the wise- cracking, multi-chinned character in the 1980s American situation- comedy Cheers, Norman Peterson had few peers when it came to beer. 

One man’s beer is, alas, another man’s fear. And in the case of the Islamic Party of Malaysia, or Pas in Malay, it’s more like downright revulsion. Talk of a gale over ale. Now, even fund-raising for a Chinese school has become an issue!  

OK, it has to be conceded that it wasn’t presented in the best light. PAS got hot and bothered over a picture of a deputy minister accepting a RM3 million mock cheque displaying a beer logo at a fund-raising event for a Chinese school.  

So it wasn’t Time for a Tiger. But a donation is a donation. And education is an expensive business. That’s why there are sayings like “never look a gift horse in the mouth.” 

Vernacular schools in Malaysia – Mandarin and Tamil language schools – aren’t wholly funded by the government but receive grants that match the money they raise by themselves. 

In addition, there are, at least, 82 “independent” Chinese secondary schools that must raise funds wholly by themselves. 

That they have done so, since independence in 1957, is a testament to the importance the Chinese community places on education. 

Nor are these schools short on basic infrastructure. Indeed, many of them are cleaner and better equipped than their government counterparts. 

Which is why Chinese vernacular schools have developed a reputation for scholastic excellence, especially in STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics) subjects. It’s also why almost 20% of its present-day students aren’t Chinese. 

All these presupposes a pipeline of serious funding that isn’t allowed to run dry. And all donations are welcome, apparently. 

Over 10 years ago, I did a story about one such pipeline that assembled guilds and some of the country’s biggest tycoons. The money it raised would go into a trust that would flow in perpetuity towards vernacular education. 

I was invited to the dinner to celebrate its successful launch. The guests included some of the biggest magnates in the country including people from the gaming and entertainment industry. 

And why not? Education is increasingly getting expensive. The Islamic Party should note that 15% of national sports – from facilities and coaches to athletes and training – is funded by betting company Sports Toto, a legacy from its deal with the government after it was privatised in 1984.

Will Pas, or anyone else, make a song and dance about that?  It’s for a good cause and it’s not that different from a church where all donations are gratefully accepted without question. In fact, there is a Hebrew proverb that goes “a rich man has no need of character.” 

All this questioning over a brewery’s donation is a waste of time, a fuss over nothing, and a tempest in a tankard. It’s like Norman wandering into Cheers and being confronted by the bartender’s question. 

Woody: Can I pour you a beer Mr Peterson?

Norm: A little early isn’t it, Woody?

Woody: “For a beer?”  

Norm: “No, for stupid questions.” 

ENDS

WHAT’S IN A WORD?

The English language throws up occasional oddities that can be vastly entertaining.

There is, for example, the malaprop which takes its name from a character (Mrs. Malaprop) in an 18th Century play by Richard Sheridan. The lady frequently misspeaks (to great comic effect) by using words that do not have the meaning she intends, but which sound similar to words that do.  

It’s since been taken up to an art-form by Archie Bunker’s character in the 1970s sitcom All In The Family. 

It wasn’t always Archie though. There was this witness who swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth as “Bob is my witless.” 

Even so, you might say Archie didn’t often make sense: “If my dead father was alive to hear that, it would kill him.” 

He certainly didn’t like feminists: “Most of ‘em  have more hismones than hermones.”  

Or theology: “You’d think I was Lazarus rising from the bed. And he was firmly against Eyetalian food because “it causes garlic stones.”

Then there are misspokements, an American word to describe an amusing, unintended verbal gaffe – as in “I remember your name perfectly but I just can’t think of your  face.” This was from US academic Herbert Spooner, thereby creating the first Spoonerism. He also said “a well-boiled icicle” when he meant “a well-oiled bicycle.” Many have followed in its wake since: “Talk of the black calling the kettle pot.” 

US Presidents were often guilty of slipping up. “Status quo, you know, that is Latin for the mess we’re in” (Ronald Reagan). Or, “I’m surprised, frankly, at the amount of distrust in this town, and I’m sorry it’s the case, and I’ll work hard to try to elevate it.”  (George W Bush who had a special category – Bushisms – created just for him.)

Perhaps there would not have been an Iraq problem had the President only listened to where his Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld thought the weapons of mass destruction were. “We know where they are: they are in the area around Tikrit and Baghdad, and east, west, south, and north somewhat.”  

Mr. Rumsfeld took pride in being as clear as the Mississippi in flood. 

The film producer Sam Goldwyn was a legendary artist at  misspoken sentences. “Coffee isn’t my cup of tea,” ranks right up there with the best of them.  Or his view on the frugality:  “Spare no expense to make everything as economical as possible.” 

The undisputed giant among all these names was Yogi Berra, a baseball player and manager whose malaprops, non-sequiturs and nonsense sentences, said in all seriousness, made him a press favorite. 

“I guess that’s the earliest I’ve ever been late” – on punctuality

“The towels were so thick there, I could hardly close my suitcase” – on his hotel room.

“Yeah, what paper you write for, Ernie?” – after being introduced to Ernest Hemingway   

“How long have you known me, Jack?…And you still don’t know how to spell my name?” – on receiving a cheque made out to Bearer.

“And they give you cash which is just as good as money” – after doing a commercial. 

“Shut up and talk” – ? 

ENDS