WALKING ON THIN ICE

A self-made man is one who believes in luck and sends his son to Oxford. – Australian author Christina Stead

Life isn’t fair. Have you ever noticed that the implacable Gods of chance always pick you for a tax audit, but never to win the lottery.

And yet, for my friend Cletus, a golf match is always a test of his skill against his opponent’s luck.

That’s life. But, as always, man has never failed to come up with crafty solutions to stave off bad luck. One could touch wood, sprinkle salt over one’s left shoulder or stumble on a horseshoe. Better yet, one could do all three things in quick succession. In his epic Quatrain 666, Nostradamus guaranteed that the aforementioned practice would consign unlucky intent into oblivion.

That’s superstition for you, the belief that supernatural influences are just waiting to trip you up. But before you deem the belief irrational, remember Stevie Wonder made a lot of money out of it. Or that the song made keyboardists realise the clavinet could sound just as funky as distort on a  lead guitar. 

I only mention this because I read this morning that it’s Friday the 13th today, a news-flash that caused me to sit up sharply in bed, which is never advisable because it tends to knock one’s head against the bed post. Which, I suppose, is just as well as it’s made of wood, the bed post, that is.  

The fear of the number13 is so steeped in the human psyche that it’s crept into the lexicon: the word triskaidekaphobia was coined precisely to describe it.  

Its origins are shrouded in mystery but it’s generally believed to stem from the Christian belief that Jesus Christ was crucified on a Friday together with the attendant faith that13 people were seated together for His Last Supper.  

Perversely though, the day of his crucifixion is known as Good Friday which is surely an oxymoron. From all accounts, there was nothing good or mannerly about it. 

Asked what were the things he most disliked, the iconoclastic thinker, Christopher Hitchens replied “Stupidity, especially in its nastiest forms of racism and superstition.” Hitchens might be unduly harsh in his assessment and the truth is probably closer to what Bertrand Russell said: “Fear is the main source of superstition” because, I suppose, what we don’t understand we can make mean anything.   

And yet, there is something sinister enough about a black cat crossing your path to make the hairs at the back of your neck prickle. Especially if said cat suddenly stops to stare at you with a silent, murderous and baleful regard.

Of course, it may all mean nothing and we are simply letting our imaginations run riot. As Groucho Marx observed: “If a black cat crosses your path, it signifies that the animal is going somewhere.” 

Something surreal, however, happened on the day that the Islamic clergy-led state government of Terengganu announced it would not send its women gymnasts to take part in next year’s Malaysia Games. The reason: the sport required attire that were not courteous, not suitable and not sharia-compliant. 

At the very moment the announcement was being made, a black cat crossed the path of a workman who’d just spilled salt under the ladder of his counterpart, perched there to repair the thirteenth bulb of the thirteenth chandelier on the thirteenth floor of the Terengganu state assembly building at that very moment a mirror cracked in the men’s washroom on the floor. 

It was bizarre…

…You’re traveling through another dimension – a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind…

ENDS

A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES

You’d think Anwar Ibrahim would know better.

Malaysia’s premier was, after all, a former finance minister and a good one at that: he delivered two budget surpluses during his tenure. It’s never been repeated.  

He would have witnessed numerous government bailouts during Dr Mahathir’s tenure – from Bank Bumiputera to Renong – and he must have absorbed some lessons.

The Spanish philosopher George Santayana warned that “those who refuse to remember the lessons of history are condemned to repeat it.” That’s exactly what is going on in this case: a proposed purchase of a debt-strapped plantation company (Boustead Plantations or BPlant) by a well-managed plantation firm (KLK) that, in any other capitalist economy, would be as humdrum as waking up to smell the coffee. 

Except that BPlant is Malay and KLK, Chinese. And this is Malaysia where policymakers haven’t woken up to reality for the longest time. 

To understand the fuss, you have to appreciate the New Economic Policy, a 1971 initiative to redress the economic imbalance between Malaysia’s poor Malay majority and their “richer” Chinese counterparts. Its premise was fair enough: the Malays only owned 2% of national wealth then, a recipe for disaster.

When it began, the policy’s litmus test, was for the Bumiputera (Malay) to achieve 30% of national wealth. Over five decades, however, it’s become clear that it will never be achieved. Nor, I think now, was it ever meant to be achieved, the better to remain, forever and ever, amen. 

There are no estimates for the amount taxpayers have spent to uplift the community but it must run into the hundreds of billions. It’s 53 years old now but it’s still a work in progress. 

No one talks about the policy’s other aim – to  eliminate poverty, irrespective of race. Or its overarching aim – national unity.

Indeed, I’d argue the  policy’s implementation has been the single largest hindrance to national unity. Even a simple corporate exercise like BPlant’s, for example, can become tainted with suspicion. 

How does a heavily  indebted state-owned, but politically  important, firm resolve its situation without relying on market forces? 

The answer: the beggar-the-taxpayers approach, aka Bailout. It’s a tried and tested approach, set in stone by Dr Mahathir and continued by successive governments. 

It’s simple, expedient, and convenient.  The problem is much has changed over the last decade:

  • Our national debt is now over RM1 trillion;
  • Our subsidies are an unsustainable RM81 billion a year; and
  • Our pensions bill is escalating alarmingly.

I suppose we can always kick the can down the road, but that’s why we’ve reached this position in the first place. 

Now to the brouhaha. 

BPlant has RM800 million in debt which must be paid by year-end or face bankruptcy. That isn’t all: it has another RM600 million in debt left.  The matter is politically sensitive because of BPlant’s shareholders: Boustead Holdings and its parent, LTAT the military’s pension fund. 

BPlant also needs another RM600 million to cover replanting costs. 

To settle the problems, LTAT wisely put it up for sale by tender. There were six serious offers, the best being KLK’s. This was acknowledged by Boustead, LTAT and analysts alike.  

Indeed, KLK bent over backwards to demonstrate goodwill. Standout statistic: its offer of RM1.55 a share valued BPlant’s shares at 67 times forward earnings, expensive by any standard. In addition, both LTAT and Boustead were offered first dibs at two estates ripe for property development. 

It was win-win all round. But, scenting NEP-sacred cows being sacrificed, the opposition began lamenting the erosion of Malay corporate equity and the hits, as they say, just kept on coming. To a fragile coalition, it was enough. 

The deal got aborted. Nothing has been said about a bailout, but it would seem the expedient solution.   

If so, there are no winners, Not LTAT, not KLK, not Putrajaya, and certainly not Anwar. 

Do you think foreign investors are impressed?   

And you still wonder about the ringgit? 

ENDS

PARANOIA AND SURPRISE IN THE HEARTLAND

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. – US actor Buck Henry 

The writer Pat Conroy (The Prince of Tides) would have had no problems understanding Singapore: “I’ve always found paranoia to be a perfectly defensible position.” 

Most folk don’t think that way so you can imagine our astonishment when my niece, showing us around her home for the first time, casually remarked: “And that’s the bomb shelter.”

It was spacious, a reinforced concrete shelter capable of accommodating herself, two children, her six-foot husband, and their live-in helper, Mirabelle. 

It looked sturdy enough to withstand a Tomahawk strike. In the quiet of a Singapore evening, however, it looked like what it was: a storeroom along whose shelves were stacked canned food and kitchenware. 

“Most of my neighbours use it for storage space,” Anita said matter-of-factly: she lived in private housing along the island’s east coast.  She was clearly surprised by our reaction. I suppose she’d grown up with its reality and took it for granted. 

When Singapore was ejected from Malaysia in 1965, the separation wasn’t amicable. Lee Kuan Yew, the republic’s premier, described his principal threat perception then in succinct fashion: “We were a Chinese island in a Malay sea.”

The new state promptly turned to Israel for advice and, in short order, an army was created.

It’s been speedy and surprising ever since. The creation of a two-year, 

mandatory conscription program for able-bodied males followed and it’s grown exponentially. 

Separately, only Switzerland, Taiwan and Israel have similar schemes, although Israel includes women as well.

Bomb shelters in new HDB housing made its appearance then. It isn’t clear if that’s still being built but it may no longer be necessary.

It can be found all over the island instead. There are shelters in schools, HDB housing, MRT stations, community centres and most major developments.

Things have moved on. If reservists are called up, Singapore’s standing Army today would be larger than Malaysia’s, while its Air Force is probably the most sophisticated in the region.

On our way to dinner two weeks ago, we were startled by a waling klaxon reminiscent of the Battle of Britain: the noise was shocking. But the driver explained it was a drill, that the sound could be heard all over the island. “It’s a yearly thing so we’re ready for any emergency.”

Later I found out that the drill had been publicised over radio and television for days beforehand. 

Not since the Scouts! The republic clearly takes its LKY-isms seriously: “We don’t leave anything to chance.” 

Well, almost. 

During the 2011 Presidential election, Tony Tan, a former People’s Action Party (PAP) minister, won by 100-odd votes from three other credible alternatives, all Singapore Chinese as well. It was the proverbial skin of the teeth (SOTT) stuff.  

In 2017, the post was reserved for a Malay on the grounds that one hadn’t held the position since 1970. In the event, Halimah Yacob, a former PAP Speaker of Parliament, won by walkover: two other Malay candidates were rejected.

Last month’s election saw former deputy premier and PAP-linked, Tharman Shanmugaratnam face two opponents, both Singapore Chinese, and one of whom had helped build Singapore’s reserves to its current enormity. 

A humdinger was predicted, and all candidates were afforded publicity. My friends, including analysts I’d used in my media days, said it would be SOTT all over again.  

It was an anti-climax. 

Tharman won in a landslide getting a majority (over 70%) the PAP hadn’t seen in decades. 

It was surprising and, in the words of diplomat-lawyer Tommy Koh, “a triumph for multi-racialism.”

The city’s populace (77% Chinese) had transcended race to pick the sole non-Chinese candidate, the one they thought was best. 

It was astonishing.

Would that it might happen here in Malaysia?

ENDS

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL AS SWEET

He who can, does: and he who can change road names, will.

It appears to be the overriding credo of City Halls throughout the land. And why do they choose such difficult ones?

It’s like parents thinking up names for their first born, the easy-to-remember, non-embarrassing ones where their peers are concerned.  “I know, let’s call him Engelbart Humperdinck.”


In the first flush of nationalism after independence, it might have been due to a desire to be rid of colonial baggage. Move on to their replacements: equally obscure and long-dead royalty, politicians, businessmen, and the occasional murderer (Maharaja Lela, anyone?).

Seremban used to have two main roads: Birch Road and Paul Street. I have no idea what their current names are, but I vaguely recall that they were long, verbose and thoroughly forgettable. 

When I first came to Kuala Lumpur, the local guys at university would direct me around town by way of thoroughfares like Foch Avenue or Mountbatten Road. Alas, poor Foch and wretched Mountbatten: they’ve been consigned to the junkyard of the Victors Who Rewrite History.

Sometimes the reasons for changes are obscure, often inane. In 2014, City Hall changed the names of eight roads in Kuala Lumpur including previously simple ones like Duta and Ipoh. Their replacements were the wordy names of aristocrats complete with honorifics. 

Result: the only one who remembers the new street-names is Waze. One also doubts if City Hall’s intention – to inculcate reverence for royalty presumably – was fulfilled. 

I used to chuckle at the absurdity of Singapore street names like Orange Grove (in equatorial Singapore?) or Kay Poh Road (Hokkien for busybody), but I now respect that the city almost never changes its names. 

There is something to be said about continuity and tradition: places where both Grandpa and Grandson know. 

There has been no rush to name anything after Lee Kuan Yew after his death in 2015. He made the reputation of the city’s airport, but it remains Changi. Even New York changed the name of its airport to JFK after the President’s assassination in1963. 

There are, however, think-tanks named after two of the republic’s founding fathers: the LKY School of Governance and the S Rajaratnam School of Diplomacy. The latter was Singapore’s first Foreign Minister. 

Intriguingly, there is nothing significant named after Goh Keng Swee, arguably the architect of the city’s economic and defence policies.

He was given a state funeral when he died in 2010 but there is nothing named for him. Unless you count an eponymous cup in the Schools’ Rugby “C” Division! Keng Swee was an enthusiast of the game and pushed for it to be included in the schools and the National Service (the state’s compulsory, two-year conscription for able-bodied males).  

You must be wondering why I’m going on like this?

I’ve just read that Kuantan’s City Hall is proposing to rename several roads bearing the name of Wong Ah Jang, a prominent local businessman.

It was the British, after all, who named the roads after the philanthropist, and it has remained unchanged for seventy years.

Why change at all? 

ENDS

MUSINGS ON MALAYSIA 

“A bunch of money grubbing,’ greenhouse gassing, seal clubbing, oil drilling, Bible thumping, missile firing, right to life-ing, lethal injecting   hypocrites, whose idea of a good time is strapping a dead panda to a pick-up truck and running through a gay parade. – Comedian Richard Jeni, on the right-wing in the US. 

The many arguments against democracy can seriously unnerve you. 

Listen to Winston Churchill. “The best argument against democracy,” argued the great man, “is a five-minute conversation with the average voter.”  The actor Frank Dane was even more pessimistic – “Get the fools on your side and you can be elected to anything.” 

It’s enough to drive a man to drink. 

But as we approach Malaysia’s 60th birthday, we can take some heart in the fact that we haven’t quite reached the stage of missile-firing hypocrisy. 

Yet, we are a fractured nation, split between the political will and a religious won’t, a mutually suspicious, rural-urban chasm, and an East-West divide that could get implacable if not addressed. Presiding over this uneasy mix is a person determined to keep an unlikely coalition together by all manner of means.

It’s enough to give dirty politics a bad name.

And yet Premier Anwar Ibrahim has a lot going for him. Malaysia’s fundamental growth story is still intact, its resilient export-led expansion still sustained. 

Our education system can’t be all that bad because we continue to throw up entrepreneurs at a good rate. I know this because my wife has, for some years now, been on the EY panel that selects the country’s best. 

There’s a young guy, for example, who’s already the country’s largest vanilla producer and he grows it on small, high yielding, “intelligent” farms. Currently, Madagascar is the world’s largest producer, but it, allegedly, uses child labour, which is a no-no. 

Our boy doesn’t.  Which is why he thinks, that by expanding to East Malaysia, he will eventually secure 10% of world supply.

There is another who uses genetic sequencing to produce hardy and exclusively male prawn fry for sale to farmers: the male of the species is bigger. 

And yet another who fattens fly larvae by feeding them agricultural waste only to grind said fatties into protein for fertiliser and animal feed. On a large scale, it’s enormously sustainable. 

Tony Fernandes once told me that he was summoned to see Lee Kuan Yew the first time he landed in Singapore on Air Asia’s first flight. 

“He wanted to know what made me tick,” said Fernandes. “I replied that I thought it was because I was Malaysian.” 

Apparently, the old man gave him a hard stare, perhaps thinking he was being facetious. 

It may have been the truth. 

I’ve been in Singapore for almost five years, and I can quite unequivocally state Malaysians are far friendlier than their southern counterparts. Our dinner invites are almost entirely from Malaysians living on the island. The only exceptions have been a long-time friend and my niece. 

That is Malaysia’s true strength, the multi-racial, multicultural, experiment that’s so far been sustained by its people: the country of my childhood, the Malaysia captured by Lat.

That’s what we need: more Lats and less Mahathirs. 

ENDS 

THE WORLD: FROM BEING FLAT TO ROUND TO CROOKED

I haven’t committed a crime; what I did was fail to comply with the law. – David Dinkins, the Mayor of New York.  

When I was young, we were force-fed homespun aphorisms like “he who laughs last laughs best” to make us feel life had rewards for everyone, even those who persevered until, finally, they, too, succeeded.  

Now that we’re older, we know better. The truth about laughing last is a lot darker and more cynical. We now know that the fellow who laughed last was the guy who thought slowest. 

It stands to reason. There’s always someone several chapattis short of a picnic, the one who usually insists he’s no fool. The insistence alone usually indicated he, too, had his suspicions. 

Laughter is good for you but it’s certainly not the best medicine. Even Dr M knew that was penicillin. 

It’s difficult to maintain a sense of humour these days because a great many people seem anxious to part you from your money. 

In those days, it was usually a wealthy Nigerian prince who’d selected you because he “heard” that you were both good and kind, and he wanted to leave you US$1 million if you would only just fill out a small questionnaire attached to the email, merely to ascertain your bona fides, you understand?

That was about the time you would give up reading the obvious scam, feeling superior because you’d already invested in a wealthy prince from Qatar for half the price. 

Even so, the Nigerian prince trick – “I think therefore I scam” – continues to con the gullible. According to CNBC, those crooks got away with over US$700,000 in 2020. 

Now, it’s by way of phone calls through so-called Macao scams. Indeed, it’s become such a nuisance I’ve stopped taking calls from numbers I don’t recognise.

Even here in squeaky clean Singapore, where I used to answer all calls unless they were What’s-App calls from Malaysia, I have had recorded messages from the Police Force, the Health Ministry, the Home Ministry, and the Income Tax Department. 

The messages were always in perfect English and always seemed reasonable when you heard them in their entirety.

Indeed, they became an enduring source of entertainment during the miserable periods of lockdown during the Covid pandemic. 

Perhaps because street crime is so low in Singapore, scams are flourishing, at least going by anecdotal evidence. As in Malaysia, it typically affects the “heart-landers,” or the middle classes living in public housing. The upsurge in cyber services has also unleashed an equivalent surge in cybercrime mostly targeted at elderly and unwary Internet users. 

It’s spawned a new vocabulary in its wake. To “phish,” for instance, means to trick (an Internet user) into revealing confidential financial information. 

Even reputable institutions can be duped. Last year, hundreds of customers of OCBC Bank in Singapore lost close to S$13 million owing to a phishing scam. Most of the perpetrators have been arrested, including a 19-year-old teenager. 

Even so, it underscores the tradeoff between convenience and security in digital banking. It’s also given a whole new meaning to an ancient Biblical injunction.

“Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day: Teach a man to phish and he becomes a Nigerian prince.”

ENDS

LIFE: A LONG LESSON IN HUMILITY

In his majestic Four Quartets, the poet T S Elliot had this killer line: “Humankind cannot bear too much reality.”  

It’s generally accepted as a commentary on the frailty of the human condition: that we, as a species, routinely prefer to avoid or escape hard truths by not confronting them. We’d rather duck into a good book, or social media, than meet the here and now, the tedium of ordinary life. 

Elliot was right, of course, which is why he’s widely considered an insightful man. It’s not hard to see why: life has a habit of handing you lemons and not everyone’s heard of lemonade. 

The writer Bill Watterson (Calvin and Hobbes) had a sardonic eye as well, but he was prima facie suspicious about reality because “it continues to ruin my life.”  Indeed, he’s reputed for one of the most cynical observations about living. “That’s one of the remarkable things about life: it’s never so bad that it can’t get worse.”  

To the ancient Hindu philosophers, all life was maya (illusion). The ever-pragmatic Albert Einstein agreed, thoughtfully adding, however, that the illusion “was persistent.” A novelist with the unfortunate name of Philip K Dick thought Einstein was right in that respect:  “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, refuses to go away.”  

The novelist Tom Clancy came up with a startling way to distinguish fiction from reality; “Fiction has to make sense.” By extension, reality can be, and often is, nonsensical. If you apply this, say, to Donald Trump it makes perfect sense. 

To the Donald, multi-tasking was holding two contradictory ideas in a single lie at any one time.  Example: “While Bette Midler is an extremely unattractive woman, I refuse to say that because I always believe in being politically  correct.”

He thought he was being gallant, even chivalrous. Ms Midler’s response was, apparently, unprintable. It seemed she could only take his reality in very small doses. 

Trump makes Malaysians feel less worried about their country and the state of their politicians.

Even so, every so often I’m plagued by doubt. We are all supposed to be shaped by life’s experiences so that we emerge stronger and wiser. 

That’s why we hear of such dicta as “We live and learn.” But I’m less convinced about some of the opposition fellows from, especially, Pas, or the Islamic Party. 

But I’ll give them this much. At any rate “they live…”

Is there a moral to this story that started off with Elliot’s pessimistic view on life? I suppose it would be to take one’s chances but to live as pragmatically as possible. “If life hands you lemons,” said W C Fields, “make whiskey sours.” 

Robert Frost said that he could sum up what he’d learnt about life in three words: it goes on.

It does that,  but in a blind and indifferent manner. So, to expect it to treat you well is as crazy as expecting a bull not to charge you because you’re vegetarian. 

Thankfully for  most of us, life is what the author Truman Capote said it would be: “a moderately good play with a badly written third act.” 

It is at the end of this third act that life lets us in on its final joke, death. It’s just  its way of letting us know we’ve been fired. 

ENDS

MARCO POLO WAS AN IM-PASTA

Most Doctors Agree Breathing Regularly is Good For You –  Headline 

It was some time in the late 13th Century and Marco Polo was relaxing in the court of  Emperor Kublai Khan where he’d been installed as advisor on all things West.

But young Marco was wrestling with homesickness. He had been travelling along the Silk Road for a long time and he longed for something that reminded him of the sights and smells of Napoli. 

But all he had were olives and some cheese. Even so, he confided in the Emperor’s chef, the redoubtable One Hung Low.

Hung Low sympathised not just because he liked the young gwai-lo but because he thought he could do something with his ingredients. 

First, he ordered the olives to be pressed. What resulted was a clear golden oil with a not unpleasing odour. 

The delighted chef began by thinly slicing  seven cloves of garlic which he then sauteed in the new oil.

The resulting fragrance prompted  both Marco and the great Khan to rush, moaning with delight, to the kitchen. 

They were just in time to witness Hung Low, calm now in the face of discovery, add red chili flakes to the mix and then toss it with noodles in salt water. 

As an encore, the chef  garnished the dish with parsley and, in a final flourish, grated some of the Italian’s cheese – identified later as Parmegiano Reggiano – over the aromatic  platter. 

The Khan professed his delight with the steaming ambrosia  and, in a fit of gratitude towards his young guest’s Catholic leanings, declared he would call the dish the Pope jumped over the wall but he was dissuaded by young Polo who said its name should rhyme with the chef’s. 

And so the chef was promoted, renamed Two Hung Low and the dish would forever be called spaghetti aglio olio (Spaghetti with garlic and oil).

Aside: Hung Low – aglio. Got it?  

But Polo was not unpatriotic and so, when he returned to Naples, he covered up the dish’s real origins, claiming that he’d not only discovered olive oil but the new dish and all its by-products  which he named pasta. 

Through most of his later life, however, Polo grew obsessed with  the new cuisine and could often be seen poring over ancient Chinese cook-books. Indeed, he neglected Brigitte, his long suffering wife who grew despondent and pined away. 

You could say life pasta by.

But what the great chef Two Hung Low could not have foreseen was he not only set into motion what is now known as Neapolitan cuisine but he also invented a new and wondrous oil that the 21st Century is now associating with the prevention of various diseases linked to aging. 

Olive oil, we are now told, is bristling with antioxidants, monounsaturated fatty acids, vitamins and enough minerals to make Popeye abandon spinach altogether.  Why do you think his girlfriend is named the way she is? 

In summary, scientists  have pinpointed three good reasons to make olive oil part of your daily diet.

It reduces the risk of dementia by as much as 28%. This followed the consumption of half a table spoon of oil a day. 

“Opting for olive oil instead of margarine or mayonnaise is safer and may reduce the risk of fatal dementia,” said Harvard  postdoctoral fellow Dr Anne-Julie Tessier in a statement.

It protects the heart from certain diseases, according to a study published in the Journal of the American College of Cardiology in 2022. The study showed that consumption of more than half a tablespoon of oil was associated with a lower risk of cardiovascular death (-19%), cancer death (-17%), and death from neurodegenerative disease (-29%), compared with occasional or no consumption at all.

It supports longevity. The same study came to the conclusion that a high consumption of olive oil could help people live longer.

Given the overwhelming statistical evidence, it’s best to drink it daily by the thimbleful.

ENDS

THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES.

Education is what survives when what has been learnt has been forgotten – Albert Einstein 

Have you noticed that as you get older, your waistline begins approaching your nipples? It’s an unfortunate outcome of the ageing process, a weird and singularly unfortunate phenomenon that is apparent to everyone but the afflicted.   

Look at Dr M. He’s gotten there but he’s not bothered: he’s more interested in becoming PM. I don’t want to put too fine a point on it but it’s tiresome. He’s 98 and there are homes for people like that. 

But he’s lucid and seemingly all there which is amazing for a man approaching 100. Everyone should be so lucky. 

Only they’re not. Have you ever gone into a room and then forgotten why only to realise, for some reason, there’s a clue in the refrigerator?

But I digress. We weren’t talking about obesity, were we? No, we were contemplating memory loss, dementia, and that unspeakable evil, Alzheimer’s.  

Some classes of people, however, seem to be immune from these scourges. These would include creditors and very good liars. 

Even so, it’s a cheerless prospect. All of us have witnessed relatives or friends wither away from themselves, like a flame being slowly extinguished and it’s terrifying. In my case, it’s slightly more relevant as I have had a number of relatives exhibit these symptoms in their later years: it’s almost always in the genes. 

You are supposed to exercise – both body and mind. You are also supposed to sip coconut oil on the side. 

Exercising the mind is a trickier prospect. I once tried the New York Times crossword puzzle and promptly ran, screaming, into the night. Those are reserved for people of learning and reason, those associated with fine cigars and brandy snifters, and generally not associated with yokels who drink beer. 

To compensate, I’ve switched to the higher side of the lower ground, which is to say, I play free games owned by the New York Times Company. 

They pop up daily and I seriously look forward to them. No kidding! My wife also plays the same games religiously and, although she’s in the US now, we still compare daily scores, And, yes, she generally beats me but that is, as a US President put it, “neither here nor there.” 

The games are, respectively, Wordle, its Bahasa Indonesia variant Katapat (kata tepat or “precise word”) and Connections.

The first two are word gamers that sometimes fox but only because of choice. The third is a game to find the “connections” between words to form appropriate groups. It’s rarely straightforward and often crafty to the point of irritation. I’m not sure it prevents Alzheimer’s but it sure beats coconut oil.

Maybe we’re thinking too much, looking at this all wrong. Just maybe, having a good memory is overrated. Listen to Homer Simpson: “Everything looks bad if you remember it.” And if you have no regard for old Homer, here’s Albert  Schweitzer: “Happiness is nothing more than good heath and a bad memory.”

Finally, you have to be prepared and learn to spot the symptoms. George Burns has pinpointed four. First, you forget names; then, faces; then, you forget to pull your zipper up and finally…

…You forget to pull it down. 

ENDS

SEX AND THE CITY

You know that the Tasmanians, who never committed adultery, are now extinct. – Novelist Somerset Maugham 

Malaysian social commentator Sheraad Kuttan accurately described the gulf between the two countries yesterday.

“Singaporeans are funny,” he began in a tweet. “Concerned that their politicians are screwing each other. Over this side of the Causeway, we are more concerned that they are screwing us.”

Mr Kuttan’s actual language was a lot more explicit but I’m sure you’ve got the drift. 

In two separate, but distinct, extramarital affairs that might have otherwise elicited an approving oui from the French, the city state was recently “rocked by rare political scandals” – the breathless prose is courtesy of Bloomberg.

On Monday, the Speaker of the city’s Parliament Tan Chuan-jin, 54, and fellow lawmaker Cheng Li Hui, 47, resigned from the party and the legislature after Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong revealed that  they were engaged in an “inappropriate relationship.” Mr Tan is married, while Ms Cheng is single.

Mr Tan, once tipped as a potential premier, is no stranger to controversy. Earlier in the month, he was forced to apologise to opposition parliamentarian Jamus Lim for  “unparliamentary” language. 

In a speech in the House, Professor Lim had been arguing for more help for the island’s poor when the Speaker muttered “####ing populist” under his breath. Unfortunately, it was picked up by his microphone, a reality that the island’s netizens wasted no time in sharing over social media. Mr Tan apologised after the matter was brought to his attention, explaining that they  “were my private thoughts and muttered to myself and not meant for   anyone.” He added that Professor Lim had accepted his apology.

As if that wasn’t enough, two opposition  Members of Parliament  were also forced to quit after a video emerged showing the couple holding hands. 

Lest anyone conclude that the moral high ground was only reserved for the ruling People’s Action Party, the head of the opposition Workers’ Party, Pritam Singh called a press conference on Wednesday to announce that opposition MP’s Leon Perera, 53, and Nicole Seah, 36, were resigning after their “inappropriate behaviour” had come to light. Both MPs are married to other people.

The puritanical streak in modern-day Singapore might have astounded  Malaysia’s first premier Tunku Abdul Rahman. Asked once if he was ever worried when Indonesia “confronted” Malaysia over the latter’s creation, the Tunku replied cheerfully; “Not at all. All through the period (1963-65), my people were drinking, womanising and having fun. They weren’t worried so why should I?” 

But that was a long time ago. 

Singapore disapproved of such tolerance because they knew that even a little Leeway would be stretched irresponsibly. It was why its tax system was near-foolproof because they knew a simple truth, that if a taxpayer thinks he can  cheat safely, he will. Having begun on that premise, it was logical to then close off all loopholes. 

Despite the press conferences and the public hand-wringing, infidelity was relatively rare in Singapore for one reason: most of the island’s husbands were very, very fond of their homes. 

The French were astonished by the Singaporean prejudice. They were Catholics and  despaired of the Commandment but took comfort in the knowledge that no Frenchman had dreamed that one up. 

They knew that the novelist Henry Miller was right when he wrote; “Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation. The other eight are unimportant.” 

ENDS