THE SPIRITS ARE WILLING BUT THE FLESH ISN’T BUYING

“Mon Dieu,“ gasped the head of French spirits maker Pernod Ricard SA. 

There was reason enough to mention God for worldwide 2019 sales of cognac and spirits were falling faster than gravity and the fact alone should have been depressing enough to drive any man to drink.

Only it wasn’t and Pernod knew the twin reasons for the Debacle of the Spirits. It was, in turn, Brexit and, more grimly, the United States-China trade war. 

Britain’s exit from the European Union popularly dubbed Brexit was, to put it mildly, taking its time coming. Even Samuel Beckett thought that Waiting for Godot had nothing on this much-trumpeted exit. 

And it was taking its toll on the sale of spirits. Example: an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman go into a bar. Then all leave because the Englishman decides to leave.

You could see how an event like that, duplicated throughout the island, might have deleterious effects on Pernod and its sale of whiskey or brandy. 

The Prime Minister of Britain was a confident fellow. He thought he was always right because he knew it. And he had nothing against the European Union.

“It’s not EU you know,” he told them soothingly. “It’s just me.”

Bojo was an ever-rumpled mop off shaggy blond hair who smiled through life and firmly believed in teamwork so that there was always someone else to blame should anything go wrong. 

Like all good Brexiteers, he was nothing if not resolute. If at first, you don’t secede, he told everyone cheerfully, try, try again. 

You could see why a company like Pernod might not quite like the rumpled Mr Johnson. 

Indeed, the firm was more inclined towards leaders like Winston Churchill who regularly brushed his teeth with wine. Once on a trip to the Middle East, the Prime Minster had this to say: “The water there wasn’t fit to drink so we had to add whiskey to it. And, by great effort, I learnt to like it.”

You could see why a company like Pernod might appreciate such Churchillian efforts. 

The sales of spirits were also plunging in China, the world’s second largest economy and Pernod thought it was directly traceable to the US-China trade war that was damaging every trade-dependent country in sight. 

You might say the sales of spirits in the Middle Kingdom had fallen off a cliff. In 2017, it had grown by a staggering 27 per cent. The next year, however, saw those sales sharply brake to 2 per cent as the US tariffs began to bite. 

Even so, it’s a bit ridiculous for China to wring its hands so much. So its quarterly growth has slowed from 7 per cent to 6 and, perhaps, 5 per cent a quarter from now on. But it’s a developed US$4 trillion economy. In that context, even 5 per cent is , well, very good.

Singapore should be so lucky. 

And what did they expect? The US now has a President who implements what he promises comes hell or high water. Example: both Clinton and Obama had promised to shift the US Embassy in Israel to Jerusalem and both balked because of the expected backlash. 

Trump just went ahead and did it. And, remember, he’d promised to bring China to heel over its trade practices. 

On the other hand, this is the same President who listed his three favourite rooms in the White House as, respectively, the Roosevelt Room, the Lincoln Room and the Oval Office. 

He ranks President Oval right up there with the best of them. 

Could the chubby criminal known as Jho Low actually be partying in Hollywood?

According to Page Six, a US-based celebrity gossip-sheet, the fat fugitive could be “hiding out” in Los Angeles. But the paper may not have known what “hiding out” meant because the same story went on to say that the tubby thief had been spotted “surrounded by people” at a party at the home of a Hollywood producer. 

Does that make sense?

Is it believable that an allegedly notorious felon, the subject of the book Billion Dollar Whale and the trusted “consigliere” of Fearless Leader would be invited to a Hollywood party?

Of course he would! 

He would have been the biggest celebrity at the party, a living example of Catch Me If You Can. 

Which is why the Page Six story is half past six because the Feds would have been there faster than you can say Bossku. 

The flabby fraudster was actually hiding out in China although that had been denied by the Chinese authorities because they believed a person was guilty until proven wealthy beyond all reason. 

After reading said article in the gossip sheet, Fat Boy heaved a deep sigh and wished he had been at that party in Hollywood. He’d lived for such moments and yearned wistfully for those days when he was the Wolf of Wall Street, when even people like Barnie Madoff would ask him for his autograph after seeking his advice.  

In truth, he was bored in China and read every article about himself with a voracious and abiding interest. He liked and approved such court references as  “consigliori” as it seemed to explain his love for pasta. 

The bulging brigand even keenly appreciated the spirit of Fearless’ defence which was to imply that he, Fatso, was the real brains behind the heist. He liked such greatness being thrust on him always provided that he was, at any one time, at least 5,000 miles away from Sungei Buloh and Abdul Hamid Bador.    

To stave off boredom, the corpulent crook had begun working on a book. He thought of it as advice for future Stanford graduates. And he already had a working title for it. Indeed, the buckle-swashing baddie thought that “By Hook Or by Crook” was an admirable philosophy to live by. 

Some other gems that came to him:

When I was very young. I thought the most important thing to have was lots of money. Now that I am older, I am convinced of it. 

Money isn’t everything: it’s the only thing. 

In between such flashes of brilliance, he brooded about Abdul Hamid Bador. The name itself left ice in his veins and gasping for breath in repeated nightmares. 

Because he seemed to know something that Fat Boy didn’t. 

That was why he feverishly read and reread a much thumbed newspaper article…

…The Inspector General of Police said police knew the whereabouts of Low, also known as Jho Low, and were determined to bring him back by the end of the year.

“We are working hand-in-hand with the police in the country where Low is hiding. It is premature now to say which country it is.

“I am negotiating with them and have set a target, which is to bring Low back by the end of this year.

And the last, the most chilling, line, read….

“He deserves to be tried here. ” 

What did he mean? Did he know something that Fat Boy didn’t?

Now he understood what Norman, the character from Cheers, meant when he said: “When the trust goes out of a relationship, it’s no fun lying to them anymore.”

THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THAT LITTLE RED DOT

In 2007 or thereabouts, we were informed that Tony Tan, the chairman of Singapore Press Holdings at the time, was coming down to Kuala Lumpur and would like to meet all SPH correspondents for breakfast at his hotel. 

I was the KL bureau chief of Singapore Business Times at the time and so was duly present and accounted for at said meeting.  Mr Tan tuned out to be a bespectacled gentleman who arched a supercilious eyebrow on learning that all of us, except for Reme Ahmad, were Malaysian.

“Really?” asked the man who would go on to becomes the republic’s seventh President.  He volunteered that Malaysians had “serious issues”, the final word of which he articulated with some surprise and not a little distaste. He pronounced it carefully too and it rhymed with “misuse.”

On the plus side, it appeared that we were creative, even a nation of copywriters. As an example, he cited the acronyms we came up with to name our highways – Duke, Plus, Elite or Sprint. 

At the time, I thought he was being condescending and I remember being repelled.

In hindsight, I may have misjudged the good Mr Tan. 

Since January, my wife has taken up a position in Singapore and I have spent a great deal of time there. Mr Tan must have got his insights about highways just by listening to the traffic reports. 

“Traffic is backed up on the PIE and don’t even think about going on to the AYE. But the SLE is fine and both the MCE and the PKE are only mildly congested. ”

No, the MCA is not a high school examination and neither is SLE a disease. They are all highways, parkways or expressways. 

Given the grim reality of ceaseless traffic reports on the radio, you too might want to call for copywriters. 

As an island nation, Singapore is a lot more humid than, say, Kuala Lumpur. But you wouldn’t know it, not if like us, you stay in a serviced apartment. Perhaps power is cheaper there because our apartment is always cold to the point of intolerance. I went around shutting off the various air conditioning units in each room the first day we arrived and it’s still cold. 

It’s like that everywhere – the hotel lobbies, the restaurants. The temperature seems permanently set at 18 degrees. You really have to exercise like crazy to sweat in the gym as the cold there is of operating-theatre quality. 

And you get used to it after a while, walking down Orchard Road. You know, the old now-you-chill, now-you-bake feeling as you alternately experience a cold gust of air-conditioning from one open store front before you step back on to the swelter of downtown Singapore. 

Even so, there is much to appreciate about Singapore – its cleanliness, its safety and, wonder of wonders, its absolute absence of potholes anywhere. 

And there is an ingrained element of maintenance in its culture that we would do well to emulate. Every time I enter the country, I am struck by the number of people on trucks I see pruning trees and shrubs so that they are not a liability during violent thunderstorms as they regularly are in Kuala Lumpur. 

There’s a lot right about our southern neighbour. We should accept that reality with grace. 

ART IS IN THE WALLET OF THE BEHOLDER

Andy Warhol, the American pop-art icon of the 1960s, once described art as “anything you can get away with.” In the case of anonymous English street artist Banksy, that would just about sum this incident up. 

Art, as everyone knows, is in the wallet of the beholder. And its fans at an auction house in the United Kingdom were left speechless after a Banksy painting self destructed immediately after it was sold for 1.4 million pounds sterling (RM7.3 million).

The elusive artist known as Banksy began his career, such as it was, by spray-painting graffiti art, often in a distinctive, almost iconic, style that so captivated collectors that they actually took it off walls to sell as reproductions. 

That may not have gone down too well with the notoriously touchy Mr Banksy. Already he thought most people felt jealous because the voices only talked to him. 

But please don’t get me wrong. The artist did not suffer from biploar disorder. He enjoyed every minute of it. But he had his suspicions about pretty much everyone else and thought most people should be sent to Turkmenistan. 

And he knew his suspicions were well founded which was why even at home, and alone on his exercise bicycle, he kept an eagle eye on the bike’s rear view mirror…

…just in case. His friends knew and understood him well enough to know not to interrupt him when he was talking to himself.

But the artist did not care for galleries auctioning off his work without his permission. So he listened to the voices until 9 out of 10 agreed that the way forward was shredding. 

A hidden shredder inside the painting’s frame went off shortly after the work was sold at Sotheby’s in London in October last year. The work was pulled down through a shredding mechanism at the bottom of the frame and was promptly ripped into pieces.

This defiant act was actually orchestrated by Mr Banksy. It appeared as though the artist himself was present at the auction house, as he posted a photo to Instagram of the half-shredded painting with the caption, “Going, going, gone…”

The painting is a reproduction of one of the most iconic graffiti murals Banksy had ever produced. The original version of the image was spray painted onto a building in East London back in 2002. It was removed in 2014 after it had been covered up by boards for a number of years.

After the public witnessed the jaw-dropping demonstration, Banksy explained the stunt on social media. He wrote that he had secretly built the shredder in the painting a number of years ago in the event that it was put up for auction. When that day finally came, his elaborate stunt was realized, leaving auctioneers speechless.

But the joke could be on Banksy. 

Artist Isaiah King said in the Los Angeles Times: “If he was a lesser artist, he would have destroyed the art’s value. But because it’s Banksy it will only be worth more now.”

There’s irony for you and it was a red rag to Banksy’s bull. The auction houses should watch out.

Because long ago, the artist had decided that the way forward was a simple one liner: never settle with words what you can settle with a flamethrower. 

Yes, All People Are Equal But Some Are More Equal Than Others

I only found this out a few days ago and its blatant unfairness is positively chilling. 

If you are a Malaysian male and you marry a woman of a different nationality, your child is a Malaysian no matter where he or she is born. No questions asked. It is, apparently, a right. 

Unfortunately, the converse does not hold which is to say the children of Malaysian women born overseas do not qualify automatically as Malaysian citizens. They can apply but they should not hold their breath because, this is a privilege and not, apparently, a right. 

While the Federal Constitution guarantees citizenship to children bornoverseas to Malaysian fathers, it is silent on children born overseas to Malaysianmothers. Consequently, there are a significant number of Malaysian women married to foreigners who are unable to secure Malaysian citizenship for their overseas-born children. 

OK, I should disclose my interest here. Our only child, Raisa is married to an Austrian and lives in Vienna. I’d humbly plead that any child of hers be granted Malaysian citizenship as well.

I’d argue that it’s the child’s right and they can make up their minds when they’re 18. 

That would be the ideal situation. 

But – and there is always a “but” -there is a famous paradox that goes something like this: all things being equal, all things are never equal. And it was Lee Kuan Yew who once commented sourly about life “never being fair.” 

Even so, our Constitution does say something about “all people” being equal under the law. And while people in the West had to fight for the right of women to vote, Malaysians didn’t have to, getting that power from the word go: independence itself.  

So let’s not regress where this is concerned. It’s been fifty-six years since Malaysia was formed without bloodshed, in peace and relative harmony. And God knows we in Peninsular Malaysia, especially, have regressed in ways that Tunku Abdul Rahman could not have foreseen.

In many ways, we are a mess of contradictions guilty of no little hypocrisy. We refuse to grant citizenship to the overseas-born children of Malaysian women yet we do not see the absurdity of granting permanent residence to an Indian citizen accused of hate speech and money laundering in his own country. 

And we appear a to be a land of promise only before a general election. 

Remember the rule of law? 

How, in all good conscience, can we expect China to agree to extradite the fat felon back here to face justice when we refuse to honour India’s request that we do the same to that permanently-residing beardo? 

I once interviewed Dr Mahathir in 1987 just after his Ops Lallang crackdown and he justified it by saying that Malaysians could not handle too much democracy or something to that effect. “When I first began, I tried to be liberal and look what happened?” he asked. The implication: he’d had to clamp down or there would have been trouble. 

Fast forward 32 years later and we seem to have learnt nothing. 

Except there is a new weapon out there which is capable of great good and, just as equally, great mischief in the hands of opportunists bent on causing trouble. 

After May 9 last year, Malaysians were granted a precious gift – that of freedom of speech. May God give us the prudence never to exercise that in a hateful manner. 

And lest we forget, there are these Malaysian women who ache for their children to possess the citizenship they do. It is a small step for the Home Ministry but a gigantic leap homewards for the children. 

This Is How It Ends: Not With A Bang But With A Whimper

By the time the country found itself in the new millennium, most Zimbabweans had decidedly mixed feelings about their lot in life. 

On the one hand, they were all billionaires. 

But on the other, they were all, equally and despairingly, broke.

The author of the terrible script that was Zimbabwe’s lot died last week in an expensive medical ward in Singapore, far from the streets of Harare.

His nephew told a news agency over the weekend that he died “a bitter man” and “afraid for his legacy.”

It may have been fitting that he felt that way. 

Because if Robert Gabriel Mugabe, 95, expected his legacy to be anything other than despot clueless about economic management, he would have died an embittered man. 

He did win independence for his nation by fighting white minority rule and he did expand education and medical benefits for much of the citizenry.  Indeed, if he’d stepped down in the 1990s, he might have gotten away with a fairly intact reputation.

In truth, Mr Mugabe’s tenure reads like a cautionary tale of overstaying one’s welcome. His overstay was marred by ‘death’ squads, a disastrous war in the Congo and economic mismanagement of a scale that makes Venezuela’s current predicament look almost laughable.

Standout statistic: the country’s peak inflation in mid-2009 was almost 80 billion per cent a month. Three years after Mr Mugabe’s ouster, it’s still struggling to level off: in mid-July inflation had climbed back to 175%. 

In fact, the country once made history of a dubious sort: it was the only one that “boasted” a 100 trillion note in its currency. 

“The first panacea for a mismanaged nation is inflation of its currency,” wrote Ernest Hemingway. “The second is war. Both bring a temporary prosperity; both bring a permanent ruin. And both are the refuge of political opportunists.”

You can see where that placed the rating agencies when it came to actually assessing the country’s economic chances. 

In 2011, Moody’s actually tried. It went around the country shaking its head and getting more despondent each time it asked the central bank questions that it received no answers for.

Finally, it grimly downgraded the country to a D Minus rating with a newly created “You’ve Got To Be Kidding” outlook. According to the World Bank, the country’s last known rating was a H Double Minus rating with a “I’m Outta Here” outlook. 

The fact that the crafty Mr Mugabe paid the agency in worthless Zim dollars might have a lot to do with said agency’s aggrieved state. 

On Wednesday, Mr Mugabe’s body was flown back to Harare where the current government, more for themselves than the people, declared him a “hero” and ordered flags to be flown at half-mast. 

But all the people remembered from that time was being too poor to afford their electricity bills. Yes, you might say it was a dark time. 

Malaysia, under Dr Mahathir in his first incarnation, was close to Mugabe for reasons best known only to the good doctor. 

When my daughter was in boarding school – Kolej Tuanku Jaafar in Negri Sembilan – she informed me that two of Mr Mugabe’s possible nieces – “Uncle Bob” to them  – were enrolled there. And, apparently, the man even had a house in Ampang.

For all Dr Mahathir’s apparent closeness to Mr Mugabe, it seems pointedly ironic that he did not pen any sort of tribute or say something nice about his old friend when he finally passed last week. What ensued, instead, was a deafening silence.

Speaks volumes, doesn’t it?

When Life Is About As Clear As Molasses

What do you think an oxymoron is? 

No, we are not referring to a seriously stupid person lying under an oxygen tent. An oxymoron is actually a figure of speech where apparently contradictory terms are used in conjunction. 

Let me illustrate. 

Consider the phrase “civil war.” We take the phrase for granted but if you think about it, the two words are mutually exclusive. Wars are an awful, beastly business and they are almost never polite, courteous or mannerly. 

And what about “military intelligence?” Asked to comment once about a recent Senate hearing that uncovered a secret Pentagon spy ring, Groucho Marx countered: “Are you talking about military intelligence? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

American politicians tend to trip themselves up in the most engaging fashion. In trying to defend the death penalty, New York mayor Edward Koch had this to say: “Life is indeed precious and I believe the death penalty helps us affirm that fact.” 

And bemoaning the state of affairs in the country, President Gerald Ford lamented: ”If Lincoln were alive today, he’d be turning over in his grave.” 

When Ringo Starr sang Act Naturally, did he know that the song’s title was an oxymoron? It’s like describing a person as “awfully nice.” 

Oxymorons are sometimes used to make a point for greater effect.  You sort of make a splash when you use phrases like “deafening silence” or “conspicuous absence.” It reverberates in writing so much so it’s almost becoming a cliché.

I wish I were the writer who first came up with: “It’s about as clear as mud.” The point is obvious but it’s skilfully made. 

Oxymorons are widely used in literature for dramatic effect. Shakespeare was the writer who first coined such phrases as “sweet sorrow” and “melancholy merriment.”

And who does not know that magnificent Paul Simon oxymoron set to music – the Sound of Silence. 

There are also oxymorons that mean exactly what they say. Take idiot savant, for instance. Savant means “learned” and idiot means exactly what it says.

But idiot savant means both as in a person who has a mental disability but is gifted in one area like music or math. An example would be Dustin Hoffman’s character in the Rain Man who could count cards. 

Some people come up with the most fabulous ones in their daily speech. Asked by a newspaper to describe himself, artist Andy Warhol thought for a bit and then came up with: “I’m a deeply superficial person.”  

And singer Dolly Parton, commenting on her appearance at the Grammys’ said, only half-humorously: “You’d be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap.” 

Peter “Yogi” Berra was a much beloved US baseball player and manager renowned for his paradoxical, oxymoronic utterances.  Examples: “You should always go to other people’s funerals otherwise they won’t come to yours ” and “a nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.”

And later, after he retired: “I never really said the things I said.” 

But the undisputed Monarch of Malaprop was movie producer Samuel Goldwyn of MGM fame. Among his best: “I never liked you and I always will.” 

“If I could drop dead right now, I’d be the happiest man alive.”  

“I think no man should write his autobiography until after he’s dead.”

“The scene is too dull. Tell him to put more life into his dying.”

“Any man who goes to see a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined.” 

“A verbal contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.” 

And, famously, about World War Two: “Don’t worry about the war. It’s all over but the shooting.”

The Art Of The Downplay

I was idly thumbing through the newspaper the other day when my eye fell on this headline. 

“Woman surprised by snake in bathroom at midnight.” 

Now I put it to you, ladies and g’s, no right thinking person is ever “surprised” by a snake in their bathrooms at midnight. They are terrified, petrified, scared silly perhaps. Some might even have had a bowel movement in their pants.

But “surprised?” You’ve got to be kidding. It brings to mind a mere pursing of the lips, perhaps an arch of an eyebrow or a sudden intake of breath as the “surprise” kicks in. 

Ah, the English language. Always pliable. The headline would qualify as an understatement, which can be broadly translated as representing a situation for less than what it is. In short, it’s the downplaying of an event for effect, humour or modesty.

Like after a torrential storm just dumped 100 inches of rain over Kuala Lumpur and have a newscaster describe the event as being “a trifle moist.” 

It’s employed a great deal in literature, even in comics. Do you remember the strip that ran in the daily papers in the 60s and 70s called Li’l Abner by Al Capp? 

It had a great cast of characters including a detective with a pencil moustache called Fearless Fosdick who got shot through the head so often that it usually featured as a literal hole in his head.

And asked about his health afterwards. The great crime buster, said hole in head all present and accounted for, would invariably reply: “It’s just a flesh wound, Chief.” 

I used to love the strip because it often employed word play to illustrate its humour. The makers of Kickapoo Joy Juice, for example, would often toss in a snarling bear – all sharp teeth and claws – into a vat boiling over a fire “for more bite.” 

There have been famous understatements in history. The most famous was probably Henry Morton Stanley’s quip when he finally met the man he was searching for after a 700-mile trek through the forests of Zanzibar: “Dr Livingstone, I presume?”

He was looking at English missionary David Livingstone who had been lost for several years. 

Everyone has heard of James Watson and Francis Crick, the two biochemists who unlocked the structure of the building blocks of existence itself. But not many people will remember the way they downplayed their discovery to the world. 

“The structure has novel features which may be of significant biological interest.” They were referring to the double helix-structure of deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA. 

It may have been the greatest scientific understatement of the 20th Century.

Emperor Hirohito knew how to break bad news to the Japanese public. This was how he announced Japan’s surrender to the Allies over radio in 1945.  “The war in the Pacific has not necessarily developed in Japan’s favour,” he said deadpan. 

Even Psycho had nothing on Jeffrey Dahmer, an American serial killer who is also accused of cannibalism and necrophilia.  When he was finally caught, he casually asked the police: “I really messed up, didn’t I?”  

On the other hand, there’s overstatement, which is a gazillion times worse than understatement and is its polar opposite. Overstatement is rank exaggeration or hyperbole. 

Here’s Johnny Carson for illustration:

“It was so cold in the city yesterday that the flashers had to resort to describing themselves.” 

and…

“It was so hot yesterday that I actually saw a squirrel fanning his nuts.” 

Fear Of Flying

The late, great Mohammad Ali was on a plane when the stewardess told him to fasten his seat belt.

Ali: “Superman don’t need no belt.” 

Stewardess: “Superman don’t need no plane either.”  

Having said that, there are certain things that are best left unsaid.

Aviation minutiae, for example. While air travel is undoubtedly the safest mode of current mass transport, an airline has apologised after tweeting information about where you are most likely to die on a plane if it crashes. 

KLM India has now removed the tweet, which received backlash online with many asking if it was appropriate. 

However, the airline tweeted saying: “We would like to sincerely apologise for a recent update. The post was based on a publicly available aviation fact, and isn’t a @KLM opinion.”

And, to be sure, the facts are depressing. According to studies, the highest survival rate is towards the rear of the plane with 69 per cent living to tell their tale.

Does that mean business and first class passengers get the short end of the stick? 

It simply isn’t clear. There is disagreement about whether the middle or front is most dangerous. 

According to Time magazine, the fatality rate for the seats in the middle of the plane is the highest. 

But according to Popular Mechanics, you have a 49 per cent chance of surviving if you are up front, while people in the centre – over the wings – have a 56 per cent chance. 

Be that as it may, air travel is now so commonplace that it’s taken for granted. But, to me at least, it used to be a big deal. 

I think I was 28 when I took my first flight – to Kota Kinabalu. In contrast, my daughter took her first flight as a baby.

Everything about air travel is different from ordinary experience. Airlines, for example, are never “late”: they are merely “delayed.” 

They never tell you stuff when selling you the ticket. That comes later when you’re already buckled in. Like, if the cabin pressure falls for some reason we are told that oxygen will be supplied.

At 35,000 feet, it better be. 

If you notice, the recordings always involve women with soothing voices. You are instructed to place the oxygen mask over “your nose and mouth” and “breathe normally.”

For pity’s sake, where else might we fit the mask?

And “breathe normally?” 

Really?

I would venture to suggest that when 300 or so oxygen masks simultaneously fall out from above, there will be few people breathing “normally.”

Then we are told that “if” in the “unlikely” event, the plane is “forced” to land on water, we have to follow other instructions. I assume the triple “doubt” expressed in the sentence indicates that the possibility of said event occurring is so remote as to be laughable. 

But, no, it does not appear so as the safety drill goes on to demonstrate how, precisely, one ties on a canary-yellow safety vest on one’s person.  

A “landing on sea” would seem a contradiction in terms or, at the very least, a grimly ironic oxymoron. 

But we are told our chances of rescue are vastly improved by three additions to the vest that the airline has thoughtfully supplied.  

ONE:

A light, the easier to spot you as you helplessly bob about in the vast greyness of the Indian Ocean. 

TWO:

A whistle, the easier to be heard above the roar and thunder of the waves crashing about your head. 

THREE:

A nozzle, the better to blow into lest your vest begins deflating. 

Don’t you feel safer already?

What’s In A Name You Say? Everything!

British comedian Eddie Izzard was reflecting on unfortunate names thus : “So what do we call our baby son so that he does not get the sh.. kicked out of him at school? OK, I got it.  We’ll call him Engelbert Humperdinck. Yes, that’ll do it.”

But sometimes these monikers are self-inflicted.  A former soldier from the United Kingdom who changed his surname to “Fu-Kennard” for a laugh found out, to his chagrin, that the joke was on him.

The former Kenny Kennard found out that England’s Passport Office took a dim view of his brand of humour and denied him a passport – three times in a row. 

“They used to laugh at me in school when I said I would become a comedian,” the unfortunately-named prankster told pressmen. “But no one’s laughing now.” 

The failed comedian 33, changed his name in 2016 and even got a driving license under his new surname. 

But when his passport expired and he applied for a new one this year, his application was denied because his name “may cause offense.”

The former-soldier-turned supermarket worker from Cornwall has contested His Majesty’s Passport Office’s verdict three times — to no avail.

I read the above news item in the Star on Friday morning and it got me thinking. So I typed “embarrassing names” on Google and the list that emerged was jaw dropping. 

With a name like Chris P Bacon you can conclude a couple of things immediately. One, the guy is probably not Jewish. And, two, you can bet your bottom dollar he won’t get served in a bar.

They usually don’t serve food in those places. 

What were the parents thinking when they named their bouncing baby boy Mr Perv. The picture on the screen showed a smiling, balding man in his mid-40s who looked about as perverted as Tom Cruise looked like Quasimodo. 

He was listed as a scientist. I’m reliably informed that he disliked Harry Potter and when comparing competing theories, he could usually be counted on to choose the one that didn’t involve any magic spells.  

On the downside, he was also the one making nuclear weapons as if there’s no tomorrow. 

We are told there is a Singapore national, now 19, whose race is Javanese and whose name is, less than fittingly, Batman bin Superman. His father must have loved those DC comics. 

Then there is the distinguished doctor of neurology whose father must have known was destined for greatness. Not surprisingly, he was christened Lord Brain. But Mike Litoris cannot have been too chuffed with his parents by the time his first biology lesson rolled around.

Similarly I M Boring came out with a seminal book on the philosophy of Descartes. We are told that it combined the charm of a Lim Guan Eng budget speech with all the excitement of double entry bookkeeping.

I will end this droll, and hitherto true post with an equally true anecdote about one of my former neighbours, a retired Appeals Court Judge justly famed for his bon mots. 

Said Judge was taking some friends from England to May Kian Fatt, a Chinese restaurant in Ampang New Village, famous for its seafood. 

He takes one look at the signboard, does an exaggerated double take for the benefit of his friends and then stalks into the restaurant where he demands to see the proprietor.  

Bewildered owner comes to see him.

Judge, waving his arms and gesturing at the signboard: “I say, that is all very well but, tell me….”

 “…can May cook?”