No Pain, No Gain

The only exercise I get is walking behind the coffins of friends who exercise

Actor, Peter O’ Toole

I’m pushing 63 now and, truth be told, that’s enough exercise for anyone. 

But when I was younger, I used to jog. Reluctantly, I have to confess. But most of my peers were doing so and I didn’t wasn’t to stand out. 

In science, we have learnt that serious exercise causes the human body to produce endorphins, substances that interact with the brain’s opiate receptors to produce feelings of painlessness and ecstasy. Not unlike morphine or codeine. 

If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. 

The lone jogger starts off in a position of penitence, not unlike prayer. He then methodically moves on to heavy breathing followed by gasping and snorting in stertorous fashion, not unlike a blowfish. 

But the serious runner perseveres until pain is seen leaping from pimple to pimple in a face now wracked by suffering. 

It is at this point when prudent people begin crossing the street.

Theoretically, it is at this point when his body is producing its maximum amount of endorphins.

But do you see him giggling and occasionally kicking up his heels in bouts of mind-uplifting ecstasy? As Joan Rivers once remarked: “The first time I see a jogger smile, I’ll take it up.”

But there’s exercise and there is exercise. I have a friend, for example, whose idea of an accelerated heartbeat is a brisk sit.

That seemed, to me at least, an idea whose time had definitely come. But my wife who is obsessed with losing weight thinks that walking “10,000 steps” a day is what the doctor ordered so she goes walking all the time. 

I try to accompany her sometimes but the sight of so many elderly people cheerfully walking about in the early morning depresses the hell out of me. If you don’t think Malaysia has an aging population, try coming to Sri Hartamas in the morning. 

Also, knowing my luck, there will inevitably be dog poop around and my shoes have an unerring habit of finding it.  

So my wife took matters into her own hands and signed me up with a physical trainer. 

He turned out to be a fellow with muscles up to his ears and more tattoos than your average serial killer. 

But he was nice enough and seemed to have real knowledge about muscle groups and how to get fitter through diet, exercise and pithy aphorisms like “Take charge, don’t be large.” 

The thing was, he was very serious about working out with one-hour sessions scheduled three times a week. 

What I know is this: a one-hour workout is something that burns fat, sugar and starch into aches, pains and cramps. And the other thing: if you want to know the correct way to do a particular exercise, the answer invariably is “whatever hurts most.” 

It’s been three months now and I have to admit that I do feel better and sleep a lot better. That’s the good news. 

The bad news is that I haven’t lost a single kilogram.

Portrait Of An Artist As A Young Pig

Francis Bacon might have been charmed. 

A pig in South Africa can paint artwork that actually sells so her handlers have -obviously – named her Pigcasso. 

Brandishing a paintbrush in her snout, Pigcasso enthusiastically tosses her head to create bright, bold strokes across a canvas propped up in her sty. 

Her story is not an uncommon one as pig stories go but, in her case, there was always going to be a twist in the tale. 

The animal was rescued from an abattoir as a piglet, thus avoiding a fate worse than bacon. She was then brought to an animal sanctuary in Franschhoek, in South Africa’s Western Cape region in 2016, where her new owners noticed her love of colour and paintbrushes. 

The last line is from the original Reuters report. How on earth the owners could have discerned the pig’s leanings is unclear but who knows? Maybe the porcine painter confided in them. 

As pigs are known to be smart animals, its new owners wondered how to keep the sow from getting boared in her barn.  

“We threw in some soccer balls, rugby balls and of course there were some paintbrushes lying around because the barn was newly build,” said Joanne Lefson who ran the sanctuary. “She basically ate or destroyed everything except these paintbrushes … she loved them so much.” 

Soon the pig was dipping the brushes into pots of paint and making her mark. Her paintings can sell for almost $4,000. 

At this point dear reader, you will just have to suspend disbelief and simply remember that it was Picasso who made the remark about good taste being “the enemy of creativity.” 

Chalk one up to the artist. The proceeds of her paintings generally go to animal welfare causes so you could even call her philanthropig.

“Pigcasso is definitely an abstract expressionist, you can’t exactly define what she’s painting but I can tell you that her style slightly changes depending on her mood like any great artist,” said Lefson. 

The critics secretly thought it was hogwash but it was an endearing story and they figured they’d let it pass. 

Pigcasso herself was unimpressed: she felt the world didn’t make sense so why should she paint stuff that did? She thought about the abattoir and shuddered: there but for the grace of Lefson went sausages, she thought and felt that art was distinctly preferable.

In between her dalliances with the canvas, she exhibited a puckish sense of humour.  She especially delighted in hiding behind a bush and leaping out at unwary visitors to startle them. 

She took great delight in these hambushes.

Meanwhile, the swinish sketcher has been going from strength to strength. 

Pigcasso has even had one of her artworks turned into a watch face for Swiss watchmaker Swatch. 

Swatch announced a collaboration with the pig last month. 

 The limited edition “Flying Pig by Ms. Pigcasso” features green, blue and pink brush strokes and sells for $120. 

No one knows what it means or if it means anything at all but, hey, remember what Andy Warhol said. 

Art is anything you can get away with. 

What A Difference A Year Makes

Get re-elected

First Law of Office Bearers

People who sometimes wonder why Malaysia used to be described by the British as the Land of Promise should have been around during the first two months of the run-up towards the 14thMalaysian general election. 

Let’s face it: the eventual winners, Pakatan Harapan promised all and the kitchen sink. 

But wait a minute. Are we saying that Malaysians were so dazzled by Pakatan’s brilliant pledges of sweeping reform that those promises ensured its victory? 

Please. Voters were simply sick and tired of the high cost of living, Barisan’s arrogance and that 800-pound gorilla in the room called 1MDB. 

Or to put it another way, do you remember a single electoral promise by the Barisan Nasional between, say, 1975 and 2013 that sticks in your mind? 

It’s been a year since May 9, 2018 and a famous electoral upset where an unfancied Pakatan Harapan coalition toppled the incumbent government in a decision that, to me at least, was way overdue. 

But now the pundits are shaking their heads with some predicting that the new government is, at best, a one-term wonder. 

First, ignore those who credit PH’s alleged unpopularity to unfulfilled campaign promises. That is the stuff of bunkum. The BN were almost never held accountable for its campaign promises. Why should PH be any different?

Still, in all fairness PH has implemented almost 40% of its promises, which is fantastic in itself. And it maintains that the rest – except for the free tolls, perhaps – is a continuing work in progress. 

OK, the jury will remain out on that. One of the pledges, however, was putting limits on the term of a serving prime minister and that would be very remarkable if implemented. “Remarkable” because that would be like asking chickens to vote for Colonel Sanders. 

Truth be told, the only reason for PH’s declining popularity is the fiction, mainly hawked by some opposition politicians from the previous government and the Islamic Party, that it is a threat to the Malays and Islam. 

That, in itself, is well-nigh impossible for the following reasons:  

The position of both Islam and the Malays is protected by the Constitution. 

The Rulers, the protectors of the religion, are all Malay.

The civil service – from federal to state level – is overwhelmingly Malay. 

The Police and the Armed Forces – the only ones permitted to carry weapons – are overwhelmingly Malay.  

The Prime Minister, his deputy and the majority of MPs in Parliament are Malay. 

All Islamic agencies including the Syariah courts are staffed by Muslims. 

Yet, prodded by politicians desperate to make a comeback, the notion of a “threat” persists. 

It is also fueled by the largest number of non-Malay Cabinet Ministers ever; the largest number of non-Malay MPs in Parliament and non-Malays as both Finance Minister and Attorney General, respectively. 

So you can see how a “threat” argument might conceivably be developed. 

It was Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, who famously described how a fiction might be believed. “If you tell a lie big enough and continue to repeat it, it will eventually be believed,” was how he put it.

In short, this is likely to go on until 2023. 

The best counter for that would be a simple question. What would have happened if BN got re-elected last year?

The answer – business as usual – should put the fear of God into any sensible voter. 

Live Free And Life Is Worth Living

Behind every great fortune is a crime

French philosopher Balzac

The poor and ignorant will continue to lie and steal so long as the rich and educated show them how

American writer Elbert Hubbard

The Felonious Fatso known as Jho Low is officially not hiding out in China and we have this on good authority because the Chinese Ambassador to Malaysia said so and he wouldn’t lie, would he? 

The plump pirate from Penang didn’t know and didn’t care because he was too busy not hiding out in China to notice. He had other things on his mind. 

For one thing, the super yacht formerly known as Equanimity was now owned by Genting Malaysia and renamed Tranquillity. Felonious felt sick: there was nothing tranquil about the times. 

The trial of his mentor, friend and all-round good guy, the former Fearless Leader had begun and he’d noticed with foreboding that FL’s lawyers at one point seemed bent on incriminating him.

Felonious was shocked. He knew the law as well as any outlaw and he knew he was innocent because the law was clear: a man was guilty unless proven wealthy. 

And he knew he was wealthy because even the US’ Department of Justice said so. Of course, Felonious himself did not think of himself as wealthy. He liked to think of himself as a poor man with “allegedly” lots of money.  

The fugitive fatty liked the word “alleged.” In fact, he liked it a lot as it seemed to cover a multitude of sins without actually incriminating anyone.

He also thought the Irish were ahead of their time. In Ireland, apparently, there was a judicial category called “not proven” which, in effect, meant: “you’re guilty as sin and don’t ever try it again.” 

At any one time, the émigré not presently ensconced in China stood accused of a great many things. Right now, the beefy brigand was accused of perjury and obstruction of justice. Or, as his public relations’ people would have it, his press releases. 

Indeed, his latest press release “welcomed” the US authorities’ recent deal to recover stolen 1MDB monies: jewellery worth US$1.7 million (RM7 million) had been seized by them. 

And why was Felonious happy about that? 

The surrender of jewellery bought for his mother “did not amount to an admission of wrongdoing.”  

And the fraudulent fatso cheerfully looked forward to a “continued and amicable resolution of all remaining issues.”  

For the record, the DoJ has maintained that all the assets it has seized and is seeking to seize – or “issues” as Felonious would say – were from the dapper delinquent’s various investments using monies “allegedly” stolen from 1MDB. 

So far almost RM700 million has been seized or accepted as settlements by the US government but the cherubic charlatan remained unfazed: it did not amount to any admission of “wrongdoing.”

Add to that the seizure of a $US250 million yacht and a multimillion dollar private jet and only one haunting question remains.  How much did the fat felon stash away in the first place?

It Can Run But It Can’t Hide

A postman by profession, Andrew Waller was a philosophical man. “Life was like a bird,” he liked to say. It looked pretty cute and all until it pooped on your head.

That was what happened to Mr Waller last Monday. Well, in a metaphorical sort of way that is.  While crossing the road to the post office in Paris, Texas, he was hit by a runaway cow which then jumped over him in its desperate attempt to get away from four police cruises that were chasing it.

Mr Waller was shaken but not stirred and otherwise unhurt. But he was shocked. Actually, at the precise moment the steer ran into him, he involuntarily exclaimed: “Be fruitful and multiply” but not exactly in those words.

You couldn’t blame Andrew. This wasn’t New York or Kuala Lumpur where a person might get run over while walking on the pedestrian sidewalk. 

This was Paris, Texas where cows had hooves instead of feet because they lactose. In fact, in that part of rural America, cows outnumbered people and almost never jumped over the moon not to mention pedestrians. Indeed, the only accidents that occurred there occasionally caused people. 

Still, Andrew was grateful to the stampeding bovine, which had vaulted him from Texan obscurity into national prominence. That was no bull either because it won him his five minutes of national fame – it was covered by the national media – and you could say he milked it for all it was worth. 

Without trying too hard, he came across as modest, diffident and deprecating, a latter-day Forrest Gump. 

“I started off with nothing,“ he told the national networks when asked what he was pre-Bessie, for that was the name of the cow that flattened him, “And I still have most of it left.” 

It all started because Bessie was bored and fed up with her lot in life. It was one of those days when everything came in through one ear and out the udder. 

While being loaded on to a sale vehicle, Bessie made a dash for it. It led Texas police on a miles-long chase through city streets and was caught on video hurdling over a pedestrian (read the modest Mr Waller).

A police dashboard camera recorded Bessie, running at a high speed through the streets, and running directly into the hapless Mr Waller. 

Andrew “I Had A Beef” Waller was knocked to the ground and the cow jumped over him in a leap not seen since Carl Lewis. 

Alas, there are no happy endings to this story.

Police said the cow managed to give officers the slip and was on the loose for more than 24 hours before it was hit by a car and killed.

And this being America, people actually mourned for Bessie. Even Donald Trump tweeted that he’d “bet” that the driver of the kill-vehicle was a Democrat.

Bessie was being loaded on to a sale vehicle prior to heading to the abattoir. 

That was why she was running. 

She was running for her life. 

It’s The Smell, Stupid

Talk about a clash of civilisations! 

A recent tweet that went viral recalled an incident where a Malaysian housewife living in Paris and excited about receiving some belacan (shrimp paste) from home, decided to toast it prior to making a curry. 

Her French neighbour called the police. He thought there might be a dead body next door.

The French should understand all about weird food. I mean, take the neighbour in question. Only the other day, she cooked Pancakes for breakfast. 

OK, she was thrilled but you couldn’t say the same for her children. I mean, they were miserable and you couldn’t blame them.

Pancakes was their favourite rabbit.  

The French loved defenceless animals especially in a creamy mushroom sauce. Interesting statistic: the French eat 500 million snails every year.

And they like things like rabbit and all parts of the cow including the brain, the udders and the tongue. In fairness, it must be pointed out that French cuisine is considered one of the best in the world.  

More intriguingly, there is the French paradox. This was a famous 1980s observation that noted that the French people had a very low incidence of cardiovascular heart disease despite having a diet relatively high in butter and saturated fat. 

The observation still holds true although the advent of fast food may have begun ruining a much-envied national trait. 

But we were talking about strange smells. There are many things associated with smell. One wakes up and smells the coffee, for instance. And there are odours that you indelibly associate with freshness and all things nice. Like rain on parched earth, newly mowed grass, the sea: a childhood memory of a sudden scent of jasmine walking past the neighbour’s at night in Seremban. 

And then, of course, there is the odour of belacan.

There is no getting around it. It is grim and very stern.  What do you expect? It’s shrimp paste and as writer and humourist P J O’ Rourke once observed: “Fish is the only food that is considered spoiled once it smells like what it is.” 

And even O’ Rourke could not have known that belacan is made from small shrimp that is crushed and salted and left to dry for several weeks until it stinks to high heaven. 

Now you know the French neighbour was at least half right. 

It’s like durian. Like Limburger or Stilton cheese, it’s an acquired taste if ever there was one. 

While discussing the Paris incident on WhatsApp the other day, my friend Radzuan mentioned that some Malaysian students had to evacuate their apartment in Cumberland in a hurry after the Fire Brigade turned up just as they were about to have a feast of durian.

The neighbours thought there was a gas leak.  

Thankfully, my daughter has never liked durian so it isn’t a staple in my house for which I am devoutly grateful. Food writer Adam Sterling once famously described the fruit’s odour as “turpentine and onions garnished with a gym sock.” 

I agree. 

I confess that I am not quite Malaysian in my tastes. My wife is a Eurasian from Malacca and both she and my daughter love all food associated with belacan. 

As for me, I love mankind: it’s prawns I can’t stand.  

Any Change Seems Terrible At First

Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad did not approve of political jokes. He’d seen too many being elected. 

That was why the world’s only nonagenarian leader was perplexed by the Honourable Member from Tanjong Karang. Was he being deliberately obtuse?  No, the doctor thought, he should never attribute to malice what could safely be explained by natural stupidity. 

In a recent parliamentary debate, Noh Omar, the said parliamentarian in question, had offered a whole new definition of morality that boggled the minds of everyone listening except those who firmly believed in it anyway. Incidentally, their numbers were not inconsiderable. 

“Stealing is not wrong, only when you are arrested it becomes wrong,” mused the philosophical Mr Noh. “Riding a motorcycle without a helmet is not wrong, only when the police arrest you it becomes wrong.

Mr Noh was a lawyer, which was mildly disturbing to the profession. But he more than made up by his keenly developed moral handicap. Indeed, if what he didn’t know could not hurt him, he was practically invulnerable. 

Even so, his cogent reasoning in Parliament delighted a select few in the previous administration who knew that stealing was wrong and best left to government. It was also the primary reason why the Malaysian Anti-Corruption Commission, the Attorney General’s Chambers and the police had never been busier. 

Things had changed in Malaysia. Previously, it had been as Jonathan Swift had described the law as being “like cobwebs capable of catching small flies but allowing the wasps and hornets to get through.” 

At least for now, the wasps and the hornets aren’t getting through.

It is said that Australia is a “Lucky Country.” But if we are really truthful about it, it is actually us that make up the Lucky Country. We are blessed with natural resources and, unlike Israel or California, we don’t have to worry about water as a scant resource. 

We have no hurricanes, volcanoes, typhoons, cyclones or earthquakes. Nature is, has been, and will continue to be remarkably kind to us. Not for us the four seasons. Instead, we have a long hot summer all year around and, while boring, it beats walking to class on a dark, bitterly cold evening in New York City in February. 

Indeed, we have been abundantly blessed and yet we only have to look down south to realise that we have been punching way below our weight for the longest time. 

It just goes to show the importance of good governance. May 9th opened the door to that and the opportunity of seeing people like the Honourable Member from Tanjong Karang no longer occupying the seat of government. 

The problem is that May 9th also came with unreasonably high expectations. Change – serious, profound and irrevocable change for the better – must necessarily take time, and will if it is to make any serious difference. 

We just have to stop bitching and be good natured about the fact that, in the words of Benjamin Disraeli,  “everything comes if a man will only wait.” 

I mean, let’s face it: ceaselessly complaining about yesterday today won’t make tomorrow any better.

He Who Laughs Last Is Usually In Hiding

The Felonious Fatso also known as Jho Low has spent, sorry, sent another missile Putrajaya’s way.

Felonious was outraged over the recent sale of the super yacht, Equanimity by the Malaysian government to Genting Malaysia for US$126 million. The boat, apparently, had cost US$250 million.

Genting, said Felonious who was a stickler for details, had bought the boat for a “steal.”

Lim the Younger agreed that someone had bought the boat with a “steal” – a whopper at that – but he did not think it had been Genting.

Neither did Tommy Thomas and he was very desirous of meeting Felonious, which puzzled the smiling swindler because he’d never known or even met Mr Thomas. Actually, a great many people from Singapore to San Francisco wanted to meet the cherubic charlatan but that, Felonious agreed, was “neither here nor there.”

Indeed, when you got right down to it, Felonious thought he was better off being there than here.

While safely being there rather than in Kuala Lumpur, the pudgy pilferer communicated his ire to the Federal Government by way of his spokesman Benjamin Haslem, the Co-Chief Executive Officer of Messrs Wells, Haslem, Mayhew Strategic Public Affairs.

The firm was an eminent body of public relations’ strategists and one so august that even Felonious, an admittedly well-heeled heel, had to have his cardiologist present when they sent him their monthly bills.

To cut a long story short, Wells, Haslem and Mayhew said that Felonious thought that Putrajaya was both inept and incompetent for selling the boat below market and at a “bargain basement” price.

Of course, the real wonder of it all was the fact that the furtive fatso had so tamely surrendered a billion-ringgit yacht and a multimillion dollar private plane without so much as some kind of fight, even a legal challenge.

“Easy come, easy go,” shrugged the-suddenly philosophical plunderer.

But you had to give the man credit for taste.

The 300-foot Equanimity, the 60th biggest yacht in the world, was truly spectacular. Among other things, it had a spa and a beach club, complete with sauna, steam room and multi-faceted beauty salon.

The spa area led on to a fully equipped gym and Pilates studio. Needless to say, there was a pool and did I forget to mention a helipad?

And it could take 26 guests comfortably with a mammoth master bedroom. It was Hotel California come to life with mirrors on the ceiling and pink champagne on ice.

During Felonious’ heyday, the yacht’s larders groaned with the finest French wines and the choicest Parma hams. There were grapes from Spain, pomegranates from Greece, figs from Iran and cold cuts from Portugal. Beluga caviar was consumed like it was going out of style while Cuban cigars were an after-dinner must-have.

The word “equanimity” means calmness and assurance even in the face of crisis. One had to admit that Felonious exhibited the trait admirably in the way he broke the news to his father at the material time Malaysian agents began swarming all over the ship.

Somewhere in China….

A calm Felonious: “Dad, I have good news and bad news”.

Father: “OK, let’s hear the worst of it. “

“The Malaysian government’s just seized our ship in Bali.”

“What can possibly be good about that?”

“We weren’t on board”.

Everyone’s Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey

Mark Twain once mused that Our Heavenly Father was so disappointed with the monkey that he invented man. 

This was way back in the late 19th Century. But if he were around now, I’d wager Mr Twain would have said God was so disappointed in one John Owen Casford that he invented the squirrel monkey. 

Perhaps we can make it clearer. It is generally accepted that the Good Lord did not make anything without a reason but mosquitoes, and the said John Casford come close. 

Said bloke tried to steal the monkey from a New Zealand zoo to “impress his girlfriend.” In mitigation, Mr Casford said he was as “high as a kite” although a well-known kite from said miscreant’s neighbourhood testified it had never been as high as a Boeing 747 before. This tallied with the drunk-as-a-skunk’s blood alcohol level  – “28,000 feet and climbing.”

The good people of New Zealand were shocked. They were generally not averse to a pint of the nourishing fluid but to try and steal a monkey was simply not on. OK, maybe a mug or three from the local pub or soap and towels from a hotel but this was a monkey, they muttered indignantly. 

Man has always thought monkeys can be trained to do almost anything. That’s why we hear the phrase “surely out of a million monkeys, at least one can write like Shakespeare. ”

When not in his cups, John Owen Casford was made of sterner stuff because he thought out of the box. That was why he put the old axiom about the Bard on its head.

“If we had a thousand Shakespeare’s, could one write like a monkey?” the wasted wastrel wanted to know. “That is the question.” 

It was the burning question he had uppermost in his mind when he broke into the Wellington Zoo in the dead of night and attempted to steal a monkey home to his girlfriend. Why the latter would have been impressed with such bounty was the burning question confronting the psychiatrists. 

He entered the zoo through an unsecured gate and broke through two padlocks to enter the animals’ enclosure. Suffice it to say the astonished apes weren’t pleased to see him. 

As they might say Down Under, anyone could immediately tell they weren’t prime mates. 

On the morning after the incident, zookeepers knew something was wrong when they found most monkeys injured or frightened and one, missing. She had apparently taken a generous bite out of the maudlin miscreant and was later found raucously singing a simian version of Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport.

Meanwhile, the now-severely hungover Mr Casford was huddling with his lawyers. Asked why he felt compelled to drink that much alcohol he replied truthfully. “She is pretty sober,” he said, alluding to his girlfriend, “but she’s prettier, drunk.”

The plastered pisshead did not escape unscathed. He sustained multiple injuries, some self-inflicted and others presumably at the hands of at least one monkey with a fondness for horrendous Aussie songs grievously murdered long ago by Rolf Harris. 

Alas, poor Casford. His girlfriend booted him out and the judge booted him in. 

In jail that is. Four years of it. 

The Green, Green Grass Of Home

All over the world, smart business folk are creating start-ups and traditional businesses are being “disrupted.”

Taking a leaf out of Elon Mask – the enfant terrible of global disruption – the state assemblyman for Jeram, Selangor recently proposed what might be considered the “disruption” of Malaysia’s traditional agriculture.

The Honourable Member proposes replacing palm oil, rubber, or coconuts with a new crop.

Ganja.

It is an extraordinary idea and unheard of since the Cro-Magnon period whose inhabitants derived the idea from the inhabitants of an earlier period, the now-fabled Stoned Age. 

Hannah Yeoh winced and decided she was better off in the federal government than remaining the Speaker of the Selangor state assembly. As a woman, she’d heard all about the glass ceiling but this was the first she’d heard of one made of grass. It seemed that everything could be going to pot. 

The rocket scientist from Jeram wanted to return Malaysia to its halcyon days of being an Asian tiger economy. That admirable and lofty perch had been fuelled by a combination of foreign direct investment and exports, lots of it. So he had asked the state government to study the cultivation of cannabis for medical and export purposes that is to say for fun and profit.

Such a move by Selangor could potentially make it the world’s biggest producer of ganja and reap handsome profits said Mohd Shaid Rosli for that was the name of said RS.

The rocket scientist was learned because he ate a lot of fish which made him smart enough to know that it was possible for Selangor to undertake the venture, as the Dangerous Drugs Act 1952 stated explicitly that “any” government department was allowed to grow ‘ganja’ for medical use. 

The problem there, of course, was that the Act did not extend to private companies like IO-High and Slime Darby. 

The West had proved long ago that pot had medical benefits. The logic went something like this: Laughter was the best medicine. Pot made you laugh ergo pot was good, if not the best, medicine.  

Mr Shaid had come to the same conclusion although he cited better logic than the example above. 

He said a study on ‘ganja’ cultivation for medical and export purposes had been carried out by Universiti Sains Malaysia’s National Poison Centre director Prof Dr Mohamed Isa Abd Majid in cooperation with a local company, Keep on the Grass Sdn Bhd, with good results. 

The fish-loving, knowledgeable state assemblyman estimated that the planting,  processing and export of ganja could yield returns of about RM9 million for a one-acre piece of land through three harvests annually.

“This amount is higher than the returns on palm oil of only RM3,000 a year per acre. If Selangor gets to produce more than 100 acres, we will be the world’s biggest producer and we will get attractive returns,” said the savvy pescatarian. 

The canny Mr Shaid may have unearthed an idea whose time is fast approaching. Even strait-laced Singapore has indicated that its universities have begun researching the medical effects of grass although the city-state said it would confine its grass-laced research to its synthetic variety and not the natural variant.

Last year, US$81 billion worth of cannabis products were legally sold worldwide. And there are already a number of billion dollar companies exclusively dealing in the product.

The two biggest ones are Canada’s High & Dry and the US’ Weed Be Good Together.