TITS AND ARSES

With the World Cup over and the only football matches on telly were Man Utd friendly games in South Africa and Scotland (Ananda must be a Red Devil!), TNA wrestling managed to perk my interest one late night. Understandably, it was the name of the programme that caught my eye first. And there were plenty of Tits aNd Arses indeed!

Has anyone really noticed what the wrestling referee actually does? Can't help thinking what a great job that is. You’re a referee in a sport with no rules of any kind. How do you screw that up? Slap the floor a couple of times and pretend you’re blind and easily distracted for the most part of tag team matches, particularly when a wrestler is being pummeled senselessly, then collect your wages at the end of the night.

The referee is kind of like Maurice Gibb. You don’t really need him or even notice him, but the Bee Gees just wouldn’t be the same without him.

I think they must have got these guys from the same place the Harlem Globetrotters get their refs. There must be this whole school where they teach you to just kind of run around and not notice anything.

That’s the school where the teachers will sit you down, show you a film of the chaotic brawling scene from Gangs of New York, and if you don’t see anything illegal going on, you’re hired!

JEKYLL

IN GOD'S HANDS

Sorry, I know everyone's sick of any news about this couple but I just couldn’t resist posting this.

Btw, if you haven't already noticed, this is a composite pic of Siti and K (he was just plain Khalid then).

She was 7 and he was a youthful 27!

"For me the age difference is not an issue ... it is all in the hands of God. Our relationship, meeting, life and death is all in the hands of God," she said.

I hope she wasn't referrring to Maradona.

Anyways, click on the pic for better resolution. You'll see that he ages well.

JEKYLL & HYDE

Psst...It's nice to be back!

To DH: I know you don't own blogspot....but to me, you definitely rule it! ;)

TIME OUT

Regrettably, due to recent developments, we have opted for a "time out".

Thank you.

JEKYLL & HYDE

JALAN JALAN CARI MAKAN

I went out to dinner at a spiffy restaurant town the other night. The bill duly arrived at the end of the meal as it always does.

I never did like the bill-at-the-end-of-the-meal system. That’s because money is a very different entity before and after you eat.

Before you eat, money has very little value. When you’re hungry, you sit down in a restaurant, you’re like the ruler of an empire. You don’t care about the cost. You want maximum food in minimum time.

“More drinks, appetizers, dessert, quickly, quickly! Serve anything. Everything. With or without the plate. It doesn’t matter. Just bring the chow. It will be the greatest meal of our lives.”

Then, after the meal, once you’re full, you can’t remember ever being hungry in your life.

You see people walking into the restaurant, you can’t believe it. “Why are all these people coming in here now? I’m so full. How could they eat?”

You’ve got your pants undone, napkins destroyed, cigarette butt in the ais kacang bowl. You never want to see food again as long as you live. That’s when the bill comes. This is why people are always mystified by the bill.

“What is this? How could this be?” They start passing it around the table. “Does this look right to you? We’re not hungry now, why are we ordering all this food?”

Hunger will make people do amazing things. I mean, the proof of that is cannibalism. What do they say? You know, they’re eating . . . “This is good. Who is this? I like this person.”

I would think the hardest thing about being a cannibal is trying to get some really solid straight sleep through the night sleep. You’d think with any little noise they’d go “What is it? . . . Who’s that? . . . Who’s there? . . . Is somebody there? . . . What do you want? . . . You look hungry. Are you hungry? . . . Get the fook out of here!”

MAN TELOR

Every batch has one.

Ours was called “Man Telor”.

He got his nickname after the only other Man was already called “Man Konek”. I kid you not!

I often wondered, if there was another Man, what would we have called him? “Man Telor Kiri”? “Man Telor Kanan”? That would give rise to other potential posers like - “Whose left? Whose right? Man’s or ours?”

Man Telor has an affliction. He has a serious case of one-upmanshipitis. Tell him something about anyone or anything and without fail, he’ll try and top it. Be it the most trivial of matters, he’d still want to get the better of you.

You tell him that you have 2 brothers and a sister. He’ll have 3 brothers, 2 sisters and a dog.

You tell him that your family’s going to Port Dickson for holiday and he’ll be pulling Mickey’s ears at Disneyland.

You tell him your dad drives a BMW and his house will have a helipad.

You tell him that you had a packet of nasi lemak for breakfast and he’ll be at the Hilton breakfast buffet finishing off the crispy beef bacon with the cheese and mushroom omelette.

You tell him your parents went to umrah and his father was the Imam at Masjid Nabawi.

Well, you get the idea.

Not surprisingly, Man Telor was an amazing story-teller. Stuff the Hollywood moguls would break the bank to get the movie rights to. If only they know about him then.

He never repeats his stories because he can never remember the details. He made it up as he went along.

Nonsensical though his stories were, the evenings listening to Man Telor were the one of the few memorable moments of my school-life.

This current World Cup instalment led me to recollect Man Telor’s amazing tale about the ball he smuggled out during Espana ’82. It was during the match between Italy and Brazil when the legendary Paolo Rossi shocked the world with his match-winning hattrick to set up a semi final clash with Poland. If memory serves me well, he also got a brace during the semis.

As the story goes, Rossi ballooned his shot during one of the attempts at goal and our own Man Telor, with cat-like dexterity, clawed the ball off the air and stealthily hid it unbeknownst to the 70,000 odd crowd and the TV cameras. Those days, only one ball would be utilised throughout the game. FIFA would despatch a crack search-and-rescue team to retrieve any missing balls. Games were stopped while the furtive tactical sorties were carried out in search of balls gone astray.

But Man Telor got the better of them. His technique of deception is now firmly etched in the manuals of MI-5, CIA, LLN, TNB and the likes.

What the FIFA officials did not know was that Man Telor was a master of disguise. The Italy jersey he was wearing wasn’t bought at Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s 42nd street. The jersey was actually made from a blend of special fabric and organic textile that reacts with the brain synapses. Our intrepid Man Telor was the able to fashion a maternity dress in which he slipped the ball unnoticed. He left Bombonera, the little Sarria stadium, amidst the smog cap over Barcelona, nonchalantly, with the ball that MVP of the tournament scored 3 goals with, firmly in his dress.

Can anyone ever top that story? Man Telor had some of us eating from his palms but yours truly saw through his endeavour. Ahem.

A friend met Man Telor recently. He brandished his business card readily. It read Man Telor (have to jaga his face la), CEO, Something, something PLC. His company is listed in the FTSE 100 Index and has a market capitalisation of over GBP10 Billion.

Impressive.

I did what any commonsensical man would do and googled his name and company.

Sigh. Old habits die hard.

JEKYLL