Model me

My modeling career has really taken off. Two shoots in a month and now I walk with a sashay in my step. No matter that thus far they’ve steadfastly avoided shots of my face and only agreed to use the right side of my body. Soon, they will recognise the folly of their ways. Before, I used to be an insignificant copywriter. Now I am copywriter/model. Do not belittle this minor adjustment. I have had over 600 women since.

Application for the Position of President

To the Presidential Elections Committee:

I hereby put my name forth for consideration as President. I am aware that I do not meet certain criteria for eligibility but perhaps this letter will change your minds.

I am only 25. The minimum age stated for qualification is 45. This, I feel, is ridiculous. Nobody wants an old President. As the figurehead of the country, the President must be in his prime – a symbol of strength and virility! We cannot have a fat, balding man or woman who can barely get up from his/her seat as our leader. Just the thought of this outrage makes me quiver. But there are other more practical reasons for considering a younger candidate. How can an older body deal with all those dinner and cocktail parties? What would our neighbours think should our President keel over suddenly in mid-kebab or be rushed to hospital with a hernia after popping a bottle of champagne? The shame would be too much to bear for our great nation.

It has also come to my attention that a qualified candidate must have at least three years’ experience as chairman of a statutory board or a company with a paid-up capital of at least $100 million. $100 million is a mere pinch in the thighs, my friends. If the threshold is set at that paltry figure, why set a threshold at all? I can proudly say that I have never had to deal with money. It is beneath true leaders to go around ruffling the coffers for spare change while clutching a calculator. However, to bolster my chances, let it be known that I achieved an A1 in Elementary Mathematics in my ‘O’ levels.

These criteria you have laid down, however, are just technicalities. They do not matter one bit. What does matter, however, is that the candidate has the aptitude for the job. And this is where I excel. I am, without question, unquestioningly unquestioning. That is my forte. I will agree with whatever that has to be agreed with. I agree, for example, that every square inch of our neighbours up North should be firebombed except the capital which serves rather good bak kut teh. I concur also that the huge piece of burning rainforest down South is nothing but a cesspit of racial, economic and political upheaval. I could not be more open to the fact that the red, white and blue is our nation’s big brother and must be sucked up to ad nauseam. This, I am sure you will agree with me, is how a President should think.

To add even more to what must be my already considerable chances, I could become, if given the opportunity, the epitome of the people’s President. Why anyone of such considerable stature would want to spend his days with louts who spend half their time in coffeshops and the other half raving drunk in void decks is beyond me at this moment but with every new job comes a new challenge. I am sure that I will be up to the task.

With me as President, the future of this country will be one big fat cupcake. There will be countless meet-the-people sessions because I will spend my days walking briskly from the Istana through Orchard Road and back smiling reverently and waving with Mao-esque benevolence. Every Sunday will be play-football-with-the-President day. Slumber parties will become a weekly highlight. Though, I regret to say that this will be a strictly female-only affair. Except for the President, of course.

When I become President, the economy will grow. People will not waste precious man-hours protesting in vain for clemency for anyone on death row. Such inefficiencies must be stamped out along with those lice who grumble incessantly and effusively about human rights. The only human right I am concerned with is our people’s right to vote for me when you qualify me as a candidate.

There are no two ways about it. The role of President is tailor-made for such a person as me. Once you recognise this, even those dissidents in the streets, mostly seen driving taxis, will come around in time. With that, I will leave you to your excogitation.

My best regards,

A burp for Nessa

Coming as an effervescent black liquid, Coca-cola will taunt your senses as it slides soothingly down your throat, reminding you about the time your turtle bit your toe. Be enchanted as it reminds you how fortunate you are that turtles prefer water to coke because it you had to rescue your beloved pet from this acidic liquid, it will dissolve the effects of your pedicure. But there’s more, get a coke today and you’ll get a FREE burp. Watch in smug amusement as everyone around you move away from the furniture, taking with them their nephew or their cat. It’s all up to you! Get your refreshment today!

Okay, don’t groan so loudly, there’s a reason why I’m not the copywriter around here. Anyway, Venessa, buy me a coke and I’ll produce the burp. Joel can attest to that.

Nothing more than feelings

Many thanks to Joel’s review of the amazing Champions League match. I shall not bore all five (my estimate of this blog’s readership) of Joel’s friends by doing another one. Make no mistake, it will still be about Liverpool winning the Champions League. If you couldn’t care less about football or Liverpool, take it as a break from Joel’s self-deprecating humour wit (which I love by the way). This is a trip through the emotions felt on that Turkish night – a rollercoaster ride no Best Director movie can take one through in three hours.

Anticipation - the plan was to get to YK’s place at about midnight for the game. Should have been a perfect outing thanks to the 32″ LCD TV at his place, the pool table and most importantly, the fact that I would have been able to scream and shout with another Liverpool fan without waking my family. It was not to be, my cough stopped me. But the sheer electric feeling that Liverpool may win the biggest prize in European club football kept me awake – oh, the fragging of my colleague in CS:S between 12 and 2:30 helped too.

Hope - Nobody expected Liverpool to come this far, but beating Juve and Chelski, the last two European contenders, gave Liverpool fans all over hope. Our anthem says it best, and even though it wasn’t Anfield, the song came through loud and clear

Walk on, through the wind,
Walk on, through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart,
And you’ll never walk alone,
You’ll never walk alone.

Shock/Anger - The first minute, and Milan scored. How could that have happened? The reason why Liverpool was even at this final is thanks to their tight defence. I actually became angry with Traore for conceding the free kick and anger at Kewell for being lousy. The first Australian to reach the Champions League final – bah, no prizes for guessing why.Despair - In the words of the immortal (now deceased) Yoda: Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. And boy did I suffer. The consolation/mockery SMSes started coming in, I ignored them all. All I did was to start playing Bejeweled on my PDA, refusing to look up even when half-time ended, resulting in a new high score. The greatest fear was that we will be thrashed, and set a new record for the biggest loss in a European final match. I felt like a young boy who dared only to look through the partings of his own fingers when faced with a Pontianak movie.

Excitement – I looked up to see Liverpool attacking, and the Gerrard header! Then it happened again as Milan Baros made the best move of his appearance in the match – getting out of the way to allow Smicer’s low shot in. Then the move that saw Gerrard clear on goal, the penalty missed then Alonso redeeming himself. Those six minutes were electrifying.. I was trembling at the end of it, my face was barely half a metre from the TV and I couldn’t sit down from the excitement.

Anticipation – A different kind from the start of the match. As Milan pushed ahead to regain the lead, I was constantly waiting for the referee’s whistle. BLOW THE WHISTLE ALREADY! I felt Milan’s Dida was the better of the two goalkeepers but at least there was hope if Milan didn’t score during open play.

Relief – At one point, I was contented. It was already 3-3, and I knew that even if Milan did score another, or go on to win through penalties, there was no shame. Liverpool had shown what they were made of and the criticism at work the next day should have already been lessened.

Elation - This needs no description. I’ll let this picture speak. Forgive Riise, if he isn’t wearing weird hair, then it’s a funny hat, must be a Norwegian thing.

A blurb for Gavo (heh)

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But now, General Electric presents Gavin the Gap, the premier male food disposal unit who’s ALL stomach. That’s right. Fed up with all those dinner scraps? Simply leave them where they are, point Gavin the Gap in the right direction and you’ll find your plates and table clean in seconds! To cheer you up even more, we’ll throw in a plastic potty FREE! Unloading Gavin the Gap will be a piece of cake with this revolutionary device. Simply sit Gavin the Gap on said potty, chant “mm mm mm” three times and it’s done! To clear the potty, simply point Gavin the Gap in the right direction and voila! It’s that simple! There’s only one decision to be made. Order Gavin the Gap now!

A blurb for Nessa

Coming in an elegant black dress, Vanessa will taunt your senses as she coos soothingly in your ear about the time the turtle bit her toe. Be enchanted as she recounts each and every detail from how she engaged the reptile in discourse, to how she rubbed its head with her toe, to the heart-stopping chomp that severely mangled her pedicure. But there’s more, get a Vanessa today and you’ll get a FREE feather duster. Watch in smug amusement as Vanessa dusts your furniture or the nephew or the cat. It’s all up to you! Get your Vanessa today!

Forza Liverpool

I am sure that John, wherever he was having his heart broken, would’ve heard me cackling. That’s the way this post was supposed to start. Alas, my dreams have been shattered. With Liverpool 1-0 down within 52 seconds, I raised my Heineken in salute to Milan goalscorer and captain Paolo Maldini who, at 37, still looked up there with the best. Looks like the damned Reds have gotten this far only to go into the record books as the team that let in the quickest goal in Champions League history, I thought to myself. This was followed by 45 minutes of glee and much more toasting as Milan surged forward at will with Cafu, in particular, making barnstorming run after barnstorming run down the right – the type of run that I, had I been a Milan midfielder, would have been cursing the scoundrel for cos it would’ve forced me to run up and down as well in support. It’s been said that maybe he’s got two hearts. One for each leg, I suspect.

Anyway, Liverpool had no answer to Milan’s guile. They looked like a bunch of floundering frogs with the exception of Milan Baros who, as usual, scampered around like a headless chicken. While that may work against Crystal Palace or (argh) Newcastle, Baros was up against a turkey who was still very much in contact with his head. Jaap Stam trampled, manhandled and otherwise plucked Baros clean. The poor fowl only had one shot on goal and that went into the stands. It was most satisfying to watch.

Milan’s pressure paid off in the 39th and 44th minutes after numerous close calls and a goal which was denied by the linesman’s flag. Hernan Crespo first squeezed in Shevchenko’s cross under Carragher’s despairing body and then dinked a great finish over Jerzy Dudek after he’d been put through by an inch-perfect pass from Kaka.

The first half finished 3-0 to the favourites and I was contemplating sending John a consolatory SMS along the lines of “don’t fret, you’ll get your chance again in 20 years.” Just as well that I didn’t. Liverpool started the second half a different team. The introduction of Didi (former Newcastle, I might add) Hamann gave the likes of Gerrard and Alonso the platform from which they needed to attack. And it showed. John Arne Riise, dodgy hair colour and all, found space on the left and floated in a cross that Steven Gerrard met with a pinpoint header into the corner of the net. This got me thinking “hang on a minute”. And so I hung on a minute and suddenly it was 3-2. Smicer, what? who?, scoring through Dida’s hands from 30 metres out. I was irritated. “Shit,” I thought to myself “there will be much bragging if Liverpool wins this.” Thus jinxed, I found myself cursing again soon after as I watched Gerrard win a penalty and then saw the rebound eventually blasted in by a much-relieved Alonso. I would’ve raised my Heineken to this most spirited of fightbacks but I’d thrown the bottle at the TV and, like I said, I was pissed.

And so to extra-time. Nothing memorable really except that stupendous double-save from Dudek. As the prophetic Andy Gray said, “When Shevchenko misses from there (roughly 3 yards) with 3 minutes left in extra-time, you might as well carve Liverpool’s name on the cup.” The fox couldn’t have put it better.

Penalty shootouts are a horrible way to decide matches. It’s basically a game of luck. They might as well have gotten Gerrard and Maldini to throw a dice five times each. Still, I suppose there’s some skill involved. Dudek, for one, showed terrific dancing ability on the line. For Serginho, Dudek merely warmed up with jumping jacks but that was enough to lead the little Brazilian, the shortest player on the pitch, to fire his kick into the stands probably cos he couldn’t see through his tears. For Pirlo, Dudek entertained him with some light skipping and a charming flap of the arms before pushing his penalty away. A true maestro. Apparently, Jon Dahl Tomasson isn’t the arty-farty sort for despite Dudek producing his most technically challenging performance of the night, a mish mash of twisting and knee bending and unbending coupled with flailing arms that made me think of retreating sea anemones, the Dane unfeelingly lashed the ball past the passionate Pole, thus shattering any artistic pretensions he might have had. Which explains why he kept himself still for Shevchenko’s kick, saving it comfortably before running off in wild celebration.

The camera at this time panned over the enraptured red hordes, many of whom had parted with their shirts. They’re all either obese or emaciated. Something must be wrong somewhere with the Scouser diet. Too much fish and chips, methinks. The sight of the fat ones jumping was enough to make me switch to MTV for awhile. When I switched back, a Frenchman (Traore) and two Czechs (Baros and Smicer) were on screen screaming something barely intelligible. It sounded like “hum kam ra ra”. No idea what it meant but happiness can be a very powerful drug.

So Liverpool have done it. The lucky bastards. Now they’ve gotta fight for a chance to defend their title in next year’s competition. Oddly enough, I hope they do. It was good to see players who never looked like making it to the big stage get their share of glory. Carragher deserved it more than most. Perhaps even more than Stevie Gerrard. Djimi Traore didn’t play brilliantly in the final but contributed immensely to the overall campaign. And of course, it was great to see Djibril Cisse getting his Champions League medal despite that horrific break in October. So there, much as I hate to admit it, Liverpool deserved it. More of the same next season, please.

…

I wanna get tunnelvision! says: Sleep early, you must.

Joel says: Haha. I read somewhere that if Yoda had an email address it’d be com.starwars@yoda.

I wanna get tunnelvision! says: No! It should be starwars.com@yoda.

Joel says: Ah. The force is strong with this one.

That somewhere is here by the way.

Tea’s on me

I promised my colleagues that I will buy them tea if Liverpool wins the Champions League. Reminds me of that time a Man U had separate bets on Man U to win or lose the CL and would win more money if Man U lost.

I am looking forward to paying for teabreak, so Gerrard, please don’t kick your penalty shot over the crossbar.

Manchester United played like champions and lost. …

Manchester United played like champions and lost. Arsenal played like shite and won. It was all very good for the football neutral. To the dejected Man U fan, you could cackle like a hen on amphetamines. To the jubilant Arse supporter, you could tell him that his team deserved it as much as Bush deserves to be President. What’s more, get them both together and you could quite easily instigate a fistfight.

But otherwise, it all really sucked cos Newcastle, the only team worthy of the FA cup, was sitting on its ass on Tyneside with nary a thing to do but brood over its double-digit place finish and place side bets on when the next Dyer-Bowyer bust-up would be.