Forgive me Blogger, for I (might) have sinned

Life as a teen in Kuala Lumpur of the early 90's was pretty dire especially if one was into anything other than mainstream, radio-friendly music. There was no YouTube or Vimeo and bands were nowhere close to putting up their music and videos on MySpace, Facebook or the like. Mid-way through the decade though, there was a glimmer of hope when Malaysians welcomed cable television (the now defunct Mega TV) which was quickly followed by Astro's satelite offering.

Brilliant if you could somehow convince your parents that channels like MTV and Kerrang! were as important as the air you breathed in as a teenager. Not brilliant if your parents were just coming around to accepting the concept of colour television in the first place and seriously believed that TV Pendidikan is great.

So, what's a teenager to do? Well one option was to do without meals or walk instead of getting the bus. After all, a decent imported CD (yes, we didn't have iTunes or MP3s back then either) costs as much as 100 fares on KL's infamous Bas Mini. The other option was to go underground and enjoy the home-grown gig scene.

The underground scene back then was a melting pot of ideas from all around the world. There were influences of ska, punk and indie from the UK, some scary metal from Scandinivia then grunge and hardcore from the far-flung cities of North America. Amazing really when you think that the world was more or less still offline back then. But kids being kids, we made do with the pieces of musical scraps that we had back then. Of course, this lack of musical sources didn't stifle the ambitions of some of us who were convinced that they could form a band that would one day take over the world.

So, it was in this period of my life that I learnt the various unwritten but widely spoken rules of forming a rock-type band. One of which was permanently stuck in my mind: Never ever wear you own band's t-shirt. Never. Not in a million a years. It just looks daft. Even if the person wearing it is the ugly drummer that you normally try to push as far back as you can on the stage so that it wouldn't ruin the photo.

It's a cardinal sin. A shameless act of self-promotion. Something that I would never do (if I ever formed a successful band). I believe in this unwritten rule so much that I've even tried to apply it to my other endeavours including this wee little spot on the interweb.

But, in the event another, totally unconnected band wore your band's t-shirt, then that would be a different story altogether. In fact, depending on the band of course, this act could be deemed to be the epitome of cool for the band on the t-shirt and the band wearing the t-shirt. Seriously.

Applying this principle to life in general and blogging in particular, I therefore unashamedly share with you, the readers of Hikayat Skuter Hijau... the fact that this blog (this entry to be exact) was featured in The Star's All the R.Age blog recently. Thanks to the other band, Ian-ything Goes, of course.

Thank you all of you for reading and sharing...

Where Not to Get a Haircut

I was in dire need of a haircut. Not that there was much hair on my head in the first place these days. It’s just that it had started to get a bit unruly and was starting to grow in awkward patches on my head. Sort of a cross between a Manchu-period Wushu master and Marouane Fellaini. In short, a pretty horrible combination.

So, off I went to the local barber. This particular place wasn’t a favourite or anything, it was just convenient. While the wife and kids went about the shopping centre doing their own thing, I could get myself a haircut, a friendly chat and some glimpses of football on the small TV hanging on the corner of the shop.

Normally there’d be a long queue for a haircut but if you ever wanted a good gauge to see how things are really going with the economy, your local barber would give a fairly good indication - it was empty. Within a few seconds I had my jacket off and was comfortably seated.

Halfway through my haircut a boy popped in. Seeing that the only other barber in the place was working on me, the Boss himself decided to attend to the boy.

Things are looking these days, aren’t they?

Curious as to what the Boss was referring to, I had a second look at the boy seated a few chairs away from me. He was wearing Liverpool’s 2009/2010 away jersey.

Ummm...yeah...

The boy answered meekly but before he could continue, the Boss continued.

The club will definitely do well, now. They’ve got Roy Hodgson. He’s a good manager.

Ah, looks like the Boss is a bit of an optimist. Pre-season’s not even officially over yet an already the club has had a dream start, eh? Hodgson is a good manager and no amount of media spin could have earned him at least that accolade.

It’s about time the club got itself a proper manager. An English one. Yeah, put back the English in the English Premier League.

What? Yes, let's replace the manager. Not because he wasn't good but because his passport was different. There's a good idea. It got worse from then on though.

It’s time these...

The Boss took a glance around the room. I caught a corner of his eye looking at this one Asian customer, hoping I wasn’t listening or better still, couldn’t even comprehend English. I looked away and pretended to be looking at the repeat of Man City v. Inter game that was playing on the telly, hoping he didn’t say what I thought he was about to say.

...foreigners got out and stopped messing with English clubs.

There you go. He half-whispered it anyway. I bit my tongue. It wasn’t in my nature to do so but I did it anyway. I thought it was the safe thing to do at the time considering I had a pair of scissors and a few other sharp objects around my head.

Yes, get the foreigners out. Why stop at one Spanish fella. There’s a whole bunch still at the club. Yes, let’s get rid of Torres, let’s get rid of Reina, Agger, Skrtel and everyone else that’s not English. After all, they are ruining this club aren’t they? But why stop there? Let’s re-write history and change Bill Shankly’s and Kenny Dalglish’s nationalities to a more acceptable one just a bit south of the border where they come from.

I don't know what happened next but I must’ve sent out some sort of subliminal message to the Boss as he kept his mouth shut for the next few moments. A few snips later, I was done. I popped out of my chair, grabbed my jacket, paid for my haircut and headed straight for the door.

Thank you, Sir...

I heard the Boss say as I walked out of the shop. Sir, my foot. If he wants foreigners out so much, this one Johnny Foreigner was on his way out alright. I got out and promised myself never to come back to his place. Ever.

Green Vespa at Work: Idiot of the Week

Tell me what's wrong in this picture?

OK, let's start off with that orange bike on the right. What's wrong with it? You might ask. It looks OK with me since its parking within the assigned Motorcycle space, you might add.


Well, to start of, very much like idiot drivers that double park (for some odd reason they tend to drive Honda Streams), they haven't got a notion of the problems they cause to other people. Even worse, when told how problematic their actions (or non-actions) can be, these type of people just opt to ignore advice and pleas from others. Like I said, idiots.


Anyway, in this particular case, the  space in front of that orange Suzuki thingy is not some free space. It's an actual car parking space. So, if a car came along and parked there, my Vespa that's (properly) parked in its space is trapped. It's fine for the Suzuki but for me, unless I suddenly go mental on some anabolic steroids an gain the ability to lift over a hundred kilos, I'm pretty much stuck in there.


What do you do with these kind of people? Any brilliant ideas out there? Maybe it's time I go all vigilante on that oh-so striking paint job. Hmmm...

Shight Rider!

Geddit? Like the great Hoff's Knight Rider, only shite. That's it. You've probably heard of the Knight Rider's computer brain thing called K.I.T.T. Well, in Shight Rider's case, there would also be an onboard computer thing, a sort of Garmin prat nav contraption called...you guessed right...S.H.I.T.T.


OK, we're veering into La-La lad here. Why this sudden obsession with an 80's TV show starring a young, non-swimming trunk wearing and hairy-chested Hoff?

Well, because one bright but wet morning as I was making my way to work, I was called one. No, I wasn't called the Hoff (surely, I'm not as good-looking as him).

I was called a Shite Rider. Not to be mistaken with the above-mentioned Shight Rider but it rhymes, and that's about it.

You see, it's coming towards the end of spring and heading into good old summer. And with less rain (I wouldn't classify the Irish summer as dry), the roads are suddenly beginning to be filled with strange beings not normally seen in harsher weather: Amateur Cyclists.

Not the normal lycra-wearing variety you see in all types of weather. These professional/hardcore-type cyclists  actually know the rules of the road, they just refuse to abide by them. No, the ones I'm talking about here are of the chubbier variety. Yes, some of them do wear ill-fitting luminous lycra but most if not all of them ride almost new bicycles they only bought because of that Bike To Work scheme that's been offered at the office.

So, because these cyclists think they're doing their bit for the environment, they think they're entitled to road-hog, cycle on pedestrian footpaths and beat red lights. That's all fine if they don't annoy anyone else. It's even fine by me if they decide to go plunging to to their deaths into the side of a forty foot lorry. But, when these same cyclists complain that this car cut them, that pedestrian shouted at them or in my case, almost ran them over, it just gets that bit more too much.

It does. There I was going into a roundabout. I knew I was going to take the second exit i.e. to go straight. Like a good scooterist, right after the first exit, I indicated left. As soon as I made it into the second exit I heard someone shout behind me.

SHITE RIDER!!!

I looked back. There he was, Mr. Chubby Amateur Bike to Work cyclist. He was going to cut me on the left (at a roundabout?) and got angry that I didn't slow down or stop to make way for him. Seriously, WTF man?

He didn't fall or anything so, I went on my way. I felt a bit confused at first and then, a tad bit pissed off. Honestly, if it was just the one idiot, I'd be forgiving enough. The thing is, there's just too many of these idiots in spring/summer that it becomes as dangerous as riding a Vespa on  an ice-covered road in the middle of winter.

Yeah, it's great that the powers-that-be are encouraging people to cycle to work and all that but there's a big difference between cycling for fun in a park or around your neighbourhood and actually cycling on congested city centre streets. A big difference.

Maybe some sort of start would be to make appplicants for the Bike to Work Scheme sit some sort of mandatory rules of the road test. It won't get rid of the more hardcore idiots on the road but at least it'll reduce their numbers.

So, until this idea gets implemented, ride safely people and beware the chubby idiot on a bicycle coming behind you...

Why I want to become Batman

I’m on my Vespa normally five days a week. Having never been on two-wheels for any significant length of time until about 3 or 4 years ago, I was absolutely delighted with myself for making the switch.

But on weekends, my vehicle of choice changes from the Vespa to the family car. OK, not by choice but more out of necessity because believe me, if it was legal to drive my family around on the Vespa, I would. It’s quite easy really and definitely not entirely impossible as shown by the many brave (read: deranged) motorcyclist back home in the 80’s.

A combination that would suit my family would consist of Mummy and Daddy riding two-up legally as normal and sane people would. Of course, this wouldn’t do for me because I’ve got three kids. So, the eldest who’s seven, can sit behind Mummy and our 3-year old boy has the pleasure of being squeezed between Mummy and Daddy. Naturally, this is for “safety” reasons as the boy clearly has a weaker grip and the sister, who has a far superior sense of balance, a better chance of surviving any awkward turns.

The youngest at one year-old this month can either try to fit into the glovebox or stand on the frame while holding on to the legshields. As an added “safety” feature, I could tie a piece of rope around him and have that fasten on to the helmet hook. Genius!

Now, you might ask why I would risk the lives of my family members, just to get on the Vespa every day of the week? Well the short answer is parking. In a car, especially on weekends you’d spend half your day looking, searching endlessly like zombies across plains of tarmac for that Lottery-winning equivalent – a free parking spot. Even if you’re lucky enough to find one, they’d be at least two other cars laying claim to the spot which is a different story altogether!

Thankfully, in civilised Ireland (and in certain pockets of sanity in Malaysia), shopping centres and other places of interest have Parent and Child parking spots that in an instant reduces the odds for finding a parking space. If you have kids, you’d understand how important these designated spaces are to your mental well-being.

Unfortunately, very much like Gotham City, Dublin particularly has its fair share of psychotic individuals although these ones don’t overdo it in the make-up department and normally, wouldn’t even fit into tights or penguin suits. Like zombie hordes, these people (if you can call them that) are determined to convert parents all around the world into equally psychotic versions of themselves.

Their modus operandi: take up all the Parent and Child spots around the city or even worse, park their cars at such an angle as to take-up two parking spaces at the same time. How these people manage to do this even with a Mini or a Fiat 500 is beyond me. Truly, the work of the dark arts I tell you.

Anyway, unlike taking up a space designated for the disabled (yes, they are a good few out there who commit this evil deed), it’s not actually illegal to take up Parent and Child spots.

Since vigilantism seems to be all the rage this spring/summer, I’d like to join in the crowd and play my part by avenging all the parents and children who have suffered at the hands of the evil hordes that take up their parking spaces and selfishly take up two parking spaces (bling bling Hummers and Escalades included)!

I might not wear grey lycra tights and my black underwear on the outside. I might consider wearing a cape or a hood to cover my real identity. Considering the world we live in today, I might have to reject applications from any young male teens to tag along with me in my adventures (especially those who have a tendency to run around in green Speedos).

But, what I will most certainly do is SCRATCH the cars that commit the above non-civic deeds to parents and children around the city, the country and the world! Like Zorro, I will leave a mark of shame on these vehicles so that they will know that they have committed a crime against civilised human beings. Unlike the famous swordsman, they’ll be long scratches, visible enough to the naked eye yet nothing too drastic to require a re-spray. Just plain annoying to the car’s owner.

Beware evil-doers. The ChipMan is here!!!


 

End of an era

...and I don't mean the end to Liverpool's European journey last night.

I'm not an emotional kind of guy. At least, I'd like to think so. If things happen to me involving emotional extremes, I'd normally just sleep it off, run a mile or blank it out altogether. I'm good at that. I think it runs in the family. We're just not fond of emotional situations and avoid it like the plague.

Of course these days, there's no avoiding these situations. Either things have become no longer financially viable for some or the emotional pull of home have just become too overwhelming for others. Normally it's a good dose of both.

I've been in Ireland since that summer in 1999 with only a few short breaks back home since then. So, if my maths doesn't fail me, I would have been here, in this foreign land for 11 years this summer. That's a better part of decade. A long time.

Obviously, with the passing of such a length of time, there are bound to be changes in my life or in this case, changes to other people's lives that directly impact mine.

I came to Ireland as a student. And, like most Malaysian students, we'd be sent to faraway places in groups. Out of this larger group, I got to know a great bunch of people. We were somehow each other's support group. A type of dysfunctional family trying to make do with whatever we had.

For some reason, throughout that amazing decade, our paths have always crossed, time and time again. It's not like we set out to be close to each other but like I said, it just turned out that way. It's got to a stage where even our kids have fallen in that same loop.

So, maybe it's not a goodbye to friends that have and will go home. It's just the end of a long overdue era. I'm sure our paths will cross again in the future. I'll probably end up buying the house right beside the same bunch of guys when I eventually get back to Malaysia!

Until we meet again...