On Cooking

Cooking's one of the things I really enjoy doing, I've discovered. There's a simplicity and a rightness to it that's just so hard to find in other activities.

Today my sister and I cooked dinner for our parents. Three courses, relatively little fuss. To start, we had a mushroom soup, which was good if a little on the thick side. Then a braised lamb shank, which was rather huge and salty. The trouble with braising is that you can never judge just how long you need to keep it simmering. And a nice panna cotta for dessert. Yum yum.

Plus, plus, I've got myself a new cookbook! Cuisine Unplugged by Emmanuel Stroobant. His presentation is just to die for. Although I realised that many of his recipes are actually not all that practical. I figured I can use about 3/8 of them. That's like, 2 ounces.

So if I invite you over to dinner in the near future, chances are you can expect to be served something out of my new book.

On Duty

If you walk past Hotel Phoenix along Orchard Boulevard, you will see an elderly doorman plying his trade.

As is the habit of many hotels, the doorman is outfitted with an outrageous costume that rather makes him look like an old colonial sahib. Dressed in a safari hat and a matching khaki safari shirt and shorts, he even comes complete with knee-high white socks. Give him a shotgun and he might pass for a Chinese Allan Quartermain. Give him a whip and he might start to look like something out of a bad romance novel.

What would you think, if you walked past him, observing him directing the cars through his thick glasses, not at all self-conscious of either his attire or his wrinkles?

Perhaps you may be inclined to pity him, for the indignity he has been subjected to, for the thrall the chains of capitalism hold over him.

Or maybe, just maybe, you may feel he is the happiest man in the world.

It's all a matter of perspective.

On Phones

There is a phone in the office that rings occasionally.

Every time it rings and we pick it up, it's invariably a wrong number.

"Sorry," we have to tell them, "you've got the wrong number."

But what if it's not a wrong number?

What if it's the right number, merely the wrong caller?

On Blogs

I had no idea so many people I knew kept blogs I didn't know about. I must be really out of it. New links added.

On Holds

I experienced a gripping pain today - almost as if Pain herself was caressing my lower spine. I writhed in my seat, attempting to twist the hurt away. Yet to no avail, she brushed whichever nerve she was clutching, and the pain would not leave.

Mind over matter, I tried to tell myself, there is no physical pain, merely mental weakness. But Pain smiled shyly, and my composure dissolved before her gentle onslaught. Her hold on my body was strong, and my body's hold over my mind was stronger yet.

I could not dissociate body and mind, and could not dispel that corporeal pain. She gripped my back, through my back, through muscle and sinew, and I found it hard to stand.

Eventually, she relinquished her claim on my body, and my mind sighed and went mad with relief. Before she departed, she whispered to me, "Be thankful I loved your back, and not your heart."

On Faces

Ooh look, a new template. How terribly exciting. I should probably have paid more attention to learning HTML in secondary school. Maybe I'll just pay someone to do it for me.

Leave your card, and I'll get back to you.

On Work

What's the best thing about office work, people ask.

Well, it's when you get to read things like this:
According to the Chairman of the Committee for Celebrating Anwar’s Return, Datuk Kamarul Baharin Abbas, his committee proposed that the people be gathered in one specific area so that there would be no complications and to ensure that congestion would be avoided.

Now that's interesting, isn't it?

The Committee for Celebrating Anwar's Return.

Wow, that's like the Committee of Extreme Redundancy of People Who Have Nothing Better To Do. I mean, what are they going to call themselves after he returns? The Former Committee for Celebrating Anwar's Return? The Committee that Celebrated Anwar's Return? The Labour Party?

Honestly. Sometimes humanity can be so weird.

On Animals

So the other day the most bizarre thing happened to me.

I was at the supermarket buying some groceries, and as I reached in to grab the last bottle of cooking wine, something bit me.

I yelled and pulled out my hand, which was bleeding.

"Christ," I said, "I hope I don't get rabies."

"I'm not carrying rabies, a**hole," said the thing that bit me.

And there, emerging from where it'd been gnawing at the instant noodles, was a rat.

Wow, I thought, a talking rat.

On Tuition

Thinking of giving 'A' and 'S' Level Economics tuition to supplement my meagre income. Unfortunately have no customers.

Anyone who's interested or knows anyone who's interested can contact me. Fees negotiable. Am quite qualified.

On Links

New link to Damien's very funny site added.

Am thinking of adding a comment feature to the blog. Quite enamoured with this 'interactive' web site business. Might do my bit for fostering creativity. Only problem is I have no idea how to install a comments system.

On History

So I was digging through some old documents and discovered an old play I'd written last year. It was this comedy thing about World War I, expressing my sincere irritation and frustration with my History document paper. I do hope all future A Level History students feel the same way. Misery loves company.

It's been ages since I've posted something quite funny here, so I thought maybe this'll do. Plus the idea of some old scholar searching for articles on World War I stumbling across my post was funny in itself.

It's in the style of Blackadder, but I don't really know why. Possibly something to do with my watching Blackadder as I was writing it, but I can't be sure. Some knowledge of World War I is required.

To all history students who found the document paper a pain in the ass:

IT ALL STARTED WITH A CRAP

CAST

FRANZ FERDINAND, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne
WIFE, heiress to the Austro-Hungarian throne
DRIVER
GAVRILO PRINCIP
FRANZ JOSEF, Austro-Hungarian Emperor
COUNT BERCHTOLD, Austro-Hungarian Foreign Minister
SERBIAN MINISTER
SIR EDWARD GREY, British Foreign Secretary
VON BETHMANN-HOLLWEG, German Chancellor
VIVIANI, French Prime Minister
POINCARé, French President
PRINCE LICHNOWSKY, German Ambassador to Britain
COUNT SAZONOV, Russian Foreign Minister
NICHOLAS II, Russian Tsar
VON SCHLIEFFEN, German Military Planner
VON MOLTKE THE ELDER, ageing German General
WILHELM II, German Kaiser



ACT ONE

SCENE. Random road in Sarajevo on 28th June, 1914. Old car moving slowly along
random road.

FRANZ FERDINAND. Shitty-shitty-bang-bang! Shitty-shitty-bang-bang!

WIFE (impatiently). For God’s sake, Franz, why didn’t you say so while we were in Budapest?

(A grenade is thrown into the car.)

WIFE (in alarm). Dear God, what’s that?

FRANZ FERDINAND. It’s just a pebble from these tacky Serbian roads, dear. We really should buy one of those fancy English sun-roofs.

WIFE. No, you fool! It’s a grenade! Take cover!

(Wife leaps out of the car. Franz Ferdinand covers his ears. The grenade fails to explode.)

(Minutes later…)

FRANZ FERDINAND (in discomfort). Driver, pull over. I wish to take a crap at the world famous Serbian dung-hole.

DRIVER. What, you mean the royal palace?

FRANZ FERDINAND. No, I mean that hole by the bushes over there.

(Car pulls over. Gavrilo Princip walks out of bushes, zipping up his trousers. Sees Franz Ferdinand and wife. Takes out a gun and shoots them.)

ACT TWO, SCENE ONE

SCENE. Throne room of Emperor Franz Josef in Vienna. Franz Josef paces around,
newspaper in hand, bushy moustache twitching. Foreign Minister Berchtold
stands aside.

FRANZ JOSEF (irritated). By the Holy Mother’s unmentionable mole! That fool Ferdinand’s gone and got himself shot! Look at that! (Gestures at paper.) Front page! He looks like an idiot, his fat gob wide open, blood and spit dribbling down his face. Now the whole damn world thinks we Austrians look like that!

BERCHTOLD. We do, Your Majesty, especially when we’ve had some goulash.

FRANZ JOSEF. Not the point! Mother of God, Ferdinand is so stupid, he’s got as much brains as a royal eunuch has testicles. No, I exaggerate; he has less.

BERCHTOLD. Pity about his wife, though. She was quite a woman.

FRANZ JOSEF. Don’t I know it! Whoa! What a tomcat she was under the sheets!

BERCHTOLD (to himself, as he looks out the window). In the broom closet too.

(Turns to Franz Josef.)

Still, Majesty, we may be able to turn this PR disaster to our advantage.

FRANZ JOSEF. Oh yes? How do we do that? Send his remains to Germany as ammo for their Dreadnoughts? His head’s probably harder than any of their cannonballs, after all. It’s not like we have any use for it, we have more than enough plungers in the royal toilets already. Perhaps the cook would like a new whetstone.

BERCHTOLD (smiling). No, Your Majesty, we use this incident to crush Serbia like how I will crush the mosquito biting my face. (Slaps face.) Shit, I missed.

ACT TWO, SCENE TWO

SCENE. Serbian house of government. Serbian minister reads Austrian ultimatum.

MINISTER. Article VIII, punishment of those implicated. Article IX, suppression of anti-Hapsburg…thingies, can’t quite make out the print here. Article X, you let us take part in a judicial inquiry or we’ll blast you back to the manure fields from whence you came, Serbian cowpats! We’ve got our German buddies to back us up, and you’ve only got those lazy Russian…ooh, don’t think I’ve seen that swear-word before. So eat that, Serbian turd dogs! I think it loses something in the translation.

ACT THREE

VO. As the July Crisis gathered speed, much as a storm cloud gathers mass, the main protagonists were doing their utmost to avoid a conflict.

British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, putting the matter before parliament. (Sir Edward asleep in the House of Commons, during the PM’s speech, snoring loudly.)

German Chancellor von Bethmann-Hollweg, exploring diplomatic avenues. (Bethmann-Hollweg in the bath, playing Soldiers with his rubber duckies, humming “La Marseillaise”.)

French ministers Viviani and Poincaré, lost at sea, as usual. (VIVIANI (pointing). That’s not Lyons, that’s Algeria!)

Meanwhile, diplomatic discussions continue between all parties, to make clear each country’s position.

SIR EDWARD (to Prince Lichnowsky). Look, you slimy German sauerkraut-sucker, you’d better tell your lunkhead of a Kaiser that Britain isn’t going to stand for any funny business between you and France! So tell him to sod off. No…that’s sod…with an ‘s’…S-O-D. Here, let me translate…(makes a rude gesture)

SIR EDWARD (to Sazonov). Look, you poncy Russian git, this is your stupid war! Thought you were so clever, didn’t you? (puts on bad Russian accent) Ve make var, so no revolution! (uses normal voice) Well, I’d much prefer a revolution than being conquered by the bloody Germans, thank you very much. Wouldn’t mind someone trying to knock ol’ King George’s block off. Wouldn’t mind doing it myself, the ugly clot.

POINCARé (to Sazonov). Non, non! I tell you that we were at sea, at SEA, you smelly Russian! That big blue watery thing you Russians don’t have! Non, that’s NOT my handwriting! Le Republique doesn’t want your war! Merde!

BETHMANN-HOLLWEG (to Berchtold). Do you like chicken with your goulash? Good, then you’ll love the French.

NICHOLAS II (writing a telegram to Wilhelm II). Dear cousin Willy, couldn’t we talk about this? Surely one little assassination isn’t so important? Pity about the wife, though, she put the ‘orgy’ in Vyborg.

VO. Eventually, of course, due to the inflexibility of the German Schlieffen Plan, which had taken hours of planning and could not be altered…

VON SCHLIEFFEN (holding up maps). Ah, Moltke, what do you think of my vacation plans for the summer? Even includes railway timetables, eh, how about that?

VON MOLTKE (digging his ear and wheezing). Eh? Timetables? Oh, the new war plans. Thanks.

… “the nations slithered over the brink into the boiling cauldron of war” as Lloyd George put it, to the consternation of citizens and ‘A’ Level students everywhere.

WILHELM II (sucking a sauerkraut). Hurrah! Pity about the wife though…

THE END

On Others

Someone asked me the other day, "Hey, why don't you have a girlfriend?"

I looked at him and replied, "Well, you know how it is, I'm not really very good with animals."

On Flares

As a child, I once read that in twenty billion years time, the sun would flare up as a white giant as it comes to the end of its (presumably satisfying) life.

In the process, Mercury would be consumed, Mars would wither before the onslaught, and as for Earth, well, all the polar ice caps would finally melt and drown half the world, and the other half needn't worry, because they would simply shrivel up like slugs that've been liberally sprinkled salt.

I remember thinking at the time, what an awful fate...waking up one morning to discover you can now take a cruise to Mongolia, then discovering that it's 206 degrees out. I pondered over whether it would happen gradually, like the world boiling over, or in a flash.

Never quite occurred to me that I wouldn't be alive in twenty billion years time, and, most probably, neither would the human race.

I find that idea oddly comforting.

On Films

I think I have a thing for foreign films.

I watched Goodbye Lenin because it was supposed to be very funny and had something to do with the fall of communism, I watched Amelie because I had to for some GP lesson, I watched The Swimming Pool because it had such a sophisticated title, I watched Brotherhood of the Wolf because I was bored, and I watched 8 Women because I had to.

Last night I watched Kolya because it happened to be on Channel i, and I continued watching because it was in Czech. I didn't get to finish it though, so if anyone knows where I can find the VCD, do tell.

Interestingly enough, the French Film Festival's just around the corner. I feel like watching Monsieur N just because it's about a short man, and 5 x 2 because I think Francois Ozon has a nice name. Unfortunately, I don't have anyone to watch them with! What's this world coming to, when no one wants to attend the French Film Festival anymore? What happened to all the pretentious, faux arty teenagers of my generation? Back in the good old days one would jump at an opportunity of being seen at an - ooh-la-la - Film Festival.

Okay all right, maybe not so much jump as raise an eyebrow. Same difference.

On Dawn

I'm on this whole Lucifer binge at the moment. I've gone and bought myself a few issues of the graphic novel.

Those of you who've known me long enough will know I've always had this peculiar fascination for things diabolical and demonic. I've never known why, though I doubt it has anything to do with my habit of spilling blood in the moonlight.

It's probably because I identify with the Fall. I too, like the Morningstar, have fallen and can't get up.

On Knowledge

Is there ever a case of knowing too much?

The problem with human beings is that they know too little, and very often whatever they do know is not particularly important.

Dogs and cats know when they're about to die, and have the common decency to go away and do it. Elephants, in their pachydermous way, know exactly where the graveyard is and go die away from the herd.

All manner of beasts and plants know when it's about to rain and take action accordingly.

What do humans know?

We don't know when we're going to die. Just look at Attila the Hun, who died while having sex. How traumatic must that have been for his partner? I wonder if that counts as necrophilia? Maybe it depends on whether he died pre- or post-coitus.

Of all the basic survival skills, we only know how to find a mate, and even that is debatable.

Think about it. How much do you know?

On Identity

You know, when you think about the number of people having to go through national service at any one period of time, you come to the inescapable conclusion that there must be this room in MINDEF where they store all the pink ICs. It's probably like a giant Rollerdex or something. What a bizarre thought.