More Important Than Life and Death?

Manchester United and Liverpool go head-to-head again this Sunday. The fixture, played at Old Trafford, is definitely THE league game of the season for any self-respecting United or Liverpool fan. Even the regional derbies, against Everton and Manchester City, respectively, fails to take on the significance of this battle.

It makes sense, as United and Liverpool are the two most successful clubs in English history, with 18 titles each. Liverpool has the better record in Europe and the League Cup, while United is the most successful team to participate in the FA Cup.

Though both clubs are now struggling to deal with the fallout from debt-fueled takeovers by mercenary owners, the game will still be played with nothing less than the usual amount of passion, aggression and fervour of players who know what the fixture means to the fans and the club.

Still, this game also brings out the worst in the fans and is one of the times that I am glad to be an Asian fan, able to appreciate the club while escaping the need to spew bile and venom at rival fans.

Liverpool fans have often mocked the Munich tragedy which robbed United of the Busby Babes. The jeers and cruel remarks are in poor taste and utterly disgusting.

A reference to the Munich airplane crash, where almost the entire United team were killed.

United fans are no better, with their refrains of "96 Scousers not being enough" and references to Liverpool fans as 'waffles'. I recently found out what the two phrases meant and was left feeling rather sickened.

96 scousers is a reference to the Liverpool fans killed in the Hillsborough disaster, which is still the deadliest football tragedy in British history.

The "waffle" comment is about the same incident, and is a "description" of the men, women and children who were killed when the surging crowd smashed them into the stadium fencing.

YSB stands for You Scouse Bastards. One United fan actually had this replica jersey done. Sick fuck.

Dissing the players, dissing the clubs, mocking the teams' failures - that's all fair game. Take the piss all you want. Bestow pudgy Rafa Benitez with unflattering titles like Fat Spanish Waiter. Call the un-beautiful Gary Neville Rat Face, if you will.

But jeering at losses of life, making fun of unnecessary tragedy - that's just off. Unfortunately, some fans seem to throw all sense out the window the moment they slip on their replica jersey.

After all, despite the competition and the rivalry, football - and any other sport at the end of the day - is just a game. It's not more important than life and death, despite what Bill Shankly may have once said.

Independence. Yeah, right.

Malaysia celebrated its 53rd independence day just over a fortnight ago. As always, there were enough parades, platitudes and shows of patriotism to make one gag.

The overwhelming displays of national pride, for me, usually results in paroxysms of public spirit. Most years, I would dutifully stand up and sing the national anthem, and thank God to have been born and to live in this land of milk and honey.

This year, something was different. Was it the cumulative effect of a largely crappy year? Was it a result of finally opening my eyes to reality? Was it overwhelming cynicism? I don't know. All I know is that there was only one thought in my mind most of the time; that Independence for a lot of people in this country merely meant a change from one overlord to another.

Is it an unfair statement to make? Perhaps. Can I be excused for feeling that way? Let's see. Malaysia is independent. Yet, I am still often told that I am a squatter, an immigrant. I am often told that I should go back to "my homeland" if I don't like the way things are run over here. The fact that I am a fourth-generation Malaysian whose family has been here for almost 100 years has no bearing whatsoever on things. As far as the government and a lot of the people are concerned, I am and always will be a second-class citizen who should be thankful that I'm "allowed" to live in this country.

My people are the poorest of the poor. They have no affirmative action policies in their favour, despite many of them being no better than slaves. My community has the highest crime rates, the highest alcoholism rates, the highest domestic abuse rates, the highest proportion of people in prison. While others grow fat and happy with their mouths firmly locked on the teat of Malaysia's bounty, there is an entire generation of my people dull-eyed and sullen faced, kicked in the teeth one too many times by a system and a country that has failed them.

Where's our place in the sun?

Thousands of us died laying the roads most people walk on today. Thousands spent their lives as bonded labourers in estates around the country. Thousands still do. Thousands served faithfully in the early civil service only to be later cast asunder as Malaysia forged its identity in this Brave New World.


With this as a backdrop, should I feel guilty for not frothing at the mouth with patriotism? Should I feel guilty for being less than enthused that "my country" has been independent for 53 years? Perhaps I should. But I really don't and really don't care that I don't.

In Books, I Find Solace

Books are good. They entertain, educate and give me comfort. A book is always there for me. It doesn't judge me or decide it doesn't like me.
A book doesn't irritate me and I can't irritate it. I can't bore a book, though a book can, sometimes, bore me.

My books are my friends. Scratch that. My books are my family. They give me solace in my dark moments. I read my Khalil Gibran, or at times, my Bible, when I need words of wisdom and comfort. I read Calvin and Hobbes or Tintin when I want to laugh or smile.
When I crave tales of adventure or derring-do, I leaf through the glossy pages of my Supermans, Batmans and other costumed crusaders. Or, if I'm feeling more old school, I read my Poirots or gingerly pick through the dog-eared pages of my Robin Hood, written in Old English.
Sometimes, when I feel like a good caper or courtroom thriller, I decide to go for the Jeffrey Archers or John Grishams. And then there are the classics. Harper Lee, JD Salinger, the Johns Irving and Steinbeck.
I have a book for every mood. For when I'm feeling light and breezy or dark and dismal. My books don't let me down.
With a book, familiarity does not breed contempt. And absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.
I know my books will never let me down.