I could shower you with diamonds,
the way I’ve given you my heart,
but the ace of spades can’t save me
from this grave I’ve dug,
for myself,
clubbed over the head like a caveman.

When push comes to shove
and it’s all-in
(get your head out of the gutter),
it doesn’t even matter,
that I’ve tripped up
and flushed it all away.

Don’t fold this hand,
it’s special, it is.
Forget the odds,
I’m going down to the river
with you.

.sg 10th riskiest domain

THE next time you click on an unfamiliar website ending with .sg, think twice.

Spam masters are zeroing in on the .sg domain. Singapore was singled out as the 10th-riskiest domain out of 104 worldwide in a recently released McAfee report – and the rise of such sites, said experts, could cause Internet users worldwide to lose trust in Singapore websites.

The report warned that more .sg domains are being used for phishing and spam activities and to serve up viruses – almost one out of every 20 (4.6 per cent) tested by the security company this year.

The jump is spectacular – from just 0.3 per cent last year to 4.6 per cent this year.

In contrast, Hong Kong and Japan were noted for their ‘aggressive steps to clamp down on scam-related registrations’ and stricter registration requirements for domain names.

McAfee senior research analyst Shane Keats noted that pharmacy sites touting pills were the main route used to send spam.

Source: The Straits Times

If the silver screen is a reflection of reality, then Chan Hing-Ka and Janet Chun’s Poker King (2009) has just upped the ante, albeit more than a decade after the boom of the game in the US following the popularity of Hollywood blockbuster Rounders (1998), starring Matt Damon and Edward Norton.

Poker King follows a simple enough storyline: Heir to a casino empire, Jack Chang (Louis Koo) has no interest to take over his father’s business. After the latter passes away, Jack prefers to bury himself in a sea of computer monitors, raking in the cash with Texas Hold’em on the internet. Uno Cheuk (Lau Ching Wan), appointed caretaker of the conglomerate, drags Jack back to the gambling strip in Macau, introduces him to live games, only to oust him from the company in a heads up game. Jack is forced to improve on his live poker, and eventually wins back his father’s empire. Of course, there is also the mandatory sub-plot where he falls in love with a girl, Smiley, played by Stephy Tang.

Throw in the comedy – verging on slapstick, no less – that we have come to expect and love from Hong Kong films, Poker King seems to be another run-of-mill HK production in the tradition of the highly popular God of Gamblers (1989), which inspired a host of spinoffs throughout the 90s.

My only complaint is the superficial treatment of poker per se in the movie. Skill was virtually non-existent, with the exception of Uno’s beautifully played trap after flopping a fullhouse. But like the rest of the poker in this movie, luck played a more important role, and his fullhouse was torn down by a freak runner runner for a split pot. But as an introduction to Texas Hold’em, this simplicity was understandable, and perhaps even necessary.    

But beneath the audio-visual experience of film exists a whole sociological subtext. Where earlier Asian cinema on gambling focused on either Mahjong or 5-card Stud Poker, this is the first time Texas Hold’em has been featured in the East.

Befitting his status as the flag-bearer to Asian poker, 10-time World Series Of Poker (WSOP) champion Johnny “The Orient Express” Chan makes a cameo appearance toward the end of the movie. His onscreen role is negligible, even awkward, but Johnny’s contribution to poker in Asia is priceless. How many young Chinese men have dreamt of playing in the big league like Uncle Johnny? Don’t bluff now, you know you have. Interestingly, Johnny also appeared in a role for Rounders.

Poker King “has the potential to be much, much bigger than Rounders ever was,” said Johnny. “Say there are over one billion Chinese speaking people in the world, now compare that to the United States and their 300 million people. You can see that this could be huge. Rounders gave poker a new lease of life in the West – this could kick start a new poker boom in Asia.”

And he is probably right.

Look at the stellar cast of Asian poker stars that chipped in with cameo roles at the final table of Poker King – including Liz Lieu, Nam Le, and David “Chino” Rheem – there is no doubt the future is burning bright for Asian poker.

The poker boom in Asia will be huge, bigger than anything the West has seen. I’d wager my bottom dollar on it.

Then again.

This video is obviously fake. It has zero evidence of it’s claim, it doesn’t show any cats being eaten by sharks, it doesn’t show any cats being pierced with hooks (although a gloved man pretends to), it doesn’t show anything really. It only shows black cats supposedly dangling from a hook, and a gloved man pretending to hook a kitten…

Source: AdSavvy

Eeeks. What’s worse? Killing kittens for sport, or making a bundle from humans’ compassion?

Either way, watch this video if you haven’t already. Perhaps we should be using humans as bait next.

Save Our Cats and Kittens Society (SOCKSFF)

But this letter, from a irate consumer in India, to Virgin boss Richard Branson, takes the cake.

************************************

Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it:

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn’t custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation:

It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:

I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:

Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:

Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

XXXX

************************************

According to the Telegraph, Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”

Bad move, Paul. Don’t just thank a customer for his feedback. Bloody do something about it!

Capcom’s classic arcade game, Street Fighter returns with a bang on video! Well, not quite. It’s only College Humor up to their usual.

What? Did you expect Ken, Ryu and Chun Li would really be back? We can only hope. For now, enjoy this…

Haduken!

For more, see the full list here in the 10-part series.

Rossi vs. Stoner, with Pedrosa and Lorenzo waiting in the wings. Damn I can’t wait for the season to start. Rossi will just have to make do with the bad luck of me watching. ;p

From MotoGP.com

Valentino Rossi added Laguna Seca to his list of conquered tracks on the MotoGP calendar in a breathtaking Red Bull U.S. Grand Prix, ending Casey Stoner´s run of wins and garnering an important addition to his points tally heading into the summer break.

In contrast to his comments after Saturday´s qualifying session, Rossi needed neither a gun nor a 30-second headstart to stop the man so dominant in practice. Instead he relied on a storming start and his best pace of the weekend to stifle Stoner´s breakaway attempt, presenting himself as the only object between the Australian and a fourth consecutive victory.

A speedy start, some shaky moments and two top caliber riders separated from the rest of the field made for a thrilling race, and the end result of a 33rd victory for Rossi for the factory Yamaha team –equaling his total for previous manufacturer Honda.

The deciding moment of the race came on lap 24, as Stoner and Rossi prepared to enter the home straight. Having battled back-and-forth amongst themselves at every corner, Stoner ran wide onto the gravel. An attempt to dig his left foot in order to push himself back on-track led to a fall for the 22 year-old, although he nonetheless picked the Ducati Desmosedici GP8 back up with a cushion on the timesheet significant enough to allow him to finish second and move up in the overall classification.

“Tell me,” a friend mused. “Why do women like bikers?”

And I’m left scratching my head, wondering just what in the world he’s talking about. I have been riding for a good part of my life now, but it does seem that my bike is less of a chick magnet and more of a giant lodestone for traffic tickets.

Unless you’re Valentino Rossi or Sonny Barger, it is unlikely you have a queue of women stretching from here to the Sepang Circuit that are waiting to jump into the sack with you. Reality check: it is unlikely that you are a 8-time MotoGP World Champion with millions of dollars in the bank and a disarming sense of humour. (Somehow, I figure Rossi has better things to do than read this frivolous article. Like fixing his problems with Yamaha and Bridgestone.)

It is even less likely that you are the awe-inspiring leader of an outlaw motorcycle club. If you had to ask, Sonny Barger is de facto President of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club – yes, the Hells Angels – and one of the most feared and respected characters on two wheels. Needless to say, there are more than a few women fighting (sometimes literally, I reckon) to sleep with this legend.

Unfortunately, it seems the rest of us mere mortals are considerably less desirable in Venus’s eyes.

There is a theory regarding the attraction of bikers that is so male chauvinistic that to publish it is to incur the wrath of any self-respecting woman. But to provide a comprehensive perspective on the subject, I will risk having my eyes gorged out by painted fingernails to broach the topic.

The Theory of Materialism offers to explain why bikers seem to be more popular with younger girls, but suffer from waning attraction in later stages of life. The significantly lower financial costs of owning a motorcycle, compared with a car, allows any 18-year-old in Singapore to possess your own vehicle, even before you’re permitted to vote or watch certain ‘artistic’ movies. And anyone who has had the privilege of taking public transport knows that it is far from an award winning experience at times.

Armed with his new two-wheeler, the young biker eagerly races to impress his female friends. And what an impression a spanking new crotch rocket makes, not least because of the startling jingle of the small 2-stroked engine and modified pipe! Aside from the distinction of sounding like a gas-powered grass-cutter on steroids, the bike represents real freedom from exorbitant midnight taxi fares, stray groping hands onboard crowded train carriages, and the incessant clatter of TV mobile.

But, alas, all good things come to an end, and the appeal of the biker comes crashing down shortly after.
Somewhere between tertiary education and the start of her career, the increased spending power of potential suitors offers women another alternative to the hassle of public transport, and one which they can enjoy in air-conditioned comfort: private cars. Bikes – and bikers – are then seen as a poor substitute, and unceremoniously dumped from the premier league, not unlike Derby County.

An acquaintance noted that a group of guys were “eligible”, solely based on the fact that they drove cars. Another proudly boasts the perceived prowess of her boyfriend’s WRX. I regard both as sad by-products (read: waste material) of our capitalistic world, where the car is a highly desirable symbol of wealth, and the motorcycle a representation of poverty. Never mind that I count at least 10 motorcycles in the market that cost more than the average saloon car. Or that we have enough sense not to straddle a machine that sounds strangely like a common name for a dog. (Rex, geddit?)

Of course, a theory that depicts all women as selfish moneygrubbers must be taken with a hearty serving of salt. That there are a healthy percentage of bikers (myself not included, unfortunately) that do continue to enjoy the amorous attention of the ladies must mean there is little, if any, truth in the hypothesis. And it must also mean that there’s something I’m not doing right. But I digress.

The answer to the initial question lies, I think, not in the physical, demographic descriptions of motorcycle riders, but to their vastly intangible set of attitudes, values and beliefs. More than a means of transport, the motorcycle is a lifestyle; far from the pauper, the biker is the master of his own destiny.

Throughout history, the biker has stood as an icon of rebellion, freedom, and power. With its amazing versatility in manoeuvring across challenging terrain, its light weight which allowed it to be parachuted into strategic positions, as well as its unparalleled swiftness, the motorcycle proved to be the perfect military vehicle during World War II. But its popularity continued even after the war, especially among war veterans and outlaw motorcycle groups in America who found the adrenaline, camaraderie and inherent danger of motorbikes hard to resist.

Across the Atlantic, the growth of the Vespa in Europe as a practical and economical means of commute was met with waves of widespread popularity. But more than a transport tool, the allure of the scooter was in what it truly represented: individualism and independence, regardless of social class or gender.

By the time motorcycles started rolling off factory floors in the Land of the Rising Sun in the 1960’s, the motorbike had already taken its place as a high-powered toy for the carefree, and a machine for recreational sport and leisure.

As a throwback to my earlier assertion, bikers as a group are impossible to define demographically. After all, only a fool would try and claim that all bikers are poor, uneducated, and male. Not only would he be way off the mark, he would also be likely to get his teeth kicked in. Yet, it is evident that the stereotypes persist. On the other hand, not all stereotypes are necessarily damaging, especially with regard to the romantic magnetism of the biker.

Ironically, the biker is helped on by a persistent media bias that paints us in one broad stroke as a bunch of reckless good-for-nothings on whose shoulders the blame for increased traffic accident rates should squarely lie. How much good sense, if any, goes into these allegations, I can’t tell. But I reckon this stereotype has acted as an aphrodisiac on more on one occasion – to the delight of bikers. After all, a relationship with one who lives to the full, on the edge, and thrives on danger, is bound to be much more exciting and pleasurable than an evening with mommy’s boy who prefers the safety of a life in a cage, and likely to get to your knickers only because he bores the pants off of you.

Whether he rides a rebellious chopper, a metrosexual scooter, or a scroungy super-motard is beside the point. As the biker straps on his leathers, parks himself in the saddle of his motorcycle, and fires up the engine, the metal beast roars to life. In that instant, the biker becomes a modern-day gladiator – defying death, embracing freedom, and defending individualism. It is no coincidence that motorcycle manufacturers speak directly to bikers in this language. While Honda attests to “The Power of Dreams”, Triumph encourages you to “Go Your Own Way”. The biker is a passionate freedom fighter, constrained only by his own mind – and the occasional painful reminder of physics. What’s there not to love?

If there is any doubt left as to the legendary allure of the biker, one need only to a time long, long ago, in a land far, far away. In case you’ve forgotten your fairytales: Without fail, Prince Charming rides to the rescue of the damsel in distress on his glorious steed, and sweeps the fair maiden off her feet. Horse-drawn carriages are for the sick, the witches, or the evil step-mothers. Go figure. In this light, it is no wonder then that the contemporary Prince Charming on his iron horse is an irresistible character in an enchanting tale of romance.

Why do women love bikers? It doesn’t matter. The real question in this new era is: why do we find female bikers so darn irresistible? But that’s another story for another time.

Disclaimer: Stanislaus Jude Chan assures you that the only models he is ever dreams of stripping down naked, getting dirty with, and riding late into the night are the Aprilia RS250, and the Ducati 749.

The opinions expressed in this article are his own; he absolves the editors from all liability and threats of decapitation arising from this commentary.

And that was my first thought when I saw Mr Traffic Policeman harassing some poor guy with an old beat-up car at the road shoulder on my way to work this morning on the Central Expressway (CTE).

“I’d better go get my road tax renewed tomorrow,” I said to myself, almost out loud, as I slowed to keep within the speed limit on the 90km/h highway.

What if I renew my vehicle road tax late?

“Please renew the licence before it expire as it is an offence for anyone to keep or use a vehicle without a valid licence in force for the vehicle.

A late penalty fee will be imposed if you do not renew your license by expiry date. Your vehicle may also be impounded and there will be towing and storage fees will then be payable in addition to the arrears of road tax and penalty fees.”

(source: onemotoring.com.sg)

Morning traffic was not as bad today, and it was enjoyable to just cruise without worrying about another black Camry (or was it a Cefiro?) cutting into my lane and causing me to crash. One thing about cars, they all look the same. Haha.

Do you think about a lot of things when you ride, or drive? I’m not sure if it’s against the law in Singapore – apparently everything is – but I like to think when I ride and have all these nice little thoughts and ideas swirl around in my mind. The wind rushing up to greet you and the asphalt disappearing behind you creates a certain magic, very conducive to creative thoughts. At least a dozen great ideas have been born in the saddle of this wild horse.

Then, suddenly, I saw a flash of light on my left mirror. A glance informed me that Mr. TP was signalling me to pull over.

Damn.

It’s a nice morning, do we have to do this? I turned to look at him, and stared straight into soul-less eyes framed with standard-issue dark glasses. Double damn. Sorry dude, you’re not getting me today.

My stare turned into a nod and a half-grin. I snatched at the clutch lever and snapped down two gears. The front-end of the 250 lifted an inch, the engine roared in wild delight, and the bike exploded off the block. I was sprinting like Ben Johnson on drugs, all the way to Olympic infamy. Behind the shades, I caught a glimpse of Mr. TP’s eyes widen in shock. He wasn’t expecting this, for sure.

By the time he blipped his throttle, I was off like a bat out of hell.

But a largely stock, 250cc 2-stroker does not measure up well against a 750cc, souped-up police motorcycle. Especially not in a country with an expressway that is as straight and unbending as its society. Even as my speedometer needle happily climbed past 230km/h, the White Mothership From Hell was fast gaining on me!

“I have to get out of this,” I thought. “Get into some twisties, I’ll surely lose him there.”

One thing about the Aprilia, it’s not as powerful on the straights. No wait, it is damn bloody knn powerful.

Powerful enough to rip one of those pseudo-racer Subarus to shreds, at least. But just not as powerful when you compare to the rest of the superbikes rolling out of Japanese factories like chocolate from Willy Wonka’s.

But on the bends, there’s nothing quite like an Aprilia. A group of not-too-sane Aprilia riders have taken to saying you could pick a coin off the floor as you bank around a tight corner, no problem. I say i could ride with one hand, dig my nose with the other, and place a nice large piece of booger at the apex of each corner at the famous 99 bends – with my eyes closed.

Yes, I’m exaggerating. But you get my drift: the Aprilia is unbeatable at the corners.

According to the most recent official statistics, there are 1,121 Aprilias in Singapore, as of December 2004.

That accounts for a mere 0.8% of the total bike population here, which comes up to about 137,029 motor-heads on 2 wheels.

One thousand, one hundred, and twenty-one (go buy 4D if you want). And Mr. TP picked the wrong one to flag down.

The CTE turned out to be a short sprint. Hell, at that speed, I could get to KL in two hours, no? By the time I hit the final right-side curve before the Ayer Rajah Expressway (AYE), Mr. TP was almost beside me. Above the roar of our engines, the blare of his sirens filled my helmet, swimming around my head like a poisonous gas, intoxicating and choking me with its skeletal fingers.

Blinded, I hit the brakes hard and dived low, throwing my bike into the Bukit Merah exit.

A part of me hoped that manoeuvre would throw Mr. TP off my tail. It was a very naive part of me, I must add. With special training in riding techniques and a career on 2 wheels, Mr. TP was – like all things Singaporean – very efficient. He replicated my actions without batting an eyelid.

For a split-second, it almost felt like The Rise of the Machines, except this terminator breathing down my neck was more real – and some argue, more ghastly!

But at least I’ve got the tighter corners and smaller roads to my advantage now. And now the gloves were really off: cars in the way didn’t matter, pedestrians promptly dove for cover into the bushes (they deserve it lah, bloody always jay-walking), and traffic signal lights went unheeded.

Yes, I ran some 4 red lights, I think. But in my mind, aiyah, after this go make police report that my bike was stolen, kick up a big fuss, and complain that some young punk ran off with and wrecked my bike. Not I riding what, you can’t arrest me!

Hmmm… Maybe I can even write letter to my Member of Parliament (MP). For what I don’t know, but everyone seems to write to their MP to complain about this and that, so just write lah. And somemore I live in Marine Parade GRC, under a super-duper powerful, very senior minister. Eh, but MP got so much time reply to so many letters meh? Even Santa Claus has his elves to reply his mail! Hmmm… Oh ya ok, we have mythical creatures too, I guess. Wouldn’t call them elves though. Haha.

Goodness, where have I learnt to digress so much? Let’s cut back to the chase! (pun intended, of course)

Bukit Merah felt like a scene out of Grand Theft Auto. By this time, another TP motorcycle and a patrol car had joined the pursuit. “Bloody hell, I’m going to be late for work again lah,” I cursed, now more upset than ever. “And you think petrol cheap ah?”

Determined to shake off my “escorts”, I hastily drummed up a plan. Taking a sharp left turn very late, I guided my missile into Depot Road. It’s no joke, taking on a 50 km/h road at three times the limit, but I had spent my childhood cycling around the estate at Depot Road, and I knew the place like the wrinkles on my forehead – there are but a few to speak of, but I look at them every day and know them very well.

The little lanes, which by now were filled with cars and people rushing to work, slowed the men in white down a little. Ah, the advantages of a small bike! By the time I hit the end of Depot Road, I was some 30 metres ahead of my pursuers. And just about ready to launch my plan into action. But the timing had to be immaculate.

I said a silent prayer.

At the T-junction to the main road (Alexander Road, I believe. I wasn’t stopping to read road signs, that’s for sure) the traffic light was not in my favour.

Damn.

Prayers do get answered. I ran the light (what do you mean “again”? One more won’t make a difference) and spun unto the main road, hit the brakes, banked hard left, and throttled off again. A black Camry – oh sweet irony – swerved wildly to avoid hitting me, and was promptly rear-ended by a taxi.

The “bang, bang, bang” of a 6-car pile-up in the middle of the yellow box junction never sounded sweeter.

Not daring to look back for more than a half-second, I made one last sharp turn, this time into the old beer garden beside SAJC. Easing off the throttle as the sound of the sirens bated, I brought the now wheezing rs250 to a stop on one of the smaller dirt tracks.

Waving a sad farewell, I walked back to the main road and flagged down a taxi. The driver must have been amused and awfully confused to pick up a passenger with a helmet but no bike, screaming into the phone about a stolen motorcycle, and demanding something be done immediately, or the MP will be notified.

Oh, what a day. Had to dump my bike, waste $10 on a taxi (the bloody jam!), late for work again, and put on a Oscar-winning performance to the police.

Hope they find my bike soon and return it to me.

I still have to renew my road tax tomorrow!
*** THE END ***

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Well, not quite.

The Prologue

My road tax for my Aprilia rs250 expired 3 days ago.

And that was my first thought when I saw Mr. TP was harassing some poor guy with an old beat-up car at the road shoulder on my way to work this morning on the Central Expressway (CTE).

“I’d better go get my road tax renewed tomorrow,” I said to myself, almost out loud, as I slowed to keep within the speed limit on the 90km/h highway.

And before I knew what was going on, Mr. TP pulls up next to me, signalling for me to stop at the road shoulder.

And I do, cursing, but only under my breath.

No chain guard, no mud guard, number plate obscured. Damn.

“Please lah, give chance lah ok?” I plead, still half-asleep.

He books me for the chain guard, which is a breach of safety. Then comes my Oscar performance.

“Road tax?” he asks.

“Huh? What road tax?” I walk to my bike, walk around it, then walk back to his bike which is parked behind mine. “Oh, you want me pass you the whole road tax disk, or just want the number?”

He gives me a blur look.

“There is a number on the road tax I’m supposed to get, is it?” I continue.

“Nevermind,” he shakes his head, thinking what an idiot this rider is, don’t even know what road tax, chain guard and mud guard are.

I now wait for a letter for my chain guard offence.

But at least my bike was not impounded.

I still have to renew my road tax tomorrow!

*** the end, for real***

And I do mean awe. How does someone with a name like Manny Pacquiao make it big in boxing? In Singapore’s colloquial slang, Pacquiao is translated literally as “shoot bird”, popularly taken to mean one who is cock-eyed and regularly misses the target. “A lot of misses” is hardly a sound name for a top boxer.

But you don’t make fun of a guy who has been called the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world, even if that term is the most useless piece of information since, well, the last edition of The Straits Times.

Pound-for-pound, a rhinoceros beetle is the strongest creature in the world, capable of supporting up to 850 times its own weight; pound-for-pound, the froghopper spittlebug is the greatest jumper, propelling itself more than 140 times its own height. (The equivalent of me bench-pressing 5 SBS double-decker buses and jumping over the Singapore Flyer with plenty of room to spare.) But no, pound-for-pound is a stupid statistic, as my bug-swatter and I can attest to. But, again, you don’t make fun of a guy who can sweep Oscar de la Hoya aside like he was an insect.

As Pacquiao rained blow after blow on his opponent, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of national pride. Until I remembered I wasn’t Filipino.

Kudos and heartiest congratulations to the Philippines. The archipelago — renowned for its call centres and domestic helpers than sports excellence — has achieved more than Singapore dares to beg Santa Claus for, even with all our money and infrastructural superiority.

And while the Philippines celebrates the victory of Manny Pacquiao, we are left to rue the sorry, cock-eyed state of Singapore sports.

It isn’t for lack of trying: the starting up of the Singapore Sports School, winning the bid to host the Youth Olympics Games 2010, and the first-ever F1 Grand Prix night race at the Marina Bay circuit are a poke in the right direction.

But for the pragmatic state, sports represents a new way of raking in the money. The country earned some $1 billion from sports and related industries last year, local media reported this month.

Yet, Singapore sports is still a bloody mess.

I suspect Minister Mah is still red-faced from his prediction that we would make it to the World Cup in 2010. Again, it’s not like we didn’t try.

Like Manchester City FC, Singapore has deep pockets. And like the English Premier League club, it is learning that money cannot buy you everything. Attempts to raid the international transfer market and “buy” foreign-born talents for its national team have been both farcical and futile.

With close to half the Singapore team bearing unfamiliar names, the Football Association of Singapore has estranged its own supporters. While Kallang roared in the past for local born and bred heroes like Quah Kim Song, Fandi Ahmad, and V Sundramoorthy, there is hardly a whimper around the stadiums as we struggle to pronounce the names of the current crop of footballers donning the national jersey, including John Wilkinson and Daniel Bennett (from England), Shi Jiayi and Qiu Li (China), Mustafic Fahrudin (Serbia), Aleksander Duric (Bosnia), Agu Casmir, Precious Emuejeraye and Itimi Dickson (Nigeria), Egmar Goncalves (Brazil), Mirko Grabovac (Croatia), and Bah Mamadou (Mali). We have an international cast that Arsene Wenger can only envy, and still don’t look like a side capable of making it into the World Cup. The difference now is: with a team we can’t identify with, we don’t even care if we make it.

But foreign imports are not exclusive to Singapore football. Singapore’s Olympic flag-bearer and table-tennis star Li Jiawei is from China (as are the rest of her teammates and coaches), and admitted in a TV interview that she was keen to do well at the Beijing Olympics Games in 2008 “as a Beijinger, and a Chinese national, Beijing is my home ground and I hope to do well”. Did I forget to mention that she was Singapore’s flag bearer?

The only Singaporean of note associated with the table-tennis team is the STTA president and PAP MP Lee Bee Wah, whose ill-timed comments about bringing coaches to task for a dismal performance at the Games sparked threats of an en masse walkout and culminated in her public apology.

Or perhaps Sean Lee, who is still on the run from an angry mob of ruggers waiting to maul him, after absconding with some $500,000 from the Singapore Rugby Union in 2005.

In that light, perhaps it’s not all a bad thing that Singaporeans stopped being involved in our own sports after all.