GOL?

by Kubhaer T. Jethwani

People are moaning about the World Cup too much.

They are moaning about the vuvuzelas, they are moaning about how boring the games have been, they are moaning about people moaning about the World Cup. They are moaning about the ball, about Danny Lim giving them four 2.30am games… so much moaning, so few orgasms.

C’est la vie, no?

New Zealand’s All Whites vs Slovakia’s All Blues with White Adidas Trim looked to be the most boring match on paper last night but probably turned out to be the most exciting.

That being said, I didn’t watch much of it as it turned out to be a traditional drunken Indian macha night with JB Jack, Sasi the Don, and Ravi LengChai. We hit up a bar called “D’Legends” in TTDI where they are offering a freeflow of Guinness and Tiger draft during half-time. 15 minutes of free(dom). Incidentally, what’s with the Malaysian obsession to put a D, D’ or De’ in front of EVERYTHING to make it sound more schwang? De’café, D’Tandoor, De’Backside. Macam-macam lah.

Anyway. The game was going on in the background. Up to Vittek’s goal, the most excitement was two guys blowing their noses no more than 15 seconds apart from each other, one from each team. The Kiwi guy looked like Martin Keown. HeeHaw.

Luckily, it’s easy to generate your own entertainment when you are in the company of your machas. Put four handsome Indian men (some more CLEO than the others) at a bar and give them some booze and the conversation may not be particularly enlightening or deep, but it’s certainly funny.

“Is this the Malaysian referee?”

“Wah, after this sure CONFIRM Datuk.”

“Sure confirm masuk Malaysian Book of Records… First Botak Malaysian wearing Yellow in a World Cup in South Africa as Referee.”

And like most ambitious Indians, the conversation eventually steered to opening businesses together, going on holiday abroad, picking up chicks, and so on and so forth. The beauty of a rapper, two editors, and a potentially dahsyat director having a conversation with each other is in the rhythm of the sentences. The setups, the punch lines, the tempo, the “JOooooo NO lahhh, not like that” interruptions… I forget what brilliant linguists us machas can be.

That’s right, I’m a macha. Fair skinned brudders gotta represent too, aightt?

“After we open the business, I think I’m going to go get my flying license. You know Prem, the guy who always lepak at TDH? That f’ler got his license. Havoc weiiiii!”

“JO! I’m not going to open a business with you if you are going to get your flying license. You’ll just cheat me and then fly away.”

Then in a moment of drunken realisation, I looked around the empty bar and realised we were 3 tables of machas, all guys, all drinking, all having very animated conversations with our hands… and all probably talking about very similar things: How to improve our lot elsewhere. How to escape.

I think it’s safe to say that, at least for my group, at least for JB Jack and myself, at least for me… that we LURVE Malaysia, but the sense of disenchantment among the Indians is ridiculous. MIC doesn’t represent us, neither does Makkal Sakthi, or whoever else is purporting to be furthering the Indian cause in Malaysia. Sure, there must be some very dedicated people within those parties working very hard to improve our lot here… but… you know. So malas to even write about it. Better we scheme and plot about how to get rich or die tryin’ (we all want to be Fiddy).

“Come-lah, let’s go to Amsterdam.”

“Kamla is my grandmother’s name.”

“JO! Got random people using your line! Someone in the club said that to me the other day… his grandmother’s name wasn’t even Kamla! Only yours and mine are really 100% Kamla.”

“Yeah balls, that line is trademarked.”

Back to football…

You know who else must be moaning? Australia.

Firstly, they should blame themselves for calling their team the Socceroos and giving them ugly jerseys. I suppose adding the suffix “roo” to anything automatically makes it Australian? That would mean the Wayne Rooney fan club of Australia would call themselves the “RooneyRoos”… Basketballeroos, Snookeroos, In-line Skateroos.

That heartbreaking bitterness, the feeling of a splintery wooden spoon being forced into Aussie hearts must be akin to Malaysians watching Singapore succeed… at anything. After watching their Socceroos get completely nasi lemak-ed by the German team a few nights ago, they watch the All Whites equalize in the 93^rd minute and get their first WC points ever. It completely interrupted our conversation and we started cheering the Kiwi audacity to score an injury time goal.

“This is the beauty of football. You can just watch the goals.”

Motivation for the future came when Reid took his shirt off and we were forced to contemplate his abs. Havoc wei. We are such a group of handsome fatties.

“This is why all the women we want are being fucked by other people. We need to have bodies like that. I’m going to run home (to Subang) from here.”

Later on that night, we were shelling Ngan Yin and throwing the nuts into the left over Kam Heong sauce so we could mix it up and then use it as sambal on the Hokkien Mee we tapau for the Portugal game. It’s a culinary breakthrough I tell you. Kam Heong Peanuts. Texture & flavor… use it as a condiment or eat it like you would a chili con carne.  Delishes. Zahir tried to stop us by showing us the ridiculous abs that Christiano Ronaldo has, but when you’ve got Kam Heong Peanuts, nothing can stop you.

We are planning a trip to Brazil for the 2014 World Cup. Our dress code is going to be “gold chain and jeans”. No shirts allowed. Ok maybe singlet can, but only to help with sunburn.

“If you don’t have your sixpack, you can’t come.”

“What if I bring my barrel?”

“Shut up.”

Macha-m macha-m ada.

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