World Cup 2018 Pt.2

We need to get a little perspective on this World Cup from a certain Nationalistic point of view.

Let’s look at some population figures for Nations of the World:

         Iceland     334,252

         Uruguay   3.44 Million

         Panama    4.034 Million

         Tunisia     11.4 Million

         Australia  24.13 Million

         Malaysia   31.19 Million

         Morocco   35.28 Million

Just a ‘random’ selection. What do they all have in common?

Two things:

1.           They all love football.

2.           They all qualified for the World Cup in 2018*.

*Oh, except for Malaysia.

Japan and South Korea qualified from Asia. Saudi Arabia and Iran qualified from Asia, too. 

Senegal qualified from Africa – they are not known as a great footballing Nation and yet…

Where is the excuse for Malaysia? Thailand have a better record as does Indonesia. Even Singapore that is more noted for its expertise in money launderi… er… economics than it is in sport is better at football than Malaysia and yet Malaysians love football.

Where are they when it comes to World Cup qualifying?

The United States still harbours ideas of having Baseball or American Football as a World sport; their devotion to soccer is illusory at best although the MLS is gradually gaining momentum. Yet the USA does better in World Cup qualification than many ‘Football Mad’ countries.

This time Paraguay and Ecuador are not represented. Mexico, of course, are in Russia but nobody expects Belize or Puerto Rico to join in.

Colombia is riddled with crime and drugs but they are with us.

Why is Malaysia not represented?

Perhaps because the organisation of football in Malaysia is haphazard and cursed with cronyism. Maybe the players have no enthusiasm for the big game or they are expecting to have Indonesians or Bangladeshis to be hired to do the work for them?

It is true that we do not see football academies here. We see, locally, the Kuala Lumpur Football Club practising near my home but we do not see youth players. Relying on the National Sports Training Complex at Bukit Jalil is not enough. Their structure is too limited for each individual sport.

The State and League Clubs have to pitch in and work with the youngsters just as West Ham, Chelsea, Manchester United do in UK. 

Having a small population is no excuse as we see from the figures above.

Next time I want to see Zambia and Kenya take part. I expect to see Indonesia or Thailand qualify.

Malaysia? A nice dream that is just not going to happen until somebody takes the game – especially at grass roots, by the scruff of the neck and shakes some sense into it.

World Cup 2018 Pt. 1

I am disappointed.

For four years we have looked forward, as we do every time, to the FIFA World Cup.

That’s ‘we’ who are avid football fans.

Some of you are aware that I enjoy Club Football. International football is never the same.

Sad, but true.

International football tends to garner a bunch of excellent players who fail to gel and play together as a team.

Such is true of most International team sports, of course, when compared to Club or County teams.

Nevertheless, the World Cup has a special place in my heart.

It is a month of concentrated football where we can sit back and enjoy the multitude of talents on display.

Not this time.

There have been a number of teams, mostly, I am unhappy to report, South American sides whose sole endeavour is to cheat.

This is not restricted to South American sides and there are teams from that beautiful place who have not resorted to these vile tactics; I am not trying to paint everyone with the same general brush.

It appears to me that some of the best players in the World – by reputation, have resorted to some of the meanest tactics.

Neymar, for example, is a superb player. No doubt about that and yet he spends much time in each fixture simulating fouls and appealing to the referee for a free kick or, worse, a penalty.

The last time he played I noticed four appeals for a penalty – one of which he succeeded in being awarded.

Ronaldo is another one who does not need to play act and yet he does. Exaggerated rolling around to convince the referee that he is mortally wounded does not cut it for me.

In my experience as a referee the players who are actually hurt are inclined to lay still. Furthermore, clutching your face/head after being tapped in the leg is less than convincing.

There is too much of it.

Last night I watched, with considerable interest, England take on Panama.

In one instance a player named Godoy fouled the England striker Kane in the penalty area. What irritated me was that the VAR (Video Assistant Referee) team failed to pick up the fact that he punched, viciously, Kane in the back just blow his (Kane’s) neck. This is violent misconduct and deserves an immediate red card but nobody seemed to see it. Yet, in my household, even my wife, who was not really watching, shouted, “Whoa! That fellow hit the chap in the white shirt!”

Watching the Panamanian defender, Torres, was also upsetting. Very often when there was a free kick awarded to England Torres was hurling abuse at the Egyptian referee – it seemed as if he was constantly in the referee’s face. No card. Staggering.

The quality of the football and the skills on display are marred by these gratuitous antics. It is depressing.

I am hoping that when Belgium and England meet we shall see something better, more rewarding. The idea of Russia and Uruguay playing is less than appealing!

We need something that will warm the heart and bring football back to our screens.

Acceptance

I had the great pleasure of going to a friend’s house for a kenduri (gathering).

The friend in question was someone that I had only spoken to, for years, on ‘Facebook’ but he is someone I hold in the greatest regard. This is the first time we have met ‘face-to-face’, as it were. It was wonderful.

Saffian and Daughter

The people that were gathered there for a chats and (excellent) food were all extraordinarily friendly regardless of race, creed or colour – indeed, I was made to feel welcome even though I was the only ‘Mat Salleh’ (White Man) there.

It Was So Good Shukor Had A Refill

Time To Replenish The Nasi Lemak Accompaniments

(Nasi Lemak = Rice Cooked In Coconut Milk)

It was clear, from the outset, as it is wherever you go in Malaysia, that people accept you for who you are and no other reason. This is something that immediately puts you at ease and allows you to feel welcome.

The Superb Caterers For The Open House (For Malaysians)

Later that same day I was most honoured to be invited to a book launch.

The Book

The book was written by a friend of mine with whom I had worked at a local air operator where I was teaching about the aeroplane and safety but she was the lawyer in head office.

A Moment Of Mirth During Felicia's Presentation

Once again the function was well attended. This time by many members, including Elders and the Pastor, of the local Church.

People Begin To Arrive

This made no difference to welcome I received. Even being a white man and not of the same religion made no difference. Present were people of several races and of different religions. All got on with each other. We all shared conversation and food in a spirit of friendship and camaraderie.

Wonderful Snacks

This is why I like Malaysia. The hype of ‘racism’ is over-rated; the idea that people are warring with each other on political grounds is baseless.

We are all one under the banner of humanity; we are all ‘people’.

Long may it continue and may it spread to other countries who seem to have a much lower tolerance of the ‘differences’.

Rhittach

“Rhittach: The Beginning

Two women slid out of their furry over-clothes. They stood, facing each other, in their skin underwear. It was stripped from the belly of the herd animals and been chewed to a fine softness by toothless old men.

A pair of cold blue eyes peered into another pair of cold blue eyes. They spoke quietly, without malice.

“For honour.”

“For pride.”

The weak, mid-day sun, hovering just above the Eastern horizon, glinted off two long, slim blades.

They fought for, perhaps, twenty seconds. So fast were their blades flashing that no human eye could follow unless they were also Chowras—the fighting women of Paya.

Undetectable to the bystanders, one of the women grunted and paused for a fraction of a second. It was enough. The other stepped back and watched the thin red line around the other’s neck grow until it was seeping blood rapidly.

The dying woman smiled gently then buckled at the knees. Her head rolled off as she hit the tundra pouring her blood, and her life, into the soft, frozen mosses.

The victor picked up the other woman’s sword and put it on one of the pack animals. Picking two herd beasts she mounted another pack animal and rode off to the South without a word or a backward glance.”

This is the opening of the story, which was written as a precursor to the ‘Adepts’ series.

The idea was to fill in the gaps about how the characters in the series became known to each other and to give an insight into how the Payan Chowras came to be as they are.

Paya is a planet in the Orion arm of the ‘Milky Way’ galaxy; this location is not stated in the story. 

The main thrust of the tale is to watch how the main protagonist, Rhittach, progresses from being a small girl on the tundra whose primary occupation was tending the herd animals for her beloved father to being a trained and eminently proficient killer.

We learn how she became an expert with a slingshot and how her humanity led her to slaughtering one of her own.

Within the story is weaved some of the other girls who appear in the ‘Adepts’; we meet Chellaba who is a vicious but motherly figure, Tammarathis who is slimmer and shorter than the rest but faster, and the, then, sickly Irrin Kheng who tries valiantly to be as good as the rest. Also present is the reviled Parranatis who shows her worth in Book 4 of the ‘Adepts’.

The story is a shade blood thirsty but takes us on a path of discovery that includes a view of their planet and the people who live there.

It is, at twenty-two and a half thousand words, a novella rather than a novel. It was condensed down to pick up the pace of the story. It is about an hour’s reading so something good for the lunchtime or the wait in the dentist’s surgery.

Then catch up with the rest of the characters in the ‘Adepts: Book 1 – Furato’.

Both books available from Amazon.

NB:

The Adepts: Book 2 – Empath

The Adepts: Book 3 – Pitch Perfect

The Adepts: Book 4 – Despair

All out soon from Iqliptic Books.

All cover illustrations by Khairul Hisham at Hishgraphics (www.hishgraphics.com)

Jock McCool

Politicians do come out with some strange things from time to time. For example, Tony Blair, now ex-Prime Minister of Great Britain, once said, “I have never made predictions and I never will.”

Now we have Donald Trump, sitting President of the USA, coming out with this in a ‘Tweet’:

Of course, it may well be photo shopped but it is fun nonetheless.

However, it brings to mind a series of cartoons I drew many years ago under the heading of ‘Jock McCool’.

Jock McCool was a real person. This was not his real name – although the ‘Jock’ part is, but the fact remains that he was a real person.

Jock was a ‘worthy’. This means that he was a character that inhabited the streets of Dundee in Scotland. And a mighty character he was, too.

One day, near the Wellgate Centre, Jock was seen with a bucket of sand strewing it liberally along and across the approach road to the doors of the Mall.

“Hello, Jock,” for I often spent a few minutes in his company and occasionally had a coffee with him.

“Whisht awa’ wi’ ye!” he hissed.

“What is it, Jock?” I whispered back because it was clear that he was doing something in secret.

“Ut’s fur yon alligators. This potion keeps ‘em awa’ the noo!”

I looked around. No alligators.

“Jock, there are no alligators here,” I pointed out to him.

He looked up at me conspiratorially, “Aye. Ut’s braw stuff this, ye ken!”

As far as he was concerned it was working regally because of the pronounced absence of alligators in Dundee City Centre.

Rather like Mr. Trump’s Chinese Mexicans.

Young Writing Talent

I am so happy that talent in the young is not dead!

This story was written by a young lady of only thirteen years. English is not her first language, which makes this effort even more remarkable. 

It is to be hoped that her imagination is not squashed by the ‘education system’ that requires everyone to think, act and speak the same.

As an explanation, the rest of the story – three chapters, is equally good but she abandoned it because she ran out of ideas to continue and because she felt that it was not good enough. One wonders by whose standards this idea of being inadequate was suggested?

Several times I have mentioned that the only way to progress with any art or skill is to practice, practice and then practice some more. There are no baby steps here. Write what makes you happy, what you are comfortable with and what you know.

This effort is impressive – to me and by my own standards. This talent should be encouraged and allowed to grow.

Prologue

I felt a cold breeze brushing my skin. My eyes fluttered open. I was in a dark forest, lying on the damp, freezing ground. I sat up, looking around, confused, wondering how I got here. I remembered that I went to sleep wrapped up in my soft blanket and surrounded by pillows on my cosy queen-sized bed. Pine trees were scattered around everywhere, towering above my head. The air smells like moist earth mixed with old fallen leaves and pine. The cold breeze blew my hair from my face, sending chills down my spine. I curled up into a ball, hugging my knees while trying to cover my naked legs using my thin nightgown. 

        Everything was dark and scary.  The wind played with the leaves on the ground, swirling them around slowly. The sound of owls hooting filled my ears. I flinched when I felt a cold touch on my bare shoulders. I scanned the place, but there was nothing to be seen. From a distance, I heard an eerie scream. I started trembling, breaking into cold sweat. I scooted backwards, leaning against a tree, feeling insecure. I stared at a bush about three meters in front of me, sensing movement from the bush. A pair of glowing red eyes glared back at me from the bush.

Suddenly, my back was slammed to the tree by a strong force pulling me from behind, wrapping my arms around the tree and tying my wrists tightly together. I struggled to set myself free, squirming and wriggling while shouting for help, tears streaming down my face. A cold hand roughly covered my mouth. I tried biting the hand, but it didn't budge. "Jamie....", a voice that was barely audible whispered my name in my ear softly, sending shivers down my spine. I froze in place. My mouth was covered with a cloth to keep me from shouting. A man appeared out of nowhere, wearing all black with snow-white skin and coal-black hair approached me. His blood red eyes glared at me. He crouched down next to me, eyeing me from head to toe. I couldn't see much of his facial features since his mouth and nose were covered with a black bandana. 

"What's the point of shouting and screaming like a helpless child when no one can hear you, hmm?" he chuckled mockingly. I stomped my foot around in anger, glaring towards him.

‘How does he know my name?’I thought.

"Little girl, it doesn't matter how I got to know your name. The only thing that matters now is that I could finally eat after a long time...," he growled. My eyes went wide; I guess he could read my mind. Tears streamed down my face like a waterfall. I tried to struggle but somehow, I couldn't move. It felt as if I was glued to the spot. I started trembling, hoping that this nightmare would end soon. He leaned in closer towards my neck while taking off the bandana that covered his mouth, giving me a glimpse of his growing fangs. I felt his cold breath fanning my neck. I closed my eyes tight - scared to death.  I felt his sharp fangs sinking into my flesh, blood oozing out. My mind went blank as I whimpered helplessly, crying, the pain rising up to my head.

‘Please, stop… It hurts, please...,’ I pleaded silently in my mind. But the man didn't seem to care. I started growing weaker by the second as blood flowed out from my neck.

All of a sudden, the man that was sucking my blood dry was pulled away from me. I opened my eyes slightly, but everything was blurry. My head spun like a top. Everything around me started to fade away. My body felt numb. The last thing I heard was faint punching and growling sounds. Then, I blacked out… 

By Raudhah

2018

There are small details that could be tidied up but, at her age, they are irrelevant to the story.

Keep at it. You could be the next generation of Stephen King, et al.