Welcome to Kelantan

So a while back on Deepavali weekend I went to Kelantan for no reason whatsoever other than to get out of dodge.

It was Mien's idea in the first place. Together with Davina they both coerced me to come for the trip, even though I was quite 50/50 about the whole idea for very stupid reasons, one of which was The KL-ite Fear of PAS.

Now for the benefit of those of you who aren't residents of Malaysia, the majority of the States in Malaysia are controlled by the ruling government. However, a few of the States, such as Kelantan, are controlled by the opposition party - PAS - who are the pro-Islamic party. If you Wiki Kelantan, you'll find out more about this and, as you can imagine, this filled me with a bit of fear with regards to the trip.

For starters, I live in KL which is supposed to be the most liberal of all the States yet I can throw a rock anywhere and probably find a Muslim resident who would look down at my lifestyle, especiallly my Western mode of thinking, so the thought of going to a State that appeared to be more oppressive than the State I was living in did fill me with some trepidation.

Trepidation that proved to be unfounded.

Mien booked overnight tickets on a train for us. I hadn't been on a train in a while, so the thought of pimpin' off in a carriage was kinda cool. However, it was a 12 hour ride (give or take an hour) so we had to figure out something to occupy the time which involved (a) playing with Davina's silicone booby pads, (b) shooting a random short film and (c) chit-chatting till we all got tired and fell asleep.

Well, at least Mien and Davina fell asleep. I'd always had trouble falling asleep in these bunks due to my height and the fact that there's no storage space for luggage so to keep your bags safe you've got to keep them in the bunk with you.

Even on the ride there, though, I was a bit nervous - the majority of the train was filled with Kelantanese Malays, some of them even passing the time reading religious passages and there I was, hanging out with two Chinese girls whilst throwing silicone tits at a window.

We arrived in Kelantan the next morning where Mien's mom came to pick us up and before we even went to their house we made a stop at a Buddhist temple to have some nasi kerabu for breakfast.

The nasi kerabu was out of this world. I'm not usually a fan of the stuff, but this one I could keep eating non-stop, it was so damn good. And the kicker? It only cost RM1. One solid buck, that's it. My canned drink cost RM1.50, for God's sake!

And the fact that we were at a Buddhist temple with an absolutely gorgeous Buddha statue made me realize how wrong all my thoughts were about Kelantan.

Excuse me for my ignorance, all you Kelantanese that read this, but the thought of beautiful Buddhist temples in an orthodox Islamic State was hard to wrap my head around. And after breakfast, Mien brought us to even more Buddhist temples, each one very beautiful and incredibly Thai (Kelantan's on the border, non-Malaysians). So Thai in fact, that every time we drove in to check out one of the temples it felt like we just went through a Stargate and ended up in Thailand.

And the surrounding areas were just beautiful. Huge palm trees looming above us, fresh coconut milk to cool off to on a hot day, pure bliss.

After the visits to the Buddhist temples we went back to Mien's to rest for a bit before taking a walk around the kampung in Mien's hood, where padi fields still exist and some of the houses are still made of wood. The village people were friendly and we passed by the bridge pictured above that had a whole Huck' Finn feel to it. After that Mien went to a relative's wedding and Davina and I went out for dinner at a small Thai restaurant. Verdict? Better than any overpriced Thai joint in the city, that's for sure.

The next morning we woke up before dawn to go see the sun rise by the beach. At first we thought we wouldn't be able to see the sun come up over the horizon due to the large rain clouds. We then discovered this was a blessing as the sun rise looked like this:

Mien and Davina were the first to jump in.

I followed shortly after I kept my camera safe. I hadn't been in the water in a long time, especially in the sea, for two reasons. Firstly, I hadn't been on holiday in a long time. Secondly, I was very self conscious of my huge belly. Fortunately, I'd been losing weight over the months before this trip so I wasn't too worried. Unfortunately, I discovered a new reason to not get in the water - jellyfish.

I waded through the long shallow end till we got to somewhere deep enough to warrant swimming, and literally only swam a few strokes before I felt a stinging in my foot.

"Ow," I said.

I kept trying to swim, thinking my foot grazed something sharp on the sea bed, but it started stinging even more.

"Ow... ow... ow... OWWWW...!"

I then hopped back to shore. And stared at what looked like a disturbing rash, red and swollen, with a definite thin trail going across my foot. Mien was adamant that there's never been any sightings of jellyfish on Kelantan shores, and if it was a jellyfish, I was the first in Kelantan to be stung by one.

And before you ask, nobody had any pee in them to test out the theory on soothing jellyfish stings.

The ladies put me in the car and we drove off to find the nearest 24 hour clinic, which was in town. When we got there, we discovered that whilst it was open, the doctor just left. Thankfully, my foot got better and the swelling went down so instead we went for breakfast - nasi berlauk.

The sambal was to die for.

The next visit was pretty cool considering I had worked on 15Malaysia - it was the market where Amir Muhammad shot "The Tree" for the project with PAS leader Nik Aziz.

Agriculture is one of the main industries in Kelantan and here you can see why. However, there was one thing I discovered that didn't put a smile on Mien and Davina's face.

Turtle eggs.

For those not in the know, turtle eggs are a delicacy found only on the east coast of Malaysia. At night, when the turtle comes to shore to lay eggs, the eggs are stolen right from the whole under the turtles' punanny. To eat the eggs (which look like sunken ping-pong balls), one pokes a hole and sucks out the contents.

One can't find turtle eggs as often and as openly as you could back in the day for obvious wildlife conservation reasons, but you still find them every once in a while. My mom had actually asked me to pick some up for her, but considering I was travelling with an activist and an animal-rescuing environmentalist, I knew this wasn't going to happen. The second they saw the eggs they both turned to me and yelled, "don't even think about buying these for your mom! We'll kill you!"

They may look petite, but there's fire in them ladies.

All that aside, however, it was here that I realized something else - whilst many would have you believe that women are living in constant prejudice under the rules of Islam in this State, the majority of the sellers here are women.

As Baki pointed out to me after seeing this pic, these flowers are used for a ritual known as 'mandi bunga sial', whereupon one is cleansed in water soaked in various flowers to dispel bad luck and practiced amongst many different Asian cultures. Some here in Malaysia would have you believe that doing so is wrong for Muslims as it is not a proper Islamic practice and taken from different cultures.

Well, as the pic above and the rest of the blog suggests, Nik Aziz doesn't seem to have an issue with different cultures, be it mandi bunga or Buddhist temples.

And that was the main thing I discovered - though we may think of the PAS states as dogmatic and orthodox, they are by their nature much more tolerant than most in KL.  If there's one thing I discovered on this trip it's this - don't believe the hype. Throughout the whole way there and for most of my time there I was dreading some form of random religious persecution, some pious man or woman giving me shit for something or other, lecturing me, bringing down God's thunder and lightning, very very frightening EEK!

But it never happened. Never ever. They're a lot more tolerant, a lot more laid back and a lot more open. I'm sure they could tell without me opening my mouth that I wasn't from Kelantan and I had always thought that I'd be looked upon with disgust - "Hey, look, it's one of them Malays from KL, the ones that live in a world of sin. Fucker should be stoned with hefty rocks." Instead everywhere we went we were greeted with absolute hospitality and it felt honest and genuine. When I spoke to Mien's father he didn't have a single complaint living in Kelantan as a Chinese Malaysian. In fact, he loved it.

That's the thing, you see - all the different cultures treat each other with respect and treat each other's customs with respect. And sure, this was all seen with the rose tinted glasses of someone visiting Kelantan properly for the first time (I'd been there before when I was younger, but don't remember much) but whenever I check with others that I know who are from there or been there, they all say the same thing - don't believe the hype.

So please, don't believe the hype and please do visit the place. Because, as this post and the video below hopefully proves, Kelantan Rocks.

(Incidentally, if you open up the vid on YouTube itself for some reason all the 'Related Videos' are apparently of Kelantan chicks sucking cock. Either the sex life in Kelantan is healthy, or 'awek Kelantan' is the Malay fantasy equivalent of 'Catholic school girl').

Belly in the Lion

I was walking towards the lobby of the Elizabeth hotel in Singapore, making my way from my room, when i passed by the possile pre-op whore.

I say possible, because I was 50-50 on the matter. Her tight denim daisy dukes and spaghetti strap stripped top were just the right side of slutty. Combine that with the over-the-top hair and bright red make-up together with a height not often found in most Asian females and the fact that she was walking into a hotel escorted by a concierge at one in the morning, made the possibility very real.

The last time I had seen girls like her were in the Four Floors of Whores, a mall by day that became a den of debauchery once th sun came down. It was there, in a bar called Romeo's, where we were surrounded by girls just like her - beautiful by sexy by FHM standards but somehow not quite right. The height. that was the giveaway. But as my friend put it as we slowly sipped our drinks and tried to avoid making eye contact, "if a horse looked as good as that, I'd fuck a horse."


By the time the whore came back out of the hotel I was already outside of it, smoking a cigarette that I would usually be smoking in the lobby if I were back in Malaysia. Less than fifteen minutes had passed. Perhaps the client was incredibly quick. Perhaps he wanted something different. Perhaps she left her purse.

Or perhaps she was a guest at the hotel, an unusually tall Asian woman with traces of an Adam's apple who had checked in to the same hotel as I had with my parents and little brother on this most commercialized and celebrated religious occasions - the birth of baby Jesus. I shouldn't even be writing this. I have a script to complete. A paying script that will no doubt be flipped a 180 degrees by the time it reaches the third and final draft and I won't even know what happened till I see it on air. But that all seems so far away right now in the sterile comfort of the City of the Faking Lion.

Thirty five hours ago I was sat at the back seat of a five series BMW, listening to random mp3's and watching Malaysia go by as we drove towards the neighboring island that was once a part of my country. At some point we stopped for lunch at a place renown for natural and healthy Herbs & Spices, a restaurant so health oriented that you have to take off your shoes before entering so that you can experience the massage stone paths from the door to your table, hundreds of smooth rocks that are meant to give your feet a quick reflexogical tingle before digging in to herb tea and healthy briyani rice.

I slept for most of the journey, all the way till the incredibly long queue at customs. This was followed by an insane drive through Singapore trying to find Orchard Road, ducking and diving through different highways, going through maps and discovering that the GPRS map function on my mother's Nokia was beyond shit.

We arrived at our hotel at 8.30pm. We'd been on the road since ten in the morning.

After a bad soba dinner I went for a walkabout, Kitty on my mind. She'd been on my mind for quite a while, through most of the journey, and it began to hit me - one of the things I truly do not miss about going on these holidays with my parents is the amount of dead time it gives me to think about things. contemplate. Wonder and ponder.

And sometimes, these thoughts can fuck you up.

But the thoughts aren't the one to blame. The fact that I was having the thoughts about Kitty was a shocker to my entire nervous system. I hadn't had a girl trigger The Thoughts in a long time, and the sheer emotional power The Thoughts had over me made me realize something, and that something made me more than a wee bit scared at how vulnerable I was. I hadn't been this vulnerable in a long time, and the realization filled me both with joy and fear. It was the uncertainty - like someone saying "sure" with a shrug as opposed to a firm "yes" - that was on my mind, and I knew I had no right to push it further.

Then again, if it wasn't about this, it would be about something else. It would be about the direction of the Guber for the upcoming 2009 or something else of greater and/or lesser importance. It's both a blessing and a curse, the amount of time afforded to me to spend just thinking about everything and nothing whenever I go on holiday with my parents. it's both annoying yet strangely reassuring that it's a habit that hasn't changed since I was a child. Every holiday, the majority of the time would be spent thinking. The Thoughts. They don't die so easily.

And yet, when I finally spoke to Kitty on the phone, The Thoughts went away and the emo boy was put aside for a while, something she's often able to do with just the sound of her voice where I know that she's smiling and the infectious laugh that follows it. And as I roamed the nooks and crannies of Orchard Road The Thoughts made way for better Thoughts. And though i'd rather spend my brain time on The Work, perhaps a few hours spent on The Thoughts ain't so bad after all.

At least not as bad as the infuriating 'no jaywalking' rule this city enforces.

Fear & Loathing in LA

Over twenty hours before the revelation of Jesus' weather-changing powers I was in a bus leaving from Media Prima in Bandar Utama to the KLIA airport together with 31 other assorted filmmakers, actors, producers and crew members, the majority of them winners of the Anugerah Skrin (myself included) together with people from Melodi, MHI and the Breakfast Show. Part of the prize was a trip to Hollywood to check out how the big boys make movies, and perhaps be inspired in our next endeavours. We went, we saw, we gaped and awed, and if you think I'm going to write about all of it here in one sitting you must be out of your mind.

Besides, even if I wanted to tell you all of it, it wouldn't be wise. I've taken a step into the Industry, and in the Industry, certain things are kept on the hush-hush for fear of ignorant press write-ups, sensationilist rumours and gossip-mag bollocks. Thank God I'm not too steeped into it just yet, my identity still not well known enough that I can safely put up this picture of me hanging out in front of Denny's at three o' clock in the morning with a copy of L.A. X-Press, smoking a cigarette. These are good times, and if ever I take one step too far into the Industry this picture may be deleted, along with my numerous posts alluding to sexually deviant behaviour and Jo Guest.

But don't, for a second, assume that the trip to Southern California was a hedonistic 'girls gone wild' party of debauchery. Far from it. In fact, our tour was so packed up that I didn't have much chance to check out any of the things I wanted to. I didn't get to go to Taco Bell and I did not have any Twinkies. Besides, as you'll read on from the points below, L.A. isn't exactly a wild place...

Ten Things I Learnt In LA

1. Californians don't know how to party. Or, at least, they don't know how to party continously. Whilst the streets of KL are still rife with activity at two in the morning on a Monday, in Cali people go to sleep. They hang out at home and watch TV and the streets are a ghost town by eleven. Even in Hollywood. Example? This is Sunset Boulevard on a Tuesday night, the place where both the Viper Room and the Whiskey A-Go-Go reside:

Wow.

I asked a local about this. He said that the night only comes alive on weekends. In the meantime, people do their job and then they go home. Plus, it was Spring Break, and all the kids were in Tijuana.

But perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps they know how to party, but it's an exclusive party, one that an alien-with-a-visa is not welcome to unless he or she was connected. No matter. If the party was there, I sure as shit wasn't.

2. Taxi's in L.A. are extortionately priced. Example? From my hotel in San Pedro to Sunset Boulevard cost eighty six bucks. Eight six?! On my last day, when I took a cab from Camarillo to a guitar centre in Oxnard, on the same road and only 7 miles away, I got charged twenty five bucks. This is insanity.

3. Islanders rule. As do Hispanics and African-Americans. Perhaps it's because we looked similar, I dunno, but amongst them I didn't feel too much like an alien-with-a-visa. A big shout out to Stephen the Cingular cellphone guy and Omar the Peruvian construction dude, though you may never read this.

No offence to white guys, but seriously, y'all Californians were just starring at me. Just plain starring. Why? Have you never seen an Asian in the VIP queue for the Jimmy Kimmel show before?

4. Hooters is overrated. And the food portions are tiny. Although I hear this is not the case in the southern states.

5. Hollywood Boulevard is not glamorous. In fact, all the way down the sidewalks, adorned with big golden stars and famous celebrities' names in them, are homeless people, panhandlers, pimps and pushers. A Vietnam vet asked me for change, for God's sake. I didn't think Vietnam vets still existed on the streets, but there he was. I was so taken aback I gave the guy a couple of bucks.

6. Dinner's with a show are a strange affair. And I don't mean like having a dinner at the Copa with Frank Sinatra crooning centre-stage. No, I mean the Pirates Dinner Experience (or whatever it was called), where you are served chicken and shrimp whilst facing a mock-up pirate ship and struggling actors, actresses, singers and stuntmen try to entertain you by stopping from eating every five minutes to raise your glass of coke and shout "AARRR!!" Good for the kids, though.

7. Goofy's an asshole. For those who've been reading this blog, you'll know that my only intention for going to Disneyland was to punch Goofy in the face and make him tell me just what kind of animal he's supposed to be. But as we got there the magic of the, well, magic kingdom took over and I was enchanted once again by seeing Mickey, Donald, Cinderella and Woody walk around, life-sized and plush. So when I saw Goofy I obviously wanted to take a photo with him.

And the bastard mutant dog dissed me.

The evil fucker raised his paw in a 'talk-to-the-hand' kind of way and walked off. But I'll have my revenge. Oh, yes. One day, I'll have my revenge. And when Doctor Moreau gets Goofy back and sees how badly beaten he is he'll lament ever creating the sordid creature.

8. Hollywood lies. It's weird. I always knew that making movies is all about presenting a reality, regardless of how real everything is, but seeing the actual sets and studio lots made me realize just how much of what we see on TV and in the movies is fake, and how goddamn well they pull it off. We went to Fox, Paramount and Warner Bros and their studio lots and soundstages are incredibly. We got a long way to go indeed.

9. Warner brothers sounds like 'Water Bladder' when spoken by an Asian, non-English speaking tour guide. And there was much merriment about this.

10. Liquids are weapons in the hands of terrorists. As are shoes. This is what I discovered at LAX. All liquids had to be put into a plastic baggie for inspection and shoes had to be x-rayed. I suppose the fear is that a terrorist will combine different proportions of different ordinary household liquids inside their shoes to make makeshift napalm bomb. Or something.

Well, that's it for the LA trip. It may sound sarcastic, but in truth I had lots of fun and everyone I travelled with were really cool, kick-ass, down-to-earth guys, especially Afdlin, Sheema and Hasnul, the trio I spent the most time with down in Southern Cali. I may not have even had time to make any phone calls (sorry, Jess! I really wanted to call but I didn't even get to call my girlfriend and parents more than once!) or meet anyone I supposed to or blog about it whilst I was there or even have a Taco Bell burrito, but I had fun, no doubt.

Now all I have to do is win next year so that I can finally give Goofy the thrashing the dumb fuck deserves.

And if you think I'm gonna write about what happened at Mickey's on Santa Monica Boulevard, well, that's between me and Jose.

London Calling Pt. V: Closure

We were also supposed to meet Amy so that Man Meth' could pass her camera to her. We sat down at 1001 and talked about movies and travels. It was around the time when we were talking about 'Lost In Translation' when Man Method said,

"Can't you relate to 'Lost In Translation' more now that you've been spending some alone time in London? There's nothing wrong with the country your in, but all your wandering and wondering is a direct result of you being alone in the city. That's why I now make it a point to only travel to countries where I've got a friend."

This isn't the exact quote, but you get the idea. The reason why I bring this up will be explained later.

Amy arrived and I hung about in Shoreditch with them till about 1ish to catch my 2.25pm train to Derby for the Download Festival in Donnington, a moment I had been waiting for for quite awhile. At last I'd be able to check out one of the heaviest bands in the world, Black Sabbath, live before my very eyes, together with the GnR/STP amalgam that is Velvet Revolver, the 'love-metal' of HIM, the bone-crunching riffing of Anthrax and the hillarious silliness of Bowling For Soup.

That's not all. There was also the Snicker's Bowl, where some of the greatest legends in skating would be ripping it up: Tony Alva, Steve Cabalero and the 'Holmes' himself, Christian Hosoi. There was also the Napster stage, markets, merch and booze. This was to be a truly rocking weekend.

My only worry was my inability to get any form of accomodation. All the B&B's and hotels were fully booked. Worst case scenario I'll just sleep at the train station, I thought.

Two hours on a train and twenty minutes on a bus, and I was there:


I was alone. And I'd rather spend my time with one friend doing nothing as opposed to standing in a field freezing my bollocks off surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people I didn't know.

The thought depressed the shit out of me. Sure, there was Anthrax, HIM, Velvet Revolver, fucking BLACK SABBATH, but the experience was nowhere near as good as it could have been had I been accompanied by just one like-minded fellow.

Did I really want to spend my last night in England feeling depressed at one of the biggest rock festivals I'd ever be privy to? did I really want to sleep in a train station? There was nothing wrong with the place, everything was fine. It's just not as enjoyable when you're alone.

And that pretty much sums up my entire holiday in a nutshell: the time's I spent with my friends were the best moments of the holiday, and they only accounted for 4 or 5 days of the entire 10, and for the rest of the trip I felt alone and depressed. It made me realize that (for me at least) it's not the geographical location that makes a place truly great, it's the company you keep. And at that moment I missed my job, my hectic-fucking-schedule, my crazy bands and my wonderful girlfriend. I missed my car, teh ais and food that gave me the shits something chronic. I-Missed-Malaysia. And that's a pretty weird statement, coming from me.

I rushed out of Donington, got on the first train back to London, called up Man Meth' and explained the situation. I then had a lot more fun than I could have ever possibly had at the gig. Man Method greeted me with a smile that said two things:

1. Great to see ya.
2. Told you so, Dumbfuck McGee!

We then made our way out into the night accompanied by Shy and his friend (whose name I think was Amika, or something along those lines), and what did we find?


Huge re-prints of key panels from the three Sin City stories that have been adapted for the movie adorned the walls together with papier mache models of key characters. I think the place was called 'Jaguar Handbag' or something (Man Meth'll probably correct that) and even though they were playing the theme tune to 'Bonanza' and other 'great' hits that weren't so great, I was having a blast, chilling with my friends and laughing the night away.



After that we hit up some other place (which I can't remember), danced like loons and got schooled big time by some afro dude in a suit who proceeded to bust a move like something out of 'You Got Served'. In fact, we did get served, Voltron-style.

Some bagels, some sleep and some coffee later, I was packing up my bags, boarding a plane, flicking in-flight movie channels between 'Constantine', 'Robots' and 'Gangster', going through immigration, and coming out of the KLIA, a smile slowly creeping as I took it all in. I was back in Malaysia. I was home. And I was glad.

The trip had it's downsides, but it also had some great moments, and more than anything it was a valuable lesson. I finally felt a sense of closure over the whole London/KL thing. There isn't a doubt in my mind now. Sure, I love London, I love the atmosphere, I love the people and the places and the beans and chips and the friends I have there, but I've made my home in KL now, and I'm all the better for it. London is the past and it's never going to be the same as way back when. This is Khai 2.0, new and improved, with a new location, mission and waistline. So bye-bye, London. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

And chips.

...

...that was bad.

London Calling Pt. IV: Randoms & Revelations

You see that bright blue sky? It's gone. It's buggered off and left me here with cloudy weather and the need of my fleece jacket. As always, I've been wandering about aimlessly doing nothing much except, well, wandernig abotu aimlessly, occasionally meeting friends. Walking about alone and wasting time in cafe's makes you think, though. Makes you think about many things, such as this:

The other day (I can't remember which) I was riding the central line trying to get to somewhere when a homeless man boarded with an empty cup, coughed to gain everyone's attention, and announced in a manner befitting a gentleman,

"Good afternoon, everyone, it's been a lovely couple of days, the weather's been brilliant and I hope you are all having a pleasant day. I apologise for disturbing you all but if any of you have any spare change for me that I may get a bite to eat and a place to stay for the night I would be much obliged. Thank you."

Of course, no one gave and I had no change, but it got me thinking: this homeless man, who has no form of income and lives on the streets getting by whatever way he can still had his manners. In fact, this man with no job had more manners than most CEO's and company directors in Malaysia. If you brought this man to a restaurant I'm sure he'd have perfect table manners, whereas most men driven around in Mercedes' in Malaysia eat with their mouths open in front of senior delegates of the UN.

Makes you wonder. And now, back to the plot.

I wkoe up at around 3pm today, sleeping in and chilling out. After an absolutely disgusting vegetarian breakfast panini sandwich I called up Man Method in the hope of spending the night in Shoreditch getting my groove on only to discover the poor man's suffering from the same symptoms I suffered from less than a fortnight ago: fever and vomitus. I paid him a visit and the fifty quid I owed him for getting my Donington festival ticket, bought my train ticket to the fest and met up with Naren for drinks, only to discover the poor man's got an intensely bad back and the dude was suffering in the pub (which, incidentally, was a very nice pub but I can't remember the name).

Then, the randomness. I was stood on the corner near Picadilly Circus station looking down Shaftesbury Avenue wondering whether I should visit the Casino for all times when some random walked up to me asking for a cigarette. I obliged.

"Where you from?" the random asked. I told him. He then asked if I had any plans tonight and whether I'd like to join him and his friends for drinks at a Mash-Up club.

I thought, "Why not?"

I followed the guy whose name was Michael who claimed he was from Oregon, working in both an accounting firm and film company. we then met up with his female friends Amber and Flora where I discover (a) they're still in high-school and (b) Michael's not American. He's from Clapham.

That explains the accent.

We then went to some bar called the Marketplace and I excused myself to an alleyway to pee when I thought to myself,

"Do I really want to spend my night drinking with some guy who blatantly lied to me abotu where he comes from and could be lying to me about other things as he gets into some high-school girls knickers?"

Not much of a question really. I fucked off.

On the walk back I began wondering why I thought London was my home all those years ago. Sure, I like the place, but I prefered the company of my friends more, and the only dude who keeps in constant contact is Man Method. Take away the friends and leave London as is and I feel incredibly lonely. I miss my friends, my girlfriend, even my job. And as much as I like how friendly people are in England, the random-Michael kinda put a damper on that, watching him whisper behind Amber and Flora's back about how "it's on" tonight. I may be thinking paranoid, but there's a good chance a con was afoot. Either way, I find it hard to trust someone who lies about where their from. Why would he do that?

And why Oregon?

London Calling Pt. III: Greetings From Edgware Road

For some reason unbeknownst to me, I suddenly have a wireless internet connection in the flat we've rented. My only guess is that one of the other flats has switched on their internet connection and I'm getting a borrowed signal.

A slow, borrowed signal. I'd feel bad about it, but I'm not that nice.

And what do I do on these nights alone in the living room with full control of the TV? I watch random semi-porn. I'm amazed that these channels exist. There's no longer a need for random chat up-lines where you have to use your imagination. Punters call in and give instructions and the girls do them on TV. I find it very, very wrong and yet I can't help having a quick peek to see what's going on. It's either I do that or check out Big Brother.

As you can see, night-times are boring. I checked out an indie club earlier and was unfortunately bored shitless. Right now I'm watching an episode of Red Dwarf right around the time they introduced a different Kochanski and everything went to hell. And where the fuck is Rimmer?

Bored out of my wits at the indie club made me think of my whole trip in general and why I don't reckon London is home anymore. Because my crew ain't here.

After years in Malaysia, I'd made new friends and formed close bonds. My whole crew from way back when I was in uni, or even when I was living on 38 Basing Hill in Golders Green.

Memory lane didn't seem as memorious as I thought I'd be. It was just a place.

Geographical location doesn't make much difference besides weather conditions and exchange rates. It's your friends, family, whoever's closest to you that makes home.

That doesn't mean I'm not having a good time, though. Went shopping with my dad today (DVD's galore), then went out for dinner with Zana, my ex from way back when. Tomorrow it's party time with Man Method, followed by a train trip to Donington to check out Sabbath. That's got me kinda freaked, though. The earliest train back from the gig is at 6 in the morning. Where the hell am I gonna stay?

Time for sleeps, me-thinks. Sleeps and chills. Maybe a DVD. Nights.

London Calling Pt. II: Aimless Walks & Other Silliness

Right now I'm at Camden Town in a Nero Cafe, pissed that WiFi in London is (a) hard to fucking find, (b) a bitch to log on to and (c) charged. That's right. I had to use my credit card to upload this fucking blog so y'all better be frickin' grateful.

But it hasn't all been walking and drinking and walking and drinking and staggering. Two days ago I followed my parents to Stratford-Upon-Avon (birthplace of Big Willie Shakespeare) and Bourton-On-The-Water (birthplace of someone not as important). My bro was having a whale of a time. Me? I just soaked it up. Another place to walk, with far less cars and Arab tourists. If you notice the first picture from the left on the second row, that's a sign from the cinema at Big Willie's birthplace. 'Star Warts III'. I guess Big Willie Shakes don't dig the force.

The weather was also on the couldy side, as you can tell, but yesterday and today have been anything but blue skies. Of course, that doesn't mean it's hot. It's kinda like the Egypt syndrome. Step out under the sun and you'll feel warm, get under shade and you'll freeze your bollocks off (unless you're from England, in which case you won't feel a damn thing).

Reading the play now made me wonder whether I was a lot funnier back in those days or just having more fun. A complete bastardization of Big Willie's 'Much Ado About Nothing', it featured dick and fart jokes galore. Example (as hinted earlier):

WATCHMAN#2: Why does that guy keep talking in that Shakesperean prose?

WATCHMAN#1: Hey, Shakespeare can do some crazy shit to you. I knew this one guy, he knew every single line of every single play of Shakespeare, every verse, ever sonnet.

WATCHMAN#2: What happened to him?

WATHCMAN#1: He died of internal haemorhage.

WATCHMAN#2: He died of an internal haemorhage from reading too much Shakespeare?

WATCHMAN#1: No, he died of an internal haemorhage after being fucked up the ass with a 15 inch strap on dildo.

Gimme a break, it was a university crowd.

Then I went to Man Method's to chill out and watch endless episodes of the Simpsons and Johnathan Creek (which I'm beginning to dig) as his 21 year old Eastern European cleaner tidied his room. In Malaysia, we get old biddy's from Indonesia. In England, they get cute 21 year old Eastern European's. The sheer inequality.

There's also this weird unwritten rule between me and Man Method: whenever one of us is visiting the other's country, the visitor inadvertedly (and willingly) becomes the other's house-bitch. When I was at Man Method's place, I made the tea. When he was in KL, he opened the gate and door for me when I came home from work.

Not sure what to do next. Might visit my old schools in the Goldersgreen/Hendon/Mill Hill area, then maybe meet up with Izzy tonight and Zana tomorrow for dinner. Then it's party time with Man Method on Friday, followed by the Download festival on Saturday. Then Sunday I'll be back home.

Did I just call KL 'home'? Weird.

London Calling Pt. I: The Roof is on Fire

I woke up this morning in an odd yoga position on an uncomfortable blue sofa freezing my feet off as someone had his head permanently lodged in the dustbin whilst he puked. Surrounding the floor of the apartment were various patrons to the NYE roof party the night before, a wild and
windy new years party 6 months after the actual New Years Eve. Why? Because that's how Man Method does things.

Four days ago I was on a Malaysian Airlines 747 on my way to the UK, squished in an uncomfortable chair trying to eat a steak with a plastic fork and knife in the midst of air turbulence. By the end of it I was left with broken cutlery and steak juice all over my pillow and clothes. I spent the rest of the 12 hour flight awake and bright eyed watching Hitch and reading Dan Brown's 'Angels and Demons' (which I finished just before we landed).

With me on the flight was Naren (pictured right), who got a job offer in Leeds (I think). Throughout the flight we talked, mainly about the intense rudeness of the airline staff, which I found odd.

Example? I pressed the button to call a stewardess. Meanwhile, Naren was reading some finance book and listening to the in-flight radio, flicking through channels on the controller. The stewardess came, snatched (not took, snatched) Naren's controller, switched off the
'call-stewardess' light, and was about to fuck off.

"Excuse me," I said, "I was the one that called for a stewardess."

"What you want?" was her reply in a tone I was only accustomed to in hawker stalls (Don't worry. If you're not Malaysian, I'm sure they'll treat you like Gods). When we landed I was intensely glad I didn't have to go through anymore of that shit.

The entire taxi ride to the flat my parents rented out near Edgware Road I stared out the the window, taking in the sight of England. This trip felt different somehow. It felt less like coming back to a familiar place, more like I was a tourist. A real tourist. I truly felt quite
alienated when I finally landed, and felt so the whole time I've been here up until I reached Man Method's party.

Ah, yes. Man Method's parties have now become stuff of legend, upping himself everytime. This time, not only did his crew bring the speakers, amps and decks, they also brought out halogen lamps for lighting and a tent.

Yes. A tent. To house the amp in case it rained.

Throughout the whole set up we all helped out. I was on lighting duty. They had a bunch of coloured gels which we put on boxes to project on the walls.

They also made good helmets. Not in a practical sense, of course, but they do look rather fetching.


Unfortunately, some of the neighbours weren't digging the vibe. Before you knew it, a man from the council was at the party, requesting the music be turned down and eventually switched off completely. By 4.00am the last survivors were in Man Method's bedroom, trying to find new methods of sleeping with available space.

When I woke up it was 6.00am and made my way to the greasy spoon opposite for beans and egg on toast. Now everyone's asleep again. Except me. Fuck, I might as well be. If it weren't for the photos, this would be a pretty crap post. What do you expect? I had an hour of sleep
and I've been partying on a roof all night.

Things to Do in London When You're on Leave

In no particular order. Further proof I am an Anglophile at heart. Either that or a Brit-poseur.

1. Meet Me Mates

This is imperative. There's no point in me going down to Londonwithout meeting all my old friends. There's the ol' uni drama gang, for one. Magnus has unearthed all the old scripts and promo posters which I'll be posting up once I get 'em. Then there's the childhood friends. Should be a nice round of nostalgia.

2. Visit Past Schools

Bear in mind, this does not include Concord. I've always wanted to revisit Mill Hill and Hendon Prep. Especially Hendon Prep. God, the place must be tiny now that I'm all growns up.

3. Check Out Goldersgreen

My old haunt. I've heard news on the grapevine that the place has changed considerably. They added a Starbucks. I just hope they didn't demolish one of the lovely bagel bakeries in order to do so.

4. Eat Chips in Pitta Bread, Beans On Toast, Fry Ups and Canelloni

Chips in pitta bread with mayo and ketchup were a prime source of carbo-energy when all I had in my wallet was less than two quid. Beans on toast were the next prime source when I didn't even have two quid. Fry ups I miss, as the definition of an 'English breakfast' in this country seems to consist of a spoonfull of baked beans, two pieces of toast and weiner-dogs. As for the canelloni, the one place I know in KL that does it does it bad.

5. Drink Tea

As much as I've been Malaysian-ized, I could do with ten days of teawithout copious amounts of condensed milk. I want semi-skimmed, godammit! Green tops, I say! GREEN TOPS!

6. Walk

No walking is done in this country. None at all. Hell, I skate on my deck to get from point A to point B inside my office (which has led to many almost-accidents). But London, that's different. Walk walk walk. Maybe the belly will go down. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

7. Forbidden Planet

Comic books. Toys. DVD's. 'Nuff said.

8. DVD Shopping

So far on the list: Clerks X, La Haine, Ed Wood, Spinal Tap, Buffy season 7, Braindead, Idle Hands, Orgazmo and Baseketball. All movies I can't get here and all I've seen before with the exception of La Haine and Buffy. I feel my wallet lightening considerably at the mere thought.

9. Check out the London Eye

When it first came out, I despised it. It felt like something Malaysia would do, building a huge modern monstrosity in the middle of the city, made even worse by the fact that London is by far a more historical city thn KL. I really couldn't fathom why they'd build it. Now I'm really curious about the view. I wonder if there's a smoking booth?

10. Watch movies

At last. Uncensored movies without any bad subtitles. Hitchikers Guide, Sin City and any arthouse flicks on are definitely on the agenda.

11. Chinatown

There's a tiny little restaurant called Tai Ka Lok. The duck rice is kick ass. For some reason, all the ducks here are skinny, whereas the Tai Ka Lok ducks are juicy and plump. Not helping the belly, but at least I'll be walking. Walking all the way to...

12. Ed's Diner

Reservoir Dog and coffee n' butterscoth milkshake with a side order of atomic fries, please.

13. Check out Staki's

Or whatever it's called now. A casino somewhere near Euston (I think). Then again, why the fuck would I want to go there, it's not like I've ever won. But then, with that in mind the odds of me winning now are considerably higher, therefore... aargh! Cancel it from the list! The hunger strikes back...!

14. Check out a play/musical

All those years near the West End and the only musicals I went to were Grease, Oliver and Starlight Express. And one play on the trial of Oscar Wilde.

15. Wander the streets of Soho

In search of action, adventure... and something perverse and twisted to write about in this blog.

16. Go to Full Tilt@Electric Ballroom

Head. Bang.

17. Ozzfest

Head. Bang. More.

18. Party with Man Method

Head. Bop. Feet. Shuffle.

19. Get Wasted

Bit obvious, that.

20. Go to Denmark Street

Guitars. Lots of guitars.

21. Chill

The most important one, in my book. I need the chill out time, soak up the atmosphere by some cafe reading a comic book, smoking cigarettes and blogging my balls off. Is there WiFi in cafe's in England? Or do I need to go to a cyber cafe?

Less than 24 hours to go. Ole, ole ole ole...

Juggling Melons Whilst Trying to Paint a Vetruvian Man with an Etch-A-Sketch

God, there's a lot going on at the moment.

Work-wise, there's jobs without proper briefs, impossible timelines and brain-dead servicing.

Movie-wise, there's still a camera to source, cast to be tightened down, schedules to plan and soundtracks to record.

Band-wise, there's an album to finish recording primary tracks by tomorrow, vocals to put down, overdubs and let's not forget mixing and mastering.

Life-wise, there's my girlfriends birthday, parents to apease and a little bro to teach.

Thank God I'm going to England next Thursday. The only downside to this is that I need to finish up as much as I can before going. I'm looking at my schedule till then and it's mental. So much to do, so little time, so many expectations to fulfill and failure is not an option. Not in this round of my life. I look at everything since July 1st 2003 as 'Life Ver 2.0', with new goals and beliefs.

And I will not flush it all down the toilet by breaking under pressure.

Although it'd be nice to break under pressure. I go to sleep in the wee hours knackered beyond compare, barely awake, only to discover all the caffeine I've been intaking is fucking around with my brain keeping my thought process awake. This usually leads to me opening up 'The Da Vinci Code' (which, so far, is very kickass). Then I wake up way beyond the acceptable time frame of turning up to work. Now, bear in mind that I'm a copywriter in an ad agency, and the creatives are usually expected to turn up late. I've been turning up later than usual expectations.

Eng-ga-land... Eng-ga-land... Eng-ga-land, Eng-ga-land, naaa naaaa....

I can't wait. Get all this stuff out of the way, work my buttocks off, then doze off in the plane half-way through a game of Super Mario or Tetris then wake up at Heathrow. From there it's cozy cafe's in the day, endless wandering through the streets and parties at night.

And Donnington. Musn't forget Donnington.

It may sound weird, but it's the day-to-day things that I miss, and not all of it is particularly English. Like grabbing a Reservoir Dog and Coffee n' Butterscotch milkshake at Ed's in the Trocadero. Buskers in tube stations. Having a cup of coffee in Angel and watching life walk past. Having a steak at the Wetherspoons on a Sunday afternoon.

Forbidden Planet. Denmark Street. Car boot sales.

Taking the 240 from Mill Hill to Goldersgreen. Smoking a cigar. Buying cigarettes at 3 in the morning at the petrol station. Wearing a jacket. Random conversations with unknown people in pubs. Kebabs. Chips in pita bread. Vinegar. Full Tilt. Going on the pull.

The first few days of summer when all the women go "finally! I can wear that top and skirt I bought on sale last year!" and proceed to parade the streets with once-hidden flesh.

A cup of fucking tea.

Yes. The same way New Yorkers say their pizza's and hotdogs are just different from the rest of the world, tea never tastes the same as it does in England. Tea, milk, two and a half sugars.

Till Thursday, though, it's still work work work for me. Less than a week to go. No problem... I think.