Capello: What the f*** is this? Why the keeper so Green one? Like that how to win World Cup?I have to admit that this whole sequence of events made me LOL at like 3am in the morning.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The best moment of the World Cup so far.
Capello: What the f*** is this? Why the keeper so Green one? Like that how to win World Cup?I have to admit that this whole sequence of events made me LOL at like 3am in the morning.
One year on.
It was a cold night. The pale gleam of the moon washed across the ground, and he found himself standing by a quiet road alone once again, outside the railway station of a small town. He was at odds with himself. He had missed the last bus, and the cabs were too expensive. He was looking at a two mile long trek across unfamiliar territory, in a land where he was a foreigner.
He spent half an hour deliberating, even as the wind started to bite. The cold seeped into his jacket, and his breath fogged in the cool night air, misting up his glasses.
He cursed himself for having stayed out in the big city so late, but it had been difficult for him to leave. He held the place dear for too many reasons. The shopping, the food, the hustle and bustle, and the people. Especially the people. It made him feel at home again, in a place that was his home far away from home. He had missed the last bus, and what followed was a rush to the central railway station, to catch a train back to the small town where he lived.
And now, he paced around. The men in the hoods around the corner were starting to make him nervous. He was small sized by the standards of the place, and he knew that he could not afford to stay around much longer if he was to make it home. He knew two routes home, but the shorter one took him through a whole mile of pitch darkness.
And that was what he chose. Setting off into the night, he quickened his step, hoping to reach home quickly.
As night deepened, the shadows lengthened and the streets became quieter. Occasionally, a car would rush by, sweeping up a clutch of leaves in its wake, and the sound of its passing quickly melded back into the quiet. When he reached the edge of the highway, he saw that it was like what he had expected. The road ahead was pitch black.
He walked into the darkness, and a fear gripped him. He had never walked in such darkness in his life. He stuck out his fingers in front of him, and he realised that he could not see them. He was lucky that the road ran ramrod straight, but even then, he depended on the headlights of oncoming cars for guidance. The headlights, as and when they appeared, would blind him with an intensity that was painful to his eyes, but he hurried his step even more when they appeared, because the illumination they provided would be fleeting, and the sound of their movement assured him that he was not lost.
Halfway through his walk, he looked to his left, and he saw a huge graveyard, covered in snow. An even more uncertain fear gripped his heart, especially when he saw that up ahead lay the entrance, a foreboding stone structure cast in grey, with a scary looking beast perched atop it. Even as he looked left, he saw that the graves stretched as far as the eye could see, although snow covered most of them so that only the tops of their tombstones stuck out. He wondered if anyone cared that he was out here, alone, and so very afraid. He knew deep down that the answer was no, but fought back the inevitable sadness that came along with it. He had to get home.
After walking an unknown number of minutes, he saw a road sign that indicated a branch in the road, into the area of town where he lived. He felt an immense sense of relief, that the directions in the maps of the town he had remembered had not failed him. He quickly settled into a quick jog, and ran into town across a little bridge with wooden rails at the side, and the sight of houses lining a single road on both sides, with mailboxes atop little pickets brought a cheer to him. He knew he was almost home.
It was only then he realised that he was really tired, and the backpack on his back was starting to feel really heavy. He also realised that he hadn't had any dinner, but there was nothing in the fridge back home. Dinner would once again be a packet of chips and two chocolate bars, washed down with water from the sink, or one of the bottles of beer he kept on his windowsill.
He kept on walking, past several streets that all looked the same, rows of houses with mailboxes out front. Not a single person was on the streets, and if he didn't know better, he would have assumed that it was a ghost town. A strange white gleam flooded the street. He looked up, and saw that the moon was out full tonight.
Crossing a roundabout and walking up a road, he saw the familiar sight of the university guardhouse. He flashed his identity card, walked in, and that was it. Half an hour and a two mile trek later, he was home.
He spent half an hour deliberating, even as the wind started to bite. The cold seeped into his jacket, and his breath fogged in the cool night air, misting up his glasses.
He cursed himself for having stayed out in the big city so late, but it had been difficult for him to leave. He held the place dear for too many reasons. The shopping, the food, the hustle and bustle, and the people. Especially the people. It made him feel at home again, in a place that was his home far away from home. He had missed the last bus, and what followed was a rush to the central railway station, to catch a train back to the small town where he lived.
And now, he paced around. The men in the hoods around the corner were starting to make him nervous. He was small sized by the standards of the place, and he knew that he could not afford to stay around much longer if he was to make it home. He knew two routes home, but the shorter one took him through a whole mile of pitch darkness.
And that was what he chose. Setting off into the night, he quickened his step, hoping to reach home quickly.
As night deepened, the shadows lengthened and the streets became quieter. Occasionally, a car would rush by, sweeping up a clutch of leaves in its wake, and the sound of its passing quickly melded back into the quiet. When he reached the edge of the highway, he saw that it was like what he had expected. The road ahead was pitch black.
He walked into the darkness, and a fear gripped him. He had never walked in such darkness in his life. He stuck out his fingers in front of him, and he realised that he could not see them. He was lucky that the road ran ramrod straight, but even then, he depended on the headlights of oncoming cars for guidance. The headlights, as and when they appeared, would blind him with an intensity that was painful to his eyes, but he hurried his step even more when they appeared, because the illumination they provided would be fleeting, and the sound of their movement assured him that he was not lost.
Halfway through his walk, he looked to his left, and he saw a huge graveyard, covered in snow. An even more uncertain fear gripped his heart, especially when he saw that up ahead lay the entrance, a foreboding stone structure cast in grey, with a scary looking beast perched atop it. Even as he looked left, he saw that the graves stretched as far as the eye could see, although snow covered most of them so that only the tops of their tombstones stuck out. He wondered if anyone cared that he was out here, alone, and so very afraid. He knew deep down that the answer was no, but fought back the inevitable sadness that came along with it. He had to get home.
After walking an unknown number of minutes, he saw a road sign that indicated a branch in the road, into the area of town where he lived. He felt an immense sense of relief, that the directions in the maps of the town he had remembered had not failed him. He quickly settled into a quick jog, and ran into town across a little bridge with wooden rails at the side, and the sight of houses lining a single road on both sides, with mailboxes atop little pickets brought a cheer to him. He knew he was almost home.
It was only then he realised that he was really tired, and the backpack on his back was starting to feel really heavy. He also realised that he hadn't had any dinner, but there was nothing in the fridge back home. Dinner would once again be a packet of chips and two chocolate bars, washed down with water from the sink, or one of the bottles of beer he kept on his windowsill.
He kept on walking, past several streets that all looked the same, rows of houses with mailboxes out front. Not a single person was on the streets, and if he didn't know better, he would have assumed that it was a ghost town. A strange white gleam flooded the street. He looked up, and saw that the moon was out full tonight.
Crossing a roundabout and walking up a road, he saw the familiar sight of the university guardhouse. He flashed his identity card, walked in, and that was it. Half an hour and a two mile trek later, he was home.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
A trial of faith.
Some seven years ago, I was going through a period in my life where I lacked direction and focus. Sensing my vulnerabilities, my then-best friend offered me a solution. He had just found his "calling" with a group of singing and dancing parishioners, who always seemed welcome to invite others into their fold, a thing called a cell group.
At that time, religion was hardly something that factored in my life. Religion was something that was restricted to Chinese festivals, where I would have to light a few smoky sticks and choke on the smoke as it wafted to the rooftops of what I called "smokey temples". The smoke would sting my eyes, and I would ask my mom repeatedly why I had to stay around and pray to a "God" I could not see, and endure all this suffering. She would just ask me to be "quiet and not talk so much if not the god will punish you", and then I would have to pray in random directions. I was never more relieved to be out of those places.
But as I grew older, I realised that there was something called "Christianity", and my first introduction to it was in a large cavernous hall in Boon Lay. I remember going into the lobby of the church and remarking that it looked like a hotel, it was that resplendent. My friend simply smiled, and led me down into the basement of the church.
I stepped out into the auditorium at B4, and there was a huge congregation of people already there. I had never seen anything like it, a whole auditorium of people singing and dancing to this thing they called the "Holy Spirit". It felt like a rock concert, and I thought wow this rock concert is free, although the lyrics to the songs were a little cheesy at times.
That was till they passed a blue bag around and people started staring at me. I had no idea what the bag was for. I reached a hand inside and realised it was full of money. My friend and his cell group mates then looked to me, as though they expected me to do something. It suddenly dawned upon me that I had watched their rock concert on credit. I put in $2, all the money I had that day.
I left, disgusted, never to return.
After I left, I thought about all that had happened. The whole session felt like a huge peer pressure exercise. I remembered how non-christians and backsliders had been asked to identify themselves, and walk to the front, only to be led away into another room. For some enlightened reason, I did not raise my hand, because I realised that perhaps I might not make it out of there alive. It reminded me distinctly of the Holocaust, how Jews had to identify themselves and get escorted onto trains which led to gas chambers, and we all know what happened next.
I knew that whoever it was up there already knew whether I was Christian or not, and there was no need for these people to know, especially since they weren't anything close to God, but a bunch of people who wanted my money. You can say all you want, but I stand by my assertion that day that when those parishioners looked at me, the only thing they cared about was whether I was interested in a buy-in into their church. It was then I realised how the resplendence of the compound had come about.
That friend of mine, I have no idea if he remained in City Harvest. A few months later, he invited me to join in another money-making session at a multi-level marketing company. It was six years back then, and such things were truly a novelty. I remember being brainwashed by this OCS officer into how easy it was to make money, as long as you paid $2000 upfront to buy in.
I thank my lucky stars then that I did not have $2000 to spend, or I would have found myself a lot poorer. Now looking back, I realise that my friend was ignorant. But I thank myself for having this friend anyway, because he introduced me to two things that would eventually go on to stir much controversy in Singapore, City Harvest, and MLMs.
For the latter, it is arguable that it is impossible to prevent fools from being parted from their cash. For the former, it might be the same thing, seeing as how the church has grown financially in 20 years, but it is also tied in along with faith, emotions, divine beings, thunder and lightning, a holy book, and a stubborn refusal to use common logic.
Talk about money, and people get defensive. Talk about religion, and people don't just get defensive, they get offensive even. The truth is, religion is a double edged sword, and its capacity to do good is only matched by its capacity to do evil.
The problem does not lie with the instrument of religion, but the people wielding the instrument. The instrument takes on the characteristics of its bearer, and amplifies them. It is how religion can produce figures like Mother Theresa, and on the flip side of the coin, Shoko Asahara, the leader of the cult Aum Shinrikyo, that carried out sarin gas attacks in Japanese subways in 1995.
I know not whether Kong Hee is guilty, and it is not my place to judge him. However, there are people out there who are uncomfortable with how a church is run like a business, because a church is something founded on trust. It cannot be questioned without calling one's faith into question, and as a result, it is the best vehicle for exploitation.
It is the whole premise of the church and its pastor being beyond reproach that makes people uncomfortable. It doesn't help that CHC counts amongst its members a lot of immature youth who are impressionable, always ready to defend and fight for a cause they do not truly understand. To them, its us against the world, and they do so without even realising that a root of the problem lies within themselves.
Their aggression is misguided, because their ignorance makes them afraid, and in their fear, they attack everything they perceive as the enemy. If they were truly knowledgeable about their church, they wouldn't be afraid of people attacking it. It's just like how you know that the answer for one plus one is two. If someone were to tell you it was three, would you have any problems telling him why it is not so?
If a church is truly beyond reproach, it should not fear being open about its practices. It should not be afraid of being under attack, because it would have nothing to hide. Perhaps I simplify the situation, but just as the adage goes that there is no smoke without fire, the hardest test for all flawed organisations, is the test of time.
At that time, religion was hardly something that factored in my life. Religion was something that was restricted to Chinese festivals, where I would have to light a few smoky sticks and choke on the smoke as it wafted to the rooftops of what I called "smokey temples". The smoke would sting my eyes, and I would ask my mom repeatedly why I had to stay around and pray to a "God" I could not see, and endure all this suffering. She would just ask me to be "quiet and not talk so much if not the god will punish you", and then I would have to pray in random directions. I was never more relieved to be out of those places.
But as I grew older, I realised that there was something called "Christianity", and my first introduction to it was in a large cavernous hall in Boon Lay. I remember going into the lobby of the church and remarking that it looked like a hotel, it was that resplendent. My friend simply smiled, and led me down into the basement of the church.
I stepped out into the auditorium at B4, and there was a huge congregation of people already there. I had never seen anything like it, a whole auditorium of people singing and dancing to this thing they called the "Holy Spirit". It felt like a rock concert, and I thought wow this rock concert is free, although the lyrics to the songs were a little cheesy at times.
That was till they passed a blue bag around and people started staring at me. I had no idea what the bag was for. I reached a hand inside and realised it was full of money. My friend and his cell group mates then looked to me, as though they expected me to do something. It suddenly dawned upon me that I had watched their rock concert on credit. I put in $2, all the money I had that day.
I left, disgusted, never to return.
After I left, I thought about all that had happened. The whole session felt like a huge peer pressure exercise. I remembered how non-christians and backsliders had been asked to identify themselves, and walk to the front, only to be led away into another room. For some enlightened reason, I did not raise my hand, because I realised that perhaps I might not make it out of there alive. It reminded me distinctly of the Holocaust, how Jews had to identify themselves and get escorted onto trains which led to gas chambers, and we all know what happened next.
I knew that whoever it was up there already knew whether I was Christian or not, and there was no need for these people to know, especially since they weren't anything close to God, but a bunch of people who wanted my money. You can say all you want, but I stand by my assertion that day that when those parishioners looked at me, the only thing they cared about was whether I was interested in a buy-in into their church. It was then I realised how the resplendence of the compound had come about.
That friend of mine, I have no idea if he remained in City Harvest. A few months later, he invited me to join in another money-making session at a multi-level marketing company. It was six years back then, and such things were truly a novelty. I remember being brainwashed by this OCS officer into how easy it was to make money, as long as you paid $2000 upfront to buy in.
I thank my lucky stars then that I did not have $2000 to spend, or I would have found myself a lot poorer. Now looking back, I realise that my friend was ignorant. But I thank myself for having this friend anyway, because he introduced me to two things that would eventually go on to stir much controversy in Singapore, City Harvest, and MLMs.
For the latter, it is arguable that it is impossible to prevent fools from being parted from their cash. For the former, it might be the same thing, seeing as how the church has grown financially in 20 years, but it is also tied in along with faith, emotions, divine beings, thunder and lightning, a holy book, and a stubborn refusal to use common logic.
Talk about money, and people get defensive. Talk about religion, and people don't just get defensive, they get offensive even. The truth is, religion is a double edged sword, and its capacity to do good is only matched by its capacity to do evil.
The problem does not lie with the instrument of religion, but the people wielding the instrument. The instrument takes on the characteristics of its bearer, and amplifies them. It is how religion can produce figures like Mother Theresa, and on the flip side of the coin, Shoko Asahara, the leader of the cult Aum Shinrikyo, that carried out sarin gas attacks in Japanese subways in 1995.
I know not whether Kong Hee is guilty, and it is not my place to judge him. However, there are people out there who are uncomfortable with how a church is run like a business, because a church is something founded on trust. It cannot be questioned without calling one's faith into question, and as a result, it is the best vehicle for exploitation.
It is the whole premise of the church and its pastor being beyond reproach that makes people uncomfortable. It doesn't help that CHC counts amongst its members a lot of immature youth who are impressionable, always ready to defend and fight for a cause they do not truly understand. To them, its us against the world, and they do so without even realising that a root of the problem lies within themselves.
Their aggression is misguided, because their ignorance makes them afraid, and in their fear, they attack everything they perceive as the enemy. If they were truly knowledgeable about their church, they wouldn't be afraid of people attacking it. It's just like how you know that the answer for one plus one is two. If someone were to tell you it was three, would you have any problems telling him why it is not so?
If a church is truly beyond reproach, it should not fear being open about its practices. It should not be afraid of being under attack, because it would have nothing to hide. Perhaps I simplify the situation, but just as the adage goes that there is no smoke without fire, the hardest test for all flawed organisations, is the test of time.
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