I’m Sorry but, You are One Peculiar Country πŸ˜

The Shard disappeares into the sky. Or may be it is a Stairway to Heaven

You know you are in this peculiar country where you can have all 4 seasons in 1 day. The people are so polite they always start their conversation with “I’m sorry but….” follows with all complaints!!!!

The Royal Family


Their buses are painted red & mostly double decked. Their phone booths & post boxes are of the same colour. May be it’s for “ong” lah, like the Chinese. 😁


Their skies are always in bad mood, threatening everyone’s party with their tears. How predictably dramatically clichè😁

Typical London Sky


Their breakfast is so huge it can sustain you for the whole day.


And they call their currency “Pound” with that strange symbol!!! Come on. Pound is for weight, not currency. Who uses that in 2019? Even then, pound is so…….last century. But obviously this strange country is still holding on to this sign Β£ πŸ˜„


And they have name for their flag. Union Jack. Aiyoβ€¦πŸ€£
Oopsy tipsy…Blimy. Am I sounding like one one of them?

Kew Garden

“I am sorry but…..”, 😁😁😁
But…. they have beautiful lovely parks everywhere that you can always escape from hustle & bustle anytime anywhere πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–

Kew Garden


Also…..they love Indian dish very much. Chicken Tikka Masala even declared as their national dish. I love it too. Very much β€β€β€πŸ‘ŒπŸ‘ŒπŸ‘Œ
And their squirrels are so friendly. You can shake hands with them πŸ’ŸπŸ’ŸπŸ’Ÿ


As Malaysian I don’t need adaptor to charge my phone. We share the 3-pin power point. And we both drive on the same side of the road, the wrong side. Wohoo πŸ‘

***disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents bla bla……(too long to write) ….. is purely coincidental.

An English Wedding – Laterally & Literally

The highlight of the trip – the wedding at Upwaltham Barns in Chichester. That is why we are in the UK at all. Otherwise we would’ve skipped London this time around.

Mr. & Mrs. Hectors

Emerald is a very good friend of Ben’s. They both worked in the same place way back in the early 1990’s in Notting Hill. I guess they “clicked” and have been good friends ever since even though they stopped being colleagues for twenty years. So here we are celebrating, probably the happiest day of Emerald’s life. And probably the groom’s Irvine as well. πŸ€—πŸ˜‰

The Bride and Maids

But as they say, a wedding is not an English wedding without some rain. And it is not just some rain. It’s pouring rain the whole day until late in the evening.

“I’m sure it is karma,” I jokingly whisper to Ben, “On Em for stealing your birthday weekend.”

“Shh… Don’t tell that to Em,” Ben responds jokingly. Emerald, in her message to Ben prior to official wedding invitation, mentioned that she had a good and a bad news.

The Groom and Friends

“The good news is I’m getting married. The bad news is it will be on your birthday weekend.”

Despite the grumpy sky and chilly October air, it was indeed a happy day, celebrating the union of the beautiful bride Emerald Hector & the handsome groom Irvine Hector πŸ’˜

Superb meal

Loads & loads of congratulations Mr. & Mrs. Hectors. Love you both xx

p/s: Emerald, that gown is gorgeousβ€¦πŸ˜‰β€

And another thing:-

“Life is short, marriage is long” greeting on one of the wedding cards is from me, in case I forgot to sign my name underneath it. πŸ€”πŸ˜

I forgot to put on my high heels😁

A Day on a Birthday

It’s Ben’s birthday today. We plan to meet and celebrate with my dear dear friend from Malaysia, Hana. Hana has been living in London for the last one and half years. She is here to be with her 11-year old son, Mika who is studying at Eton. He has another six months until he finishes his primary school.

Hana and Ben admiring red roses at Hyde Park

We meet Hana at Kensington station at around noon.

We both are very excited to see each other. It has been 18 months since she left for London. We both exchange miss yous, hug for long time and can’t wait to hear the latest about each other.

I say I am very good, staying at Ben’s friends’ terrace house in Laughborough Junction in Brixton.

Hana says she is good too but missing Malaysia and friends back home. She says life is very lonely in London and it’s hard to find good friends here.

How about the moms of Etonian kids, I ask her.

She made good friend with an American lady but she and her family moved back to USA. Her husband’s job contract ended. Hana made friend with the American mom a few weeks after she moved to London but three months before the American family was due to return to the USA. Heigh ho.

Pre-high tea drinks at Harvey Nichols

She doesn’t click with other Etonian moms, she says. They either are too rich, too snobbish or just too bitchy.

She says there is one mom from Thailand whose husband is rich. She is a snob and always comparing what she has and what Hana has (or does not have), comparing her son with other people’s children.

I laugh to Hana’s explanation of the Thai woman because I can almost visualize her with the first 70-minute of Michelle Yeoh’s character in Crazy Rich Asians.

I say to Hana not to give the bitch a fuck. The bitch is not rich, her husband is. She compares what she has with yours but all she has is from her husband’s credit cards. And what you have is from your own bank account because you work hard for it.

I remind Hana that she is in the league above those bitches who happen to marry well.

Hana is a single mother who works her ass off to afford to send her son to Eton. And it’s London, a very expensive city to live.

I joke that she should open an account on Grindr with a heading “Lonely Hag Looking For Fag Friends.” All three of us burst out laughing at the idea. Not a bad idea at all.

We go for a walk in Hyde Park to burn as much fat as possible before going for calories galore later. We went for light lunch at a Japanese cafe which I forgot the name. Then to Harvey Nichols for a pre-drink (whatever that means), followed by high tea at Fortnum & Mason in Picadilly.

The birthday boy waiting for more calories to come

After high tea we say good bye to Hana since she has to go home before Mika her son, gets home after school. We promise to see each other again soon before we leave London.

The celebration does not end when we leave Fortnum & Mason and kiss good bye to Hana. It continues on to the night in SOHO. I guess this is the real birthday celebration for Ben. In SOHO. His very old playground. We start off by getting drunk in Duke of Wellington. Then Admiral Duncan where the lovely diva Sandra entertains us with her “wit & charm” (read “vile, racist, sexist & sex-sex-sex-induced jokes”)

Calories calories calories

So far so ok. This can’t be real. No drama. No theft. No run-in with the security or police. It’s so smooth and trouble-free. But wait. Didn’t they say “Be careful with what you wish for”?

The euphoria of the good day sees us mingling with half-our-age crowd in G.A.Y. Only then the climax of “50th Birthday Celebration of Colin Ben Roberts” starting to materealize. His phone gets stolen in G.A.Y.

Heigh Ho. Happy Birthday Ben πŸ˜‰

Drunkenly happy, even after his phone got stolen.

Night of the Owl

Was expecting a wolf to howl to the full moon on top of the hill.Β  But all we hear is the hooting of the owl, the same owl that’s been hooting night after night.

It’s because we don’t have wolves in our area. They all had been hunted down or moved away when humans took over their lands many moons ago. But despair not, quite a few had been sighted near the Pyrinees and near Madrid in the last few years, after 60 years’ absence.Β  They had not gone extinct as thought.

Here’s hoping that they will find their way back here, to the land where their ancestors used to call home. Food is in abundance in the forms of wild boars and rabbits in the area.

I think the owl is calling for the wolves to return home.

Sophia Loren or Whitney Houston?

I run. And run. And run with my trolley suitcase to catch my connecting flight as soon as I get off Qatar Airways B787 Dreamliner from Doha in Rome. I have only one hour left after one hour delay in Doha to get my boarding pass, go through immigration, customs clearence and anything in between to board my Alitalia flight for Bari.

Rodi Garganico, Bari

“It’s an unusual name, even for Malaysians,” I explain to the ticketing officer.

“And BIN is not important at all. Thirty percent of men in Malaysia have the unnecessary BIN as part their names. You can either add it to your first name, or middle name, or last name or bin it all together,” I add as the guy is checking my passport against my flight ticket. He nods as if he understands my explanation, shrugs and issues me my boarding pass. And I run again for immigration.

“Grazie senore,” I say to the immigration officer that stamps my passport. And again I run. My eyes are busy looking for direction on signboards inside the hot and humid Leonardo da Vinci Airport. I am beginning to sweat now from a combination of running and humidity. Why is it so warm inside the air-conditioned airport?

Twenty minutes gone since I said “C U Next Thursday” to the Russian Gong Li until I pass through the Italian immigration. And my original plan of walking as elegantly as Sophia Loren trickles down between my butt cheeks, joining my sweat. The wet spots on my navy blue sleeve shirt underneath my armpits keep expanding. Bigger and bigger. The air inside the airport feels warmer and warmer. It’s not because of my running alone that makes me sweat a la Whitney Houston. It is really hot in here. I notice many people are fanning themselves with their hands.

It’s not right but it’s ok. I’m gonna run anyway. Otherwise I’ll miss my flight. I even ignore a pair of eyes that give me the “I-find-you-are-beautiful” look that belong to quite a handsome thirty something Mediterranean guy. I reach the customs. I put my suitcase onto the rolling thingy that scans suitcases.

“Can you please open your suitcase sir?” requests the custom officer in pony tail after seeing the content of my suitcase on the screen. I unzip my suitcase.

“Can you please take out the contents from the bag?” she requests and points at the big white supermarket plastic bag that takes up almost half of my suitcase.

“Red curry paste. And green curry paste. This one is chilli powder. And this is garam masala. These three are rendang mix,” I explain to her as I fish out one by one the suspicious contents from my suitcase.

“And this….,”

“It’s ok. You can put them all back in now,” says she.

“They are not for me. For friends and neighbors,” I quickly add. Omygod. My suitcase now smells of fish sauce, shrimp paste and curry. Urghh….Isweartogod I’m coming back to Europe quietly next time. Otherwise half of my suitcase is filled with curry paste and garam masala. Not to mention that all my clothes will smell of shrimp paste and fish sauce. The signorina customs officer nods and smiles as I place all the Asian cooking paste thingy back in the plastic bag. I zip my suitcase.

“To Bari. Which way signorina?”

“This way,” she points the direction that I have to go. “The bus will come soon to take you to the terminal,”

“Grazie,” I say and walk to join a group of about twelve or fifteen people waiting for the bus for the domestic terminal. My watch says 10 minutes to 1pm. It looks very hot outside. No wonder I’m profusely sweating Whitney-sque. Other people are sweating as well. About 5 minutes later our bus arrives to ship us to the domestic terminal. By the time I get to the boarding gate, there is only about 10 minutes left before departure.

“Bari?” I ask the girl behind the counter, catching my breath.

“Yes,” she replies. “But we are not opened for boarding yet. There’s a slight delay, sir.” If only I knew. I could have done a thing, or two in between.πŸ™„

C U Next Thursday

Here I am sitting by the window in the peasant class, looking out to the landings & taking-offs at Doha Airport. We have been delayed for nearly one hour now. I am beginning to worry I might miss my connecting flight. The wife of an elderly Chinese couple sitting next to me asks for a glass of water from a cruising crew,  a very tall girl, Eastern European looking, elegant-ish in her burgundy Qatar Airways uniform

None in the photo is The Russian Gong Li. I stole the picture from Qatar Airways’ promotional site

“We are not serving any drinks right now until we take off,” was her response.

A bit harsh and matronly tone response for a waitress I think. And this is not 3-star or 4-star airlines. It’s Qatar Airways. A premium airlines with a few “best airlines of the year” awards since its establisment in 1993.

On second look, the trolley dolly is not quite a girl. She looks a bit too old to be called a girl. She could have been shashaying the catwalks of Milan and Paris, only if she had lost a few kilos. Or may be more than a few kilos. Whatever. My poor next-seat neighbour seems petrified. I am too, a bit. She looks like she can break my neck with one single karate chop.

I am heading for Rome to catch my connecting flight for Bari. The nice Chinese couple next to me are going to Rome for a one week holiday. It’s their first time in Rome, they say. Then they will go to Greece for ten days before going back to Beijing, China, where they are residing now. She says she is from Beijing and he is from Nanjing. They met at Peking University where she did Pharmaceutical Science and he studied Physics. They have a daughter who is reading law in Peking University. The wife owns and run a small drugstore in Beijing and he teaches Mathematics and Physics in high school. I don’t ask the name of the school. I am sure I will forget its name the next second anyway.

Bari fishing boat pier

For the whole 6 hours’ journey I never see the Russian (or may be Ukrainian) karate chop trolley dolley crack a smile while serving us. I think everybody else seating on both sides of the aisle “patrolled” by her is a bit terrified of her. She is at least 5′ 11″, a bit on a heavier side. Her platinum blond hair is tightly pulled upward to form a bun the size of a tennis ball on top her head. The tight bun pulls her eye brows upward at both ends and she reminds me of Gong Li’s character in Memoir of a Geisha. The arched brows make her look more intimidating.

I try not to ask anything from her but may be, if ask nicely, she will almost smile. Nope, not a smile when I, wearing a very big fake grin, nicely ask her for a glass of water. B i a t c h!!! I am not asking for a bubble. My guess is she thinks she is too good to serve us, hoi polloi and should be in the first class, serving peanuts the right way, on all fours to those first classers.

Finally after a very long six hours, we land. Phew….I wish the Chinese couple a pleasant holiday and they return the same for me when we walk the aisle to get off the plane. I am not holding grudges but….., with my sweetest fake smile I still say thank you to the heavyset Russian Gong Li while exiting the aircraft.

“C U Next Thursday,” is my parting nicety for her as I make a runner to catch my Alitalia flight for Bari.

Pamplona. A Run-in with the Police, not the Bulls.

No bull run. Only a run-in with the police.

Nervous feeling mixed with excitement (am I a freak?) when our car gets pulled over by a squad of five hot looking police officers for doing an illegal (almost) lane change in Pamplona. After handing over our passports, hunky Officer1 chats (or interrogates) Ben (driver). Guapo Officer2 comes to my side of the window.

Lunch in Pamplona


Officer2: De donde eres (where are you from?)
Me: Malaysia
Officer2: How long are you in Spain for?
Me: Quatro semanas (4 weeks)
Actually I’m only in Spain for 2 weeks but “quatro semanas” comes out of my mouth.
I think (I like to think) he is more interested/fascinated in yours truly’s beardy-stachy, brown skin, ISIS-lookalike man in the passenger seat πŸ˜‹πŸ˜‰


A younger cute colleague Officer3 joins him, smiles at me which I return the smile. He looks at lost of what to make of me. More smiling & nodding.
Then hunky Officer1 askes Ben to get out of the car for separate interrogation? Must be, because I am not allowed to get out. Officer3 comes to the driver’s side of the window.

Officer3: Do you carry drugs?
(Fuck! I don’t know what Ben’s been telling Officer1 since he is being questioned outside of the car. When cornered, act confused and dumb)

Me: Errr…

Officer3: Marijuana?
(Can he sniff weed like a sniffer dog?)

Me: Yes. For my injured wrist
(Showing him my strapped wrist)

At this time I’m hoping he stops looking around in the car. At the same time I am hoping we get booked for the experience of being taken to police station by five hunky funky officers for whatever they are going to charge us.

“FREAK. WEIRDO,” my good self tells me.
“I EFFING AM,” my dark self screams.

I am nervous and excited at the same time while waiting for them to make up their minds, either to search the car thoroughly or to book us or to let us go. They are right in front of our car. I fish out a bottle of moisturizer from my hand-carry bag and start applying all over my skin. They can see clearly what I am doing. I’m nervous, OK. I don’t know what else to do while waiting for their verdict.

I remember watching Kate Winslet on The Graham Norton Show when she talks about the night that fire engulfed Richard Branson’s resort in Necker Island when she was staying there with her family. They were all asleep when the fire broke out. After she was awoken the first thing she did was, “Put on my bra,” before going to rescue Branson’s grandmother and her own children. I can relate, ha ha.

Way, way back in March 2005. At around midnight, I was lying on the sofa in the living room of my apartment on the 11th floor in Kuala Lumpur, reading. Suddenly I felt something but I didn’t know what. Something that I never felt before. I felt as if my heart was beating faster. It was very strange. Then I looked around and the first thing I noticed was that a light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the dining area was swaying. Straight away, “Ah, earthquake!” came to my mind even though I’d never experienced earthquake in my life before. I felt the building was swaying too.

It was the big undersea eartquake that caused giant catastrophic tsunami across the Andaman Sea, Bay of Bengal, Indian Ocean and Strait of Malacca on the boxing day in 2004 made me think that what I was experiencing right now was an earthquake or one of the post-boxing-day earthquake tremors. I was naked on the sofa. I was scared shit. But at the same I was excited because this was my first time ever to feel and experience earthquake, at the age of 36. I was contemplating weather to run down the staircase or just stay. I decided to stay because I thought if the building was going to collapse it would collapse before I reached for safety on the ground. The ground was 12 floors down. I had to run down the staircase, not the elevator unless I jumped down and died instantly. I decided to stay in my apartment.

I put on my Calvin Klein underwear. I was thinking if the rescue people found my dead body under the rubble of the collapsed building, at least I wasn’t naked. I was in white Calvin Klein. Ha ha. So Ms. Winslet, I understood you well when the first thing you did was put on your bra.

Back to Pamplona. Alas….I’m equally disappointed & excited when the police let us go after two or three long minutes of waiting. Adios guapos…..

Brexit – Karma of the Doings of the 1%

I’m sorry, but…..
I sympathize, but….
Karma is a bitch, bitches.

Before I go on a rampage with my rant, please note that it is not targeted at you, the commoners, the 99%. You are as much a victim as we are, the former colonies of the 1% of your ancestors and current colonies to the City of London Corporation, a one square mile state within a state that run by bankers and untouchables with a population of only 8,000 (0.00015% of the entire population of England). This to-make-you-feel-guilty rant is for the 1% and the 8000 people in the One Square Mile.

Elizabeth II, the current Queen of England

Once upon a time, you (the 1%) were the greatest. You colonized half the world over. Your colonization was to exploit their natural resources (oil, gold, tin, rubber, wood, cotton, ivory etc), human resources (cheap labourers & slaves) and to spread Christianity.

You plunder their wealth to enrich your people till you became the most powerful, the richest nation on earth. You enslaved them. You lived off the sweat, blood and tears of your colonies. You promised them of beautiful life after death with Christianity (no different to Muslims there).

You opened vast tea farms in India and Sri Lanka (Ceylon), coffee plantations in Kenya & Zimbabwe, cocoa plantations in Ghana (Ashanti), oil palms and rubber estates in Malaysia (Malaya), sugar cane plantations in Barbados and Jamaica in the West Indies plus tobacco fields in Virginia & Maryland in the USA.

To work and cultivate these plantations, you transplanted people from mostly Western African countries as slaves for your tobacco fields in Virginia, Maryland & sugar cane plantations in the West Indies in the 17th century. You brought the Tamils of India as slaves into your rubber estates in Malaya in the late 19th century. Until today, many of the decendants of the slaves in the USA are still living in poverty in the deep south, the Bible Belt spanning from Alabama to North Carolina.

Slaves of sugar cane plantations in the West Indies

Many of the decendants of the slaves from India in rubber estates in Malaysia are still living in poverty. Poverty and illiteracy rates among them are the highest in Malaysia. Some are even stateless because of the isolation of estate living that make them clueless of the importance of registering the birth of their children.

You burrowed their lands for oil, gold, tin or anything that you could get your hands of under the dirt of these colonial lands. You introduced the law of the Bible that until today, many of your former colonies still hold on to. Homosexuals in many of Commonwealth (laughable) member countries suffer marginalization, persecution and prosecution as a result of your Biblical laws enacted in your former colonies.

However, credit goes to you for “modernizing” these colonies. Some of you even get mentioned in our history books, such as Sirs (yes sir) Francis Light and Stanford Raffles for “founding” and “modernizing” Pulau Pinang and Singapura respectively, to make it sound as if these “sirs” were the first humans to find and colonize the islands. You even Anglicised the names from Pulau Pinang to Penang, Singapura to Singapore, while Jabal Tareq was changed to Gibraltar and Islas Melvinas to the Falklands.

You built roads, railway lines, sea ports and airports in those countries so you could transport all the commodities from under and on the ground of your colonies’ lands to your great country and sell them. The infrastructures were also to transport, ship, transplant and sell people snatched from their homes in Africa to their new white masters across the Atlantic. They were auctioned off in Virginia, Maryland and West Indies as if they were cows or horses. That was how low you treated the humans of Africa.

Captured in Africa. To be sold in Maryland, Virginia and the West Indies as slaves.

When all has almost been harvested or plundered out from your colonized lands and nothing much left, the cost of keeping the colonies outweighed the revenue made out of them. The natives in these colonies also started to realize that their blood, sweat and their wealth had been used to enrich you, to prosper your people back home and to develop Great Britain. Foreseeing more troubles ahead instead of prosperity had you continued clinging on to your colonies, you “granted” them independence. I read somewhere you stole around US$45 trillion from India before you “gifted” them independence. And that was from India alone! Out of 200 countries, only 22 countries you did not colonize. One can only imagine how much wealth you stole from all of them, your former colonies.

The partitioning of India and Pakistan in 1947 which was supposed to take four years, hastily done in four months by your incompetent, clueless officer as independence “gift” to the South Asian nations. The immediate result of the partioning the Hindu/Sikh India and Muslim Pakistan was the death of two million South Asians. Till this day the people of these two countries hate each other. Kashmir today looks more and more likely on its way to perdition since partition, just the way Palestine did.

Up to 2 millions died as Muslims, Hindus & Sikhs who were once friends started killing each other before, during and after the partioning of India-Pakistan.

Talking about Palestine, remember the day you granted them “independence” in 1948? You just handed it over to a group of other Europeans so they could continue the white colonialism legacy in the Middle East. Palestine was renamed Israel by the new colonial power. What so ironic is that, the then-Ashkenazis, now-Israelis who sufferred the worst kind of crimes against humanity in Europe are committing almost the same crimes commited by the Nazis against them towards the natives of Palestine. Since the handover of Palestine to the Ashkenazis in 1948, about 50,000 Palestinians have been killed so far. Around 7 million more are refugees worldwide. And guess what, the Israelis have, for a few years now, been training India on how to handle Kashmir, just the way they have been handling Palestine since 1948.

The ethnic cleansing by the Ashkenazis on the natives of Palestine, also known as Nakba (Catatstrophe) by the Palestinians. Around 50,000 Palestinians have been killed since the creation of Israel in 1948.
Since 1948, more than 7 millions of Palestinians were being made refugees by the Ashkenazis, replacing the English as the new European colonists in the Middle East.

You know what, every time there was a conflict somewhere, we used to whisper, “Has the English been there?” Conflicts in Palestine and Kashmir made us question it quietly. But I’m not whispering anymore. I’m telling you right to your face that “You had been to Palestine and Kashmir.” And look at what’s happening to the people in these two regions; colonized, denied their basic human rights, treated like the Ashkenazis by the Nazis during World War II. Oh before I forget, were you in Hong Kong from 1860 until 1997? Briefly, you ceded your East and South East Asian colonies to Japan in the World War II. Briefly. Then you came back for more plundering.

Talking about world wars, most of us never went to war, never wanted to be in the wars and never took part in the wars. Those of us that participated were your mercenaries. We were forced by you to kill or be killed in your dirty wars. You called them world wars as if the whole world was at war whereas only you and your European neighbours were warring with each other. The Japanese were just trying to “free” us from being your slaves in early 1940’s. That’s for another story.

I guess it must have been hard to stomach, that losing one colony after another until no more than Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales and a few small island nations left under your rule, your surpremacy was waning. Another huge blow was when English Pound, used as the reserve currency throughout the 19th and half of the 20th century was ousted by United State of American Dollar in 1945. Not only that, the United Kingdom of Great Britain was relegated to being the sidekick of the USA, the new super power. And to rub salt to your injury, Uncle Sam was once your former colony! From then on, you were no more than a Robin to a Batman, ever ready to please your more domineering so-called good friend.

In the era of dirty “War On Terror” at the turn of the 21st century, you had proven to your good friend how loyal you were. You didn’t think twice when USA asked you to join them to bomb the Iraqis in 2003 under the guise of freeing the people of Iraq from their dictator leader Saddam Hussein and “disarming” Iraq of weapons of mass destruction. You knew it was all lies but you went along because hey, that’s what good buddies are for. Millions of Iraqi civilians were killed by you and your Uncle Sam. Until today your Tony Blair defends his and his best pal, George W. Bush’s indefensible act of terror on the people of Iraq as a “moral obligation”.

You were so eager to please your friend in attacking Libya and killing Gaddafi in 2011. You had no reason at all but to prove your loyalty to your pals across the Atlantic. Look at what happened to Iraq. And Libya. Look at what’s happening to Syria and its people. It’s your ego and eagerness to prove your worth to your new master. In doing so, you and your master created a monster called ISIS that terrorized Iraq & Syria.

Oh dear, you are no longer the master but your master’s favourite puppy. Is Iran your next dirty job for your master or masters? Is Israel your master too?

Notorious for being cunning, after losing your empire and military power, you meticulously designed a very evil plan called “Second Empire” by continuing colonizing them, financially. This second phase of imperialism was birthed in the City of London; the One Square Mile. The real rulers of Britain, the rich and powerful in the City of London, created a web of secrecy jurisdiction to obtain wealth from the entire world and hide it in Britain’s offshore “financial centres” in all your small island territories and about 250 banks in the City of London.

“Tax Havens” of The Caymans and British Virgin Islands in the Caribbean, Bermuda in the Atlantic, Guernsey, Jersey & Channel Islands, Isle of Man and Gibraltar in Europe are your proxies for the Second Empire, plus banks within the One Square Mile. The One Square Milers encouraged corrupt politicians, dishonest & tax-evading businesspeople plus criminals from all over the world to launder and park their dirty money in your so-called Tax Havens. Trillions of dollars from your “independent” former colonies plus other countries is in these Tax Havens and banks in the City of London. And it keeps coming in until today. It is believed that your “offshore financial” centres and City of London banks store more than half of all the world’s wealth that kept offshores! So if anybody wonders why none of those listed in the Panama Papers is charged for money laundry or tax evasion, we now know why.

You just could not accept that you were no longer the power surpremo. So the Second Empire was your new empire. As they say, once a criminal, your children and children of their children would be criminals too. It’s in your DNA. Your harbouring of the dirty money from other countries is hindering economic growth and development in these countries. That is your main objective. While you are using dirty money credited by corrupt politicians, tax evaders and criminals from mostly poorer countries, you are once again asserting your colonial power on these poor, “independent” nations.

But this time, during this Second Empire era, you have been too greedy. You forgot about the 99 percent in your country. You only enrich yourselves, your families and cronies – the 1% plus the One Square Milers. The 99% started to notice that. Ouch.

As I said earlier Karma is a Bitch. She’s invisible but she’s there, following you around like a ghoul. If she does not bite your ass straight away, she will wait for the right time later. If she does not bite you, she will attack your children or children of your children and their children.

Fast forward to 1980’s. The ghoul bitch – the karma started to show her presence. The wealth gap between the 1% + the One Square Milers with the 99% grew bigger and bigger. The 99% started to feel the hardship of high cost of living. The prices on daily needs, utilities, rentals, houses and transportation went up faster than what they made from their nine to five job. The wealth was not evenly distributed. Bigger and bigger chunk went to the 1% + The One Square Milers. The 99% felt cheated, used and abused by the 1%.

Thatcherism in the 80’s and 90’s fed and fattened the Bitch. Yes the Maggie Thatcher era of privatization, favouring big corporations and businesspeople instead of men and women on the street – the 99%, saw the number of strikes becoming more and more frequent. People were angry at the establishment.

Margaret Thatcher. Prime Minister of United Kingdom, 1979 -1990

Politicians were quick to adopt populism politics to take advantage on the restlessness of the 99%. Right wing and fascist political parties gained more attention by the masses. The taglines used by xenophobes such as “Immigrants are stealing our jobs”, “The Muslims are taking over this country”, were showing results. The masses even bought the “We are being ruled by Germany and France” tagline after a few years in the European Union.

The fact is, the immigrants just wanted to have a slice of the wealth being stolen from them by your imperialist ancestors and by the current One Square Milers.

Many immigrants were decendents of those who were auctioned off as slaves in the West Indies in the 17th century and wanted to live off of the blood, sweat and tears of their forefathers plus the proceeds from the “sales” of their ancestors.

The immigrants were just taking up jobs that the locals refused to do, the 3D’s – dirty, difficult and dangerous. The immigrants were just filling up the positions that many of your people were not qualified to do. With only high school GCE O Level certificate, your people would not qualify to perform surgery on a patient with brain tumor the size of a tennis ball.

Many of the immigrants are not immigrants but refugees as a result of your government’s love for pleasing Uncle Sam in his obsession and addiction to bombing people in the Middle East, either to clear the old stockpile of arsenals or to test the newly manufactured weapons.

Admit that you don’t like being dictated by other European countries, especially not by Germany and France. You never lost a war with either of them. Your past glories and victories made you stuck in the past. Your right wing, nationalistic politicians seized the opportunity to mobilize the poor, less educated, ill-informed and Daily Mail readers to exit “German/French-controlled” EU. You named the movement as Brexit. You are too superior a nation to be under them, aren’t you? Your Brexit won.

Brexit is karma, bitches. It brought down two prime ministers already. The Brex-shit mess proved to be too messy for them. They resigned without acheiving anything, let alone doing good for the people. Cameron will always be rembered as the prime minister that gambled with UK’s future by recommending a referendum on Brexit. He was too cocky and thought that Remainers (those who wanted to stay, work, live and cooperate with other Europeans) would win. Well his gamble smacked him on his face. He resigned, or rather ran away from the mess that he was gambling on.

David Cameron. UK Prime Minister, 2010-2016

That left his number two, another cocky and overconfident but a very bad dancer, Theresa May to mop and clean the shit he left behind.

“Brexit means Brexit,” Ms. May cockily told the Brits after she took office. I guess she found out soon enough that Brexit meant BREXSHIT. The shit was enormous, hit a giant oscilating fan that spread all over the country. For four years at No. 10 Downing Street, all she did was mopping and mopping. Either all the mops, or she were worn out or both, she took a runner, after four years of achieving nothing. I wonder what she will be remembered for as the prime minister. I can only imagine, ha di ha….

Theresa May in Britain Got No Talent? UK Prime Minister, 2016-2019

The new prime minister looks like to walk down the same path as his two predecessors. Path to resignation prematurely. Or defeated by the son of Iranian immigrants in the next election. Oh Boris. You are such an arrogant Twiddle Dumb. Heigh ho…

Boris ‘BoJo’ Johnson. UK Prime Minister, 2019 – ?

My sympathy and empathy go to you, the 99%. It’s not your fault that England is in shit. I don’t know how deep. It’s the fault of the 1% from hundreds of years back and continues until this day.

It’s the karma of their doings. What a bitch…..

The Girl (or Bratty Twatty Bitch) on the Train, part III

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s gonna be a long chilly night. It’s already chilly now at 9pm.

“I’m sorry Kee,” is Ben’s overused line. I hear this line too often for the last nine years. Why can’t he just ignore the skinny twat’s behavior, just like the woman sitting across the girl? Or like me? Or like everybody else?

I ignore him. The station master asks us to wait on the platform. We watch the train slowly leaves Worthing station and soon disappears in the dark, cold night.

“The police will be here in forty five minutes,” the burly, late thirty-something station master informs us.

Ben goes to sit in a nearby bench. I ask the station master the nearest exit so I can go out to smoke. I follow the direction he points at.

Brrrr…. It’s getting chillier. I puff my Marlboro light slowly. Forty five minutes wait feels very long, especially when it is not a normal situation. We are waiting for the police. We are waiting, or more precisely, Ben “the wierd old man” is waiting to be interrogated by the police for “touching” a seventeen-year old girl. Well, I will describe her as a five-foot three, shoulder-length, light blonde hair, pale and skinny bratty twatty bitch.πŸ€”πŸ˜‰ I’m just the “star witness” (self-proclaimed), in case I am needed to help with the police investigation of the drama of the day. πŸ’£πŸ€œπŸ€›

After two sticks of Marlboro light, I walk back into Worthington train station. Ben is staring at his phone. He looks up.

“The police are arriving soon,” he says.

“Great. They better be. It’s a long wait already. And it’s fucking cold now,” I respond.

I pace back and forth on the platform, trying to emulate back-and-forth scenes in movies, just to annoy Ben. The purpose is to make him feel guiltier than guilty for dragging me into the drama. Well, to be fair he did ask me to let him deal with it alone and I should just go back to our hotel in Chichester. But he is my partner, for better or worse.

The soles of my shoes are rubber. It sounds “shriek”, “shriek” instead of the clichΓ© “tap”, “tap”, “tap”. Or is it “clack, clack, clack?” What a bad actor I am.

About thirty five minutes of waiting, two policemen arrive. Ben stands up. The station master talks to them, then the two officers indicate to Ben to follow them to the end of platform which is about twenty metres away from where Ben is standing. One looks like in his late forties and I am guessing the younger officer is around 30. They walk towards the end of the platform.

“Shall I come along?” I ask. Both officers turn around and the older of the two asks me,

“And you are,?” in a very polite tone.

“I am his partner. I am the star witness,” is what I want to say. But I make do with “I am his partner. I am also the witness of what happened.”

“Alright. You stay here. We’ll let you know when we need you,” he says.

After about 7 or 8 minutes later Ben calls my name and indicates me to join them.

“Are you having anger management problem,?” I hear the older officer was asking Ben while I am approaching them. I stand a few feet away from the three of them.

“No, I am not,” Ben replies. “It’s just that I can’t stand how rude and entitled kids today,” Ben continues. The older officer is checking Ben’s police record on his portable handheld device and continues,

“You had been in police custody for one night in 1989, it says here.”

“Oh yeah. 1989. That was when the police put half of London homosexuals in lock ups using their dirty and sick entrapment method,” Ben replies, with a hint of a smirk.

“Thank god we don’t do that anymore,” the older officer quickly responds. He seems in a hurry to move on from the subject of police brutality toward LGBTQ community in the 1980’s and prior.

“Look, there’s no case here. We understand what really happened. But please note that physical contacts, no matter how brief or tiny or insignificant they seem, it is still categorized as common assault,” he informs Ben.

“I understand,” asnwers Ben.

“Good. You may go,” the older officer tells Ben.

“Thank you.” Ben thanks both of them.

“Good night,” I say. I am a bit disappointed that they didn’t even ask me anything on the incident. How very dare they. I am the star witness.

They respond the same. Ben and I wait for our train. The two polite and professional police officers walk toward the exit of the station. The night gets colder as my watch says it’s nearly 10.30pm.

“What a waste of police precious time,” I say to Ben. “And our time too,” I add, unnecessarily but I still want Ben to know how silly the whole drama is.

“I am very sorry. Really.” he pleads. Hmmm…

Our train pulls into the station. We get onboard, sit opposite each other, recalling of what just had happened, silently until we reach Chichester.

xxxxxx

The drama the night before makes us go our separate ways in the morning. We say our goodbyes at Chichester station.

As my train is choo chooing away from Chichester the events of the previous night still anger me. It should not have happened. It was just silly. And the police had to be involved? It was partly to blame why I’m on this train for Brighton, not to London with him.

I guess some of you already read about last nite’s drama on train to Chichester from Brighton on Colin Roberts’ thread. As as results, this morning we go separate ways in Chichester station.

Colin Ben Roberts takes the London-bound train. I take the train for Brighton. I collect my phone at lost & found office at Brighton station, jump on London-bound train & will meet him for lunch somewhere around Laughborough Junction.

Apology if you all thought it is a separation, as in divorce. We are not married in the first place to get divorced. My phone must’ve slipped out of my pocket while in the train last night. Ben made a call to my number & the train driver who answered my phone told us to collect at Brighton station. All is good as at the posting of this story. Heigh ho…

The Girl ( or Bratty Twatty Bitch) on the Train, part II

“I’m so gonna report you,” threatens the skinny girl, in that tone so annoying which I am sure even her parents will want to strangle her.

“Please, go ahead,” dares the middle age man.

“I am reporting you now. For touching a 17 years old girl,” the teenager repeats her warning. The ‘midager’ repeats the same encouragement. I am gritting my teeth. Furious at the situation. Furious at both of these Brits.

Oh for fuck sake. A teenage girl vs a middle age man. Over a foot on a seat. And police has to be involved? It is gonna be a long night. And tonight is a bloody chilly night.

At the next stop, Worthington, the teenager gets out and goes to see the train driver. The station master joins the driver, listening to her a-weird-old-man-touched-me story, I assume.

The ‘weird old man’ stands up after a while, realizing the train has been stalled for much longer than usual at the station.
“The train is stalled because of me,” he mumbles.

“I am sure you caused it,” I replied. I am boiling inside despite the chill air.
He walks to the door, telling the station master that he can get off the train and let the train continue its journey instead of making other passengers wait. A very considerate man indeed. But my eyes roll.
“Stay in the train,” I mutter with gritted teeth. “They will come and get you soon,”

“Will I be arrested and spend the night in police lock up?” the midager jokingly asks no one in particular. The lady sitting next to him who’s been pretending to be focusing on her phone screen looks up and says,
“Nah. You are not going to jail for that,” the woman says. I am sure she is happy he did the job that she always wanted to do but not daring enough. Like me πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰

A while later the station master comes into our coach, politely asks the midager the meddler to follow him.
“I will come with you,” I say, albeit reluctantly thinking of the long chilly night ahead involving the police. Oh fuck. Fuck. Another fuck. A run-in with the Spanish police in Pamplona 10 days earlier comes to mind. Only that this is a chilly evening in Worthing. It was a warm beautiful afternoon in Pamplona. Not to mention the four officers were so effing hunky hunky.

“No you stay. Go home. I’ll deal with it,” he says. The thought of warm duvet is very tempting.
“It’s your words against a seventeen-year-old girl,” I barked at him
“And am the star and only witness. I come with you.” The other only witness, the woman clearly prefers not to get involved. Three midagers vs a teenager. How ridiculous can it get. The two of us get off the train.

“The police are on their way,” the station master informs us…..

(to be continued…)

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