Study is everything for Indian parents. Academic excellence means much more than sport or other extra-curricular activities. If you were an Indian or Pakistani kid and you lived in a world where you only possible employers could be your parents, you needn’t hand in a resume or CV detailing your achievements in rugby or debating, your community and charity involvements or your election to the student union. All that would matter is your academic transcript.
After I finished my double-degree in economics and law, my mother was convinced I would never get a job. Why? Because I didn’t have a first class honours and wasn’t the recipient of the university medal. When I proved her wrong and landed a job in a large suburban firm, her response was: “Yes, but it is not a big city law firm”. As far as mum was concerned, the fact that my friends who landed jobs in one of the big five firms wouldn’t step outside the photocopy room for their first 12 months whilst I was running 5 matters each morning down at the local court didn’t seem to matter.
When Indian kids achieve some kind of academic excellence, their parents love to hold a huge party. I have a relative who held a lavish party when one of her sons got into medicine. It was a huge affair, and she invited just about all her Indo-Pakistani friends, including the ones whose kids didn’t quite get as high grades. Some of these poor kids were forced to give speeches congratulating the future doctor.
A family friend of ours had a son who got into medicine. After 12 months of gruelling study, the young man decided to switch to a fine arts degree. By the time news reached me, it was a case of: “That is-stoopid boy, he so ungir-rateful to Allah! He get given pil-lace in medicine, and he dir-rop out to become painter!”
But not all Indo-Paks are so obsessed. An old uncle of mine, Uncle Zack, was very pleased that his daughter managed to complete her Year 12 Higher School Certificate (HSC). I have no idea what mark she achieved in her HSC. There was no indication of whether she managed to make it into university or what she would be studying. The invitation we received just asked us to show up at a Uniting Church hall in Lakemba, known to some as Sydney’s Muslim “ghetto”.
Unlike other Indo-Pak uncles, Zack also rocks up on time when invited anywhere. I’ve never known Zack to turn up even 5 minutes late to our house without ringing. But Zack doesn’t have any control over the timeliness of his friends. Knowing this, although the invitation insisted dinner would be at “8:30 pm sharp”, I knew that IST would apply.
(IST is Indian Standard Time)
Hence, I suggested to my mother (who insisted I drive her to the function) that we leave her house at 8pm, the hall being around 20 minutes from our house. I predicted the function would start at around 8:20pm and we might be 5 minutes late. Mum refused, and asked one of her friends to show up and pick her up. She told me that her friend understood the importance of punctuality more than I ever could.
Her friend showed up at around 8:30pm. I left at 8:35pm and arrived at 8:50pm, just as the show was about to start. Dinner was served at 9:30pm. Sharp.
The function was a simple affair. One bloke stood up the front and delivered a very short speech. It seemed short to me because the dude could actually speak English. Uncle Zack stood out the front behind the speaker, looking frustrated at all the people deciding to show up in accordance with the requirements of IST. Seriously, you’d think poor Zack would be used to this by now.
After the English speech which could no doubt be understood by both parents and kids alike, the speaker invited a Pakistani imam to say a short “dua” (supplication or prayer) while the food was being laid out. The short prayer was recited in Arabic and Urdu, with perhaps around half the audience understanding the Urdu bits. It lasted around 10 minutes. A very short dua by Pakistani standards.
The dinner was, to put it mildly, absolutely fabulous. I’m not sure who cooked it, but whoever it was has certainly earned the right to tell Gordon Ramsay to fuck off back to the UK. Had it not been for the chilli, I’d have had seconds and thirds. Instead, I had to settle for a 2 litre bottle of spring water to keep by head from exploding.
As always, men were seated on one side of the hall, while women were on the other side. There was one food table for the blokes and another for the sheilas.
Speaking of sheilas, there was one sheila who recognised me and waved in a jovial manner as I sat down after first walking into the hall. I was seated between two rather austere looking bearded dudes, so on this occasion it was obvious she wasn’t waving at the wrong person. I nodded and then sent her a text message warning her smiling and waving might land either (if not both) of us in trouble with the mullah brigade, if not with some aunties who might assume we were involved in some kind of illicit affair.
(To be continued ...)
Words © 2009 Irfan Yusuf
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Notes from the Sleepy Islands
[01] The sleepy town (by New Zealand standards, it would be called a “city”) of Christchurch is 2 hours ahead of Sydney. But if you think of time in another way, it’s 2 decades behind. It depends on your perspective.
[02] I flew into Christchurch on 4 February 2009. My flight touched down at 10:30pm. The 3 hour flight took off from Sydney at 5:30pm. Down under, discounted airlines don’t feed you unless you pay them. I’m not sure what they do in Europe. I was a little famished and expected the airport to have some eateries open for the famished traveller. No such luck. All they had available was a water fountain (we used to call them “bubblers” at school) and the odd vending machine. But all the Bank of New Zealand foreign exchange booths were open. All that money and nowhere to spend it!
[03] I caught the shuttle bus from the airport to my motel. Most motels provide their own shuttle bus service. It was 11pm by the time I got to the motel which was around 5 minutes from the airport. Not much by way of takeaway nearby other than what one could salvage from the 24 hour petrol station nearby. Even Pizza Hut delivery was shut.
[04] At the servo, I picked up a copy of the local broadsheet newspaper, called The Press. I occasionally write op-eds for this paper, usually fairly flippant light-hearted pieces about cricket or tourism advertisements or the various scandals Kiwis and Aussies share. The readers seem to enjoy reading an Aussie poking fun at his own, while I enjoy the hard cash The Press throw my way in return for each column.
[05] The day I left for Christchurch, the front page story of the Sydney Morning Herald was about the Australian government’s latest salvage or bailout package to protect us Aussies from what seems like an almost certain recession. There was detailed analysis of the facts and figures of the bailout, along with discussion of the economic impact and the political fallout. The Press (owned by the same company as the Herald) also had facts and figures on its front page, though judging by the paper here, people here don’t seem to perturbed about a possible recession. Instead, we had facts of figures of a sporting diva from Auckland named Vili who won the trophy of New Zealand Sportswoman of the Year for the second year running. Another front page story concerned a domestic cricketer who wouldn’t be playing in a Twenty-20 match that day. Us Aussies are far more money-hungry, and our Kiwi cousins just can’t get enough of their sport.
[06] The Press also carried such important international news as the White House’s attempt to crackdown on the misuse of the Obama brand – “Yes Pecan” ice cream, Obama chocolate lollipops, Obama lipstick and cigars (a bit too early to be plugging those, you’d think. At least wait for the first female intern to arrive) and even a product called “The Audacity of Soap”. So I had to fly all the way to Christchurch to learn this shit?
Words © 2009 Irfan Yusuf
[02] I flew into Christchurch on 4 February 2009. My flight touched down at 10:30pm. The 3 hour flight took off from Sydney at 5:30pm. Down under, discounted airlines don’t feed you unless you pay them. I’m not sure what they do in Europe. I was a little famished and expected the airport to have some eateries open for the famished traveller. No such luck. All they had available was a water fountain (we used to call them “bubblers” at school) and the odd vending machine. But all the Bank of New Zealand foreign exchange booths were open. All that money and nowhere to spend it!
[03] I caught the shuttle bus from the airport to my motel. Most motels provide their own shuttle bus service. It was 11pm by the time I got to the motel which was around 5 minutes from the airport. Not much by way of takeaway nearby other than what one could salvage from the 24 hour petrol station nearby. Even Pizza Hut delivery was shut.
[04] At the servo, I picked up a copy of the local broadsheet newspaper, called The Press. I occasionally write op-eds for this paper, usually fairly flippant light-hearted pieces about cricket or tourism advertisements or the various scandals Kiwis and Aussies share. The readers seem to enjoy reading an Aussie poking fun at his own, while I enjoy the hard cash The Press throw my way in return for each column.
[05] The day I left for Christchurch, the front page story of the Sydney Morning Herald was about the Australian government’s latest salvage or bailout package to protect us Aussies from what seems like an almost certain recession. There was detailed analysis of the facts and figures of the bailout, along with discussion of the economic impact and the political fallout. The Press (owned by the same company as the Herald) also had facts and figures on its front page, though judging by the paper here, people here don’t seem to perturbed about a possible recession. Instead, we had facts of figures of a sporting diva from Auckland named Vili who won the trophy of New Zealand Sportswoman of the Year for the second year running. Another front page story concerned a domestic cricketer who wouldn’t be playing in a Twenty-20 match that day. Us Aussies are far more money-hungry, and our Kiwi cousins just can’t get enough of their sport.
[06] The Press also carried such important international news as the White House’s attempt to crackdown on the misuse of the Obama brand – “Yes Pecan” ice cream, Obama chocolate lollipops, Obama lipstick and cigars (a bit too early to be plugging those, you’d think. At least wait for the first female intern to arrive) and even a product called “The Audacity of Soap”. So I had to fly all the way to Christchurch to learn this shit?
Words © 2009 Irfan Yusuf
Monday, October 20, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Discovering Pizza in Manila ...
In 1976, my family set off for a year long holiday. Our first stop out of Sydney was in Manilla. We spent 1 or 2 nights there. It was to be my first taste of a 3rd world country. It was also our family’s first taste of eating out. Apart from sharing meals with of our South Asian family friends at each other’s homes, we’d rarely eaten out in Australia.
My mother insisted she wanted to eat Indian food in Manilla. Dad sat us all in a taxi, and the driver took us around the entire city. After 2 hours, we couldn’t find a single Indian restaurant. My father therefore convinced mum to try this new Italian dish called pizza.
Mum was averse to Italian food. After I was born, my parents and family moved to Australia by ship. It was an Italian ship, and my mother couldn’t stand the food which she felt was too bland. She couldn’t live without her spices and chilli. Now, here in the heart of the 3rd world, my father was asking mum to eat Italian food!
Still, we were all extremely hungry. Dad asked the pizzeria to use chilli sauce on the pizza. The pizza arrived piping hot, and my mother took a taste test. She liked what she was munching on, and my dad spoiled us all that night with plenty of this strange new delicacy.
We enjoyed our pizza feast two nights in a row. No doubt the pizzeria owner also enjoyed our presence.
Words © 2008 Irfan Yusuf
My mother insisted she wanted to eat Indian food in Manilla. Dad sat us all in a taxi, and the driver took us around the entire city. After 2 hours, we couldn’t find a single Indian restaurant. My father therefore convinced mum to try this new Italian dish called pizza.
Mum was averse to Italian food. After I was born, my parents and family moved to Australia by ship. It was an Italian ship, and my mother couldn’t stand the food which she felt was too bland. She couldn’t live without her spices and chilli. Now, here in the heart of the 3rd world, my father was asking mum to eat Italian food!
Still, we were all extremely hungry. Dad asked the pizzeria to use chilli sauce on the pizza. The pizza arrived piping hot, and my mother took a taste test. She liked what she was munching on, and my dad spoiled us all that night with plenty of this strange new delicacy.
We enjoyed our pizza feast two nights in a row. No doubt the pizzeria owner also enjoyed our presence.
Words © 2008 Irfan Yusuf
Friday, June 16, 2006
Sheik Yahiya Howard?
So that Indonesian Sheik who shares his surname with the New South Wales Governor has invited John Howard to become a Muslim. Sounds pretty halal to me. But there might be a few hitches.
For a start, Mr Howard might be expected to change his name. Some Muslims seem to think that converting to Islam means having to de-Anglicise your name.
My old mate Gazza, a member of the Socialist Left of the ALP, tells me that he had to de-Anglicise his name. So he changed from Gary to Adam.
Huh? Why Adam? Gazza relates that he first converted to please his somewhat feisty Fiji-Indian wife. He would have remained a lapsed Anglo-Catholic (i.e. a left-wing atheist) except that she had led him astray. Hence he named himself after the first man to be led astray by a woman.
Gazza now finds himself pissing off even more Muslims (and no doubt a fair few Christians also) with his public claims that Creationism and Intelligent Design is a load of bollocks.
Speaking of which, many Muslims expect male converts to undergo some Sharia-compliant surgery.
In this respect, Gazza is quite lucky. His Catholic dad and Anglican mum decided to have him circumcised back in the early 1950’s when he was a wee-toddler. Though I doubt they did so with a view to his conversion to the ways of those heathen “Moslems”.
Another convert mate of mine, Mahmud, also married a Fiji-Indian woman. He converted from Soccerism (he is Italian) to Islam. His parents didn’t have as much foresight and allowed his foreskin to remain. His wife wasn’t as tolerant.
Conveniently, Mahmud had to get his haemorrhoids operated on. His Jewish surgeon offered a complementary cut of the excess foreskin. Mahmud happily went under the knife.
Now Mahmud had given his wife strict instructions not to tell anyone about the surgeon’s offer. My folks tell me about visiting poor Mahmud in hospital. He was clearly in excruciating pain. His wife just couldn’t keep a secret. The conversation went something like this …
DAD: So how is Mahmud feeling?
MAHMUD: Can’t talk now. Too much pain.
MRS MAHMUD: What can I say? Mahmud can’t lay on his back or his stomach!
So if John Howard decides to take up Sheik Bashir’s offer, he can look forward to a possible change in name. “John” is easy. We just call him “Yahiya” (the Koranic name for John the Baptist). But what about “Winston” and “Howard”? Perhaps we might just name him “Yahiya bin Bush”.
A bigger (and indeed more painful) obstacle will be the Sharia-compliant surgery referred to earlier. Now we all know that Peter Costello wants to see Sharia banned in Australia. Perhaps the Treasurer could allow an exemption to be granted to the new Muslim convert Yahiya bin Bush, especially if it means Sheik Yahiya vacating Kirribilli House.
Who knows? Maybe Sheik Yahiya might decide to give up Kirribilli for the less salubrious surrounds of the Imam Ali Mosque in Lakemba. (Then again, given Mr Howard’s love for being seen with the diggers, he’ll probably prefer staying at the Gallipoli Mosque.)
But was Sheik Bashir merely seeking to have Mr Howard’s frontal bits compromised? My mate Gazza reckons a more thorough circumcision was what Bashir had in mind.
“Maybe he wanted Howard to be circumcised from the neck up. Politically speaking, of curse”, Gazza remarked as he stroked his ALP membership card.
I wonder how Mr Howard’s ministers and Parliamentary colleagues would react to his conversion. Mrs Howard would need to put up with competition from three more child-bearing wives needed for our good Sheik Yahiya to lead by example and ensure Australia reaches Danna Vale’s target of becoming an Islamic State within 50 years.
Bronwyn Bishop once complained that Muslim men refuse to shake her hands. She also described the writer once in Federal Parliament as a “Muslim activist known for his abusive attitudes to women”. Perhaps with Mr Howard’s conversion, she would now have her own Prime Minister refusing to shake her hand. Then again, Howard and Bishop were never known to be good buddies.
Perhaps the most interesting reaction (or lack thereof) would come from Attorney General Phillip Ruddock. It wouldn’t surprise me if early one morning ASIO raided Kirribilli House to pounce on the latest terror suspect as he was getting ready for his early morning walk around Sydney Harbour dressed in long white robes.
I can just see Mr Ruddock at the press conference announcing the arrest of Sheik Yahiya Howard: “The suspect is believed to have made numerous trips to training camps in Iraq”.
No doubt, Defence Minister Brendan Nelson would be asking Mr Howard to subscribe to the values of the English illegal immigrant Simpson (of donkey fame) or to just “clear off”.
The local Islamic community will, no doubt, welcome having an Islamic Prime Minister. Mufti Taj Hilaly would no doubt give a statement that none of us would understand. The Presidents of the Australian Federation of Islamic Councils would probably criticise him for not wearing a burqa.
And what would my old mate Gazza do? “Me? Sharing a religion with John Howard? Forget it! I might just have to see if Cardinal Pell and Dr Jensen will take me back!”
(The author is a Sydney lawyer and former Liberal Candidate for the seat of Reid in the 2001 Federal election.)
© Irfan Yusuf 2006
For a start, Mr Howard might be expected to change his name. Some Muslims seem to think that converting to Islam means having to de-Anglicise your name.
My old mate Gazza, a member of the Socialist Left of the ALP, tells me that he had to de-Anglicise his name. So he changed from Gary to Adam.
Huh? Why Adam? Gazza relates that he first converted to please his somewhat feisty Fiji-Indian wife. He would have remained a lapsed Anglo-Catholic (i.e. a left-wing atheist) except that she had led him astray. Hence he named himself after the first man to be led astray by a woman.
Gazza now finds himself pissing off even more Muslims (and no doubt a fair few Christians also) with his public claims that Creationism and Intelligent Design is a load of bollocks.
Speaking of which, many Muslims expect male converts to undergo some Sharia-compliant surgery.
In this respect, Gazza is quite lucky. His Catholic dad and Anglican mum decided to have him circumcised back in the early 1950’s when he was a wee-toddler. Though I doubt they did so with a view to his conversion to the ways of those heathen “Moslems”.
Another convert mate of mine, Mahmud, also married a Fiji-Indian woman. He converted from Soccerism (he is Italian) to Islam. His parents didn’t have as much foresight and allowed his foreskin to remain. His wife wasn’t as tolerant.
Conveniently, Mahmud had to get his haemorrhoids operated on. His Jewish surgeon offered a complementary cut of the excess foreskin. Mahmud happily went under the knife.
Now Mahmud had given his wife strict instructions not to tell anyone about the surgeon’s offer. My folks tell me about visiting poor Mahmud in hospital. He was clearly in excruciating pain. His wife just couldn’t keep a secret. The conversation went something like this …
DAD: So how is Mahmud feeling?
MAHMUD: Can’t talk now. Too much pain.
MRS MAHMUD: What can I say? Mahmud can’t lay on his back or his stomach!
So if John Howard decides to take up Sheik Bashir’s offer, he can look forward to a possible change in name. “John” is easy. We just call him “Yahiya” (the Koranic name for John the Baptist). But what about “Winston” and “Howard”? Perhaps we might just name him “Yahiya bin Bush”.
A bigger (and indeed more painful) obstacle will be the Sharia-compliant surgery referred to earlier. Now we all know that Peter Costello wants to see Sharia banned in Australia. Perhaps the Treasurer could allow an exemption to be granted to the new Muslim convert Yahiya bin Bush, especially if it means Sheik Yahiya vacating Kirribilli House.
Who knows? Maybe Sheik Yahiya might decide to give up Kirribilli for the less salubrious surrounds of the Imam Ali Mosque in Lakemba. (Then again, given Mr Howard’s love for being seen with the diggers, he’ll probably prefer staying at the Gallipoli Mosque.)
But was Sheik Bashir merely seeking to have Mr Howard’s frontal bits compromised? My mate Gazza reckons a more thorough circumcision was what Bashir had in mind.
“Maybe he wanted Howard to be circumcised from the neck up. Politically speaking, of curse”, Gazza remarked as he stroked his ALP membership card.
I wonder how Mr Howard’s ministers and Parliamentary colleagues would react to his conversion. Mrs Howard would need to put up with competition from three more child-bearing wives needed for our good Sheik Yahiya to lead by example and ensure Australia reaches Danna Vale’s target of becoming an Islamic State within 50 years.
Bronwyn Bishop once complained that Muslim men refuse to shake her hands. She also described the writer once in Federal Parliament as a “Muslim activist known for his abusive attitudes to women”. Perhaps with Mr Howard’s conversion, she would now have her own Prime Minister refusing to shake her hand. Then again, Howard and Bishop were never known to be good buddies.
Perhaps the most interesting reaction (or lack thereof) would come from Attorney General Phillip Ruddock. It wouldn’t surprise me if early one morning ASIO raided Kirribilli House to pounce on the latest terror suspect as he was getting ready for his early morning walk around Sydney Harbour dressed in long white robes.
I can just see Mr Ruddock at the press conference announcing the arrest of Sheik Yahiya Howard: “The suspect is believed to have made numerous trips to training camps in Iraq”.
No doubt, Defence Minister Brendan Nelson would be asking Mr Howard to subscribe to the values of the English illegal immigrant Simpson (of donkey fame) or to just “clear off”.
The local Islamic community will, no doubt, welcome having an Islamic Prime Minister. Mufti Taj Hilaly would no doubt give a statement that none of us would understand. The Presidents of the Australian Federation of Islamic Councils would probably criticise him for not wearing a burqa.
And what would my old mate Gazza do? “Me? Sharing a religion with John Howard? Forget it! I might just have to see if Cardinal Pell and Dr Jensen will take me back!”
(The author is a Sydney lawyer and former Liberal Candidate for the seat of Reid in the 2001 Federal election.)
© Irfan Yusuf 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Pfizer Football?
Let me start with a warning to all rugby enthusiasts that they might find the contents of this article deeply offensive.
Well, once again it’s that time of (every four) years as the world takes a break from war and poverty and global warming to suddenly become couch potatoes and watch real football.
And by real football, I don’t mean a bunch of oversized hooligans passing an oval-shaped ball to each other by hand before jumping on some poor chap at the bottom of a ruck.
Putting it mildly, I cannot stand rugby. Watching the Haka used to frighten the living daylights out of me, even if the All-Blacks were safely locked away inside my TV set. And I tend to only wear my Wallabies jersey during interviews on TVNZ.
Now I know some readers might regard Rugby as a form of football. But real football is ... well … it is just football! It involves keeping your hands well away from the ball and instead using your head and feet.
And let’s be frank about this. That aging Brazilian soccer legend Pele has more testosterone than all the All Black players combined. Even my conservative Indian Muslim mum finds the old fella extremely attractive.
It was great to see Pele launching real football’s biggest tournament this year, flanked by a woman who makes my old Kiwi barmaid-cum-backpacker ex look as sexy as our Foreign Minister Alexander Downer (or better still, your Foreign Minister Winston Peters) in stilettos and fishnet stockings.
During the last World Cup, Pele didn’t need to show how many women he could flank. Instead, Pele was otherwise occupied appearing in TV adverts for drug company Pfizer, manufacturers of that sexy wonder-drug Viagra.
Pele’s message to men was quite simple. “Talk to your doctor. I would!”
Gee, thanks old chap. Thanks for making us less-than-erect blokes fell better about not always being unable to rise to every occasion.
Still, we can’t all be as nubile as the Brazilian soccer (woops, I meant football) great. But it’s heartening (not!) to know that if Pele isn’t as ... er ... up-standing as he was 4 years back, he too would join the Viagra queue at his local medical clinic!
But moving on from sex drugs that help us rock ‘n’ roll, it was great to see Pele get on stage in Germany with supermodel Claudia Schiffer by his side. It was even better to see English soccer fans on their best behaviour as always. Life must really suck when you barrack for the wrong team and your team captain’s hairstyle makes Dr Who look too sexy for this game. Don’t expect to see any Johny Wilkinson scoring a goal in extra time for the Poms.
The Brazilians, of course, are ready to kick some serious Socceroo butt on June 18. Thankfully, I’ll be on a government-funded junket chewing satays in Malaysia and will probably miss the massacre.
But then, maybe I should be more optimistic. Maybe we could pull off an upset. After all, in Japan/Korea ’02 then-world champs France found their butts kicked by the underrated Cameroon side.
Makes sense? Of course not! Cameroon could defeat France because most Cameroon players play for French soccer league clubs anyway. I doubt any Aussie players would even be eligible to clean the ladies toilets in a Brazilian soccer club.
Perhaps what Australian soccer needs is what Australian music, business, politics, professions and backpacker hostels get on a regular basis – Kiwi talent!
And there’s still time for last-minute changes. I might write to Aussie coach Guus Hiddink suggesting he might consider replacing some Soceroos with All Blacks. Imagine the Aussies scaring off the Brazilian team and thousands of Brazilian fans with a Haka performance more frightening than getting crushed by an Amazonian anaconda!
Sweden is also playing after the Danes sent their apologies (they were probably too busy drawing cartoons). The Yanks are also playing, as are the Iranians. Imagine the spectacle of Iran playing the US in a match.
(Better still, imagine Iran winning! You might then see their crazy president berating GWB down at a German pub after celebrating with five non-halal Cougars served by a blond German barmaid who looks fit to meet with Pele after work.)
Other teams include that sports superpower Togo. One Togolese fan summed it up when she told BBC: “You know, if you say you come from Togo, people don't know where Togo is”.
The Togolese dudes are a little peeved that their coach Otto Pfister has resigned. The official reason is that they were underpaying him (which, in Togo’s case, is quite plausible given his normal fee probably equals twice their GDP!). But I reckon the real reason is that he wanted to change his surname to Pfizer and hit the Munich nightclubs with Pele.
And with a name like Pfizer, I’m sure he’ll have no trouble rising to the occasion!
(The author is a Sydney lawyer who lasted played rugby in primary school. iyusuf@sydneylawyers.com.au)
© Irfan Yusuf 2006
Well, once again it’s that time of (every four) years as the world takes a break from war and poverty and global warming to suddenly become couch potatoes and watch real football.
And by real football, I don’t mean a bunch of oversized hooligans passing an oval-shaped ball to each other by hand before jumping on some poor chap at the bottom of a ruck.
Putting it mildly, I cannot stand rugby. Watching the Haka used to frighten the living daylights out of me, even if the All-Blacks were safely locked away inside my TV set. And I tend to only wear my Wallabies jersey during interviews on TVNZ.
Now I know some readers might regard Rugby as a form of football. But real football is ... well … it is just football! It involves keeping your hands well away from the ball and instead using your head and feet.
And let’s be frank about this. That aging Brazilian soccer legend Pele has more testosterone than all the All Black players combined. Even my conservative Indian Muslim mum finds the old fella extremely attractive.
It was great to see Pele launching real football’s biggest tournament this year, flanked by a woman who makes my old Kiwi barmaid-cum-backpacker ex look as sexy as our Foreign Minister Alexander Downer (or better still, your Foreign Minister Winston Peters) in stilettos and fishnet stockings.
During the last World Cup, Pele didn’t need to show how many women he could flank. Instead, Pele was otherwise occupied appearing in TV adverts for drug company Pfizer, manufacturers of that sexy wonder-drug Viagra.
Pele’s message to men was quite simple. “Talk to your doctor. I would!”
Gee, thanks old chap. Thanks for making us less-than-erect blokes fell better about not always being unable to rise to every occasion.
Still, we can’t all be as nubile as the Brazilian soccer (woops, I meant football) great. But it’s heartening (not!) to know that if Pele isn’t as ... er ... up-standing as he was 4 years back, he too would join the Viagra queue at his local medical clinic!
But moving on from sex drugs that help us rock ‘n’ roll, it was great to see Pele get on stage in Germany with supermodel Claudia Schiffer by his side. It was even better to see English soccer fans on their best behaviour as always. Life must really suck when you barrack for the wrong team and your team captain’s hairstyle makes Dr Who look too sexy for this game. Don’t expect to see any Johny Wilkinson scoring a goal in extra time for the Poms.
The Brazilians, of course, are ready to kick some serious Socceroo butt on June 18. Thankfully, I’ll be on a government-funded junket chewing satays in Malaysia and will probably miss the massacre.
But then, maybe I should be more optimistic. Maybe we could pull off an upset. After all, in Japan/Korea ’02 then-world champs France found their butts kicked by the underrated Cameroon side.
Makes sense? Of course not! Cameroon could defeat France because most Cameroon players play for French soccer league clubs anyway. I doubt any Aussie players would even be eligible to clean the ladies toilets in a Brazilian soccer club.
Perhaps what Australian soccer needs is what Australian music, business, politics, professions and backpacker hostels get on a regular basis – Kiwi talent!
And there’s still time for last-minute changes. I might write to Aussie coach Guus Hiddink suggesting he might consider replacing some Soceroos with All Blacks. Imagine the Aussies scaring off the Brazilian team and thousands of Brazilian fans with a Haka performance more frightening than getting crushed by an Amazonian anaconda!
Sweden is also playing after the Danes sent their apologies (they were probably too busy drawing cartoons). The Yanks are also playing, as are the Iranians. Imagine the spectacle of Iran playing the US in a match.
(Better still, imagine Iran winning! You might then see their crazy president berating GWB down at a German pub after celebrating with five non-halal Cougars served by a blond German barmaid who looks fit to meet with Pele after work.)
Other teams include that sports superpower Togo. One Togolese fan summed it up when she told BBC: “You know, if you say you come from Togo, people don't know where Togo is”.
The Togolese dudes are a little peeved that their coach Otto Pfister has resigned. The official reason is that they were underpaying him (which, in Togo’s case, is quite plausible given his normal fee probably equals twice their GDP!). But I reckon the real reason is that he wanted to change his surname to Pfizer and hit the Munich nightclubs with Pele.
And with a name like Pfizer, I’m sure he’ll have no trouble rising to the occasion!
(The author is a Sydney lawyer who lasted played rugby in primary school. iyusuf@sydneylawyers.com.au)
© Irfan Yusuf 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Less taxing in the long run ...
Remember that slapstick comedy Top Secret, from the makers of Flying High? Set during the Cold War, the film manages to incorporate the WWII French underground rescuing a scientist detained by East German communists before he completes his giant magnet designed to capture NATO submarines.Makes sense? Perhaps the only rational sentence in the entire movie is where the scientist’s daughter ponders her future on the other side of the Iron Curtain with her Yankee popstar lover. She thinks aloud:
“Things change. People change. Hairstyles change. Interest rates fluctuate.”
Which I guess provides a simple lesson to any Kiwis contemplating leaving their North and South Island havens for the apparent prosperity of that huge West Island (presuming none of you intend gold-digging in Tasmania).
It’s true that Aussie Treasurer Peter Costello’s most recent budget delivered bigger tax cuts than Dr Cullen’s latest offering. But before packing your passports, remember that better lifestyle and more prosperity aren’t just determined by the size of this year’s tax cut.
Australians pay less tax. We also pay more in living expenses. Imagine buying your first Sydney home in a passable suburb at an average price of $750,000. Imagine then paying stamp duty (say, $20,000), not to mention legal fees (I promise readers a discount!). Then there are state taxes, rates and a host of other hidden taxes.
Then imagine home loan interest rates going up by 1% over 2 years while house process tumble. Finally, imagine strolling onto Cronulla beach in a bikini and screaming: “Where the bloody hell’s my bloody tax cut?!”
Despite my conservative leanings, I find Dr Brash rosy-coloured view of Australian tax cuts troubling. And I reckon all those talented and successful Aussies (like the brothers Finn and Russel Crowe) also share my assessment. Presuming they have time to think about it whilst planning their next gig.
But these talented (and therefore) alleged Aussies are the type who make money anywhere. Ordinary punters like us are affected by economic, social and political trends which don’t stop just because of income tax cuts.
Some weeks back, I found myself with 600 other guests in Sydney’s Four Seasons Hotel celebrating the 30th anniversary bash of the not-exactly-Bolshie Centre for Independent Studies.
The CIS has a knack of making reduced government intervention sound better than sex. I remember back in the mid-1990’s attending a CIS weekend capitalist student junket. In those days, they were telling us young men to move east and enjoy the fruits of Roger Douglas’ experiments. Now they are telling you to move west. Who knows what they’ll be saying in a decade.
Even if Aussies pay lower tax than Kiwis, is that good enough reason to move to Bondi or Byron Bay? If tax is so crucial, why aren’t the Packers (or indeed the Finns) moving to Monaco?
And who says life will remain less taxing in Australia? Right now, the conservative Liberal-led government might seem as invincible as they were back in 2001 when even yours truly was prepared to run as Liberal candidate for a metropolitan Sydney seat.
However, Australia’s real leader – Sheik Rupert Murdoch – has just issued a fatwa for John Howard to retire before Santa arrives. Which means at least three federal ministers and a parliamentary secretary could jockey for the top job. As Dr Brash knows all too well, conservatives sure know how to cut each other’s (and therefore their own collective) throats. And an alternative Oz-Labor government might discover the joys of overtaxing.
There are less economically rationalist (but no less rational) reasons for Kiwis to stay where they are. I reckon even conservative Kiwis wouldn’t want Cronulla-style riots in Auckland or Christchurch. And I doubt a Kiwi government would rush to support the rioters’ sentiments in a hurry.
A nation’s long-term prosperity is built on social cohesion. I’ll call it the Waitangi factor. I’d rather be a Maori in Auckland than an Aboriginal Aussie in Redfern. In today’s Australia, politicians, columnists and talk back hosts can say things about Aboriginals or refugees that would be political suicide across the Tasman.
Thankfully, you don’t see Helen Clark offering Kiwi troops to Iraq while Kiwi wheat boards pay kickbacks to Saddam Hussein. Your national paper isn’t American-owned and doesn’t read like Fox News. Your foreign policy doesn’t put Auckland at the top of Usama bin Ladin’s target list. And your worst race relations are only seen on episodes of bro’Town.
All of which makes life in Kiwistan much less taxing in the long run!
(The author is a Sydney lawyer and former Liberal Party of Australia candidate. iyusuf@sydneylawyers.com.au)
© Irfan Yusuf 2006
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