Cher, you think you're so damn good issit?

Teachers, listen up.

You now have a new role to be formalised into your job: Let students HATE you.

Basically, forget about being popular and well-liked by students.

Let them destroy your morale. Let them embarrass you. Let them smear glue on your seat. And let them give you a heart attack and nearly kill you.
 All those, I've done. And I'm glad I did them.

I used to love hating teachers -- because as a teen, I had nothing better to do with my life.

When I was 14, my school welcomed a batch of trainee teachers. Oooo, great. Fresh victims. Welcome to Hotel California.

I made one teacher tear in class by calling her names just because she looked like a Muppets character (30 marks). I bought fart spray and secretly aimed at another, just because she was fierce to us (60 marks). I was even brazen enough to cover glue on yet another teacher's chair (70 marks) just because she didn't give us breaks in between lessons.

In upper secondary, my trouble-making went from pranks to downright defiance and hooligan-like.

I'd challenge teachers and question their intelligence. Huh, cher, you teach English one leh. How come you don't know this word?! Cher, if you so clever you go and be doctor lah. Come and teach Physics for what?

Once, I led a mutiny in class, against an unpopular teacher. On my cue, my very cooperative classmates leaned on our desks and slept through most part of the lesson.

Testing my teachers' patience became an everyday affair.

One of them was a discipline mistress who was determined to put me in my place. We both put up a good show of brinkmanship -- I test her, she disciplines. She softens her stance, I test her again. She presses on.

Finally, there was the unforgettable experience when I nearly gave my teacher a heart attack and killed her in class.

Mrs Y was a very kind hearted teacher who takes pains to ensure we understand her subject. She's a dedicated teacher -- despite her weak health, she will still come to school so that we won't miss lessons.

But instead of appreciating her, I made her so upset one day, that she chided me until she hyperventilated.

It was no joke.

She turned pale and had to sit to collect herself. I swear the frail-looking Mrs Y looked like she could collapse in front of us any time.

My classmates were so shocked that one of them sprinted to the general office for help.

Our vice-principal rushed to our class and naturally, had to ask how this happened.

At that point, Mrs Y spoke.

"It wasn't his fault... it's just that I'm weak," she spoke up for me, in slow, deliberate breaths.

I felt like a scumbag there and then. I swear I will push me off the chair and punch the freaking daylights out of me, if I could timetravel to that fateful day.

I am certainly not proud of myself at all.

In fact, I'm ashamed. But that doesn't mean I forget what I've done to teachers.

My secondary-one teacher Ms C once told me matter-of-factly that it's students like me that kill their careers and passion for teaching.

I'm writing this today because it is not easy for teachers to do their job these days.

Gone are the days when teachers can pull our ears as if to yank them out of place (Miss Chong Chieh Eng, P1-3, Mei Chin Primary School). Or pinch our nipples so hard that we yell apologies (Mr Henry Bartholemew, P5, Mei Chin Primary School). Or take a ruler and randomly hit our palms just because we weren't paying attention (Madam Ang Bee See, P6, Mei Chin Primary School).

These days, teachers not only face replicas of students like me. they also have politicking within the common room and complaints from parents to deal with.

They have to worry about idiots filming them in class and posting unflattering footage on YouTube. They have to mind their words when scolding students (no more phrases of "crafty rats", please). And they can't even make the cut to discipline their student's designer hairstyles. 

But please, don't give up.

You will be unpopular. And you will be hated.

In retrospect, my years of pranks and defiance have made me respectful and mindful to others' feelings.

And I am humbled because these lessons are taught to me by the very teachers whom I bullied in school.

Despite my cruel nature, they didn't give up on me.

So teachers, let students hate you. Because eventually, they will learn to love you.

I'm not rude, thank you very much.

I'm a courtesy lion, hear me roar.

Or watch me claw at your eyes and puncture the vision out of them. Or feel my molars sink into your fat cheek and tear out a bloody chunk of it.

Sorry for the graphic description, but that's what happens when we try to tame a lion and suppress its macabre nature.

I mean, think about it.

Of all animals, we have to use the King of the Forest as courtesy ambassador.

How's the poor fella going to face his relatives in the zoo?

First, we rob him of his pride. Then we make him take up various compromising positions: His jaws unnaturally curved upwards to form a smile. His paws propped outwards for a ready embrace. Worst of all, he's sometimes made to bend forward like a cooked prawn, his mane hidden in a helmet as he apologises for noisy, inconveniencing construction work.

Poor fella. And we wonder why he's a principal cast member in The Wizard Of Oz.

I'm not saying our Singapore's courtesy campaign is useless. I, for one, benefited from it -- I was the proud recipient of the Singha Courtesy Award in Mei Chin Primary School, when I was in Primary 2.

What I'm saying is, the people behind this Courtesy Lion campaign only got it half right.

Yes, it's a great idea to iconise the lion in a nationwide campaign. It's also a brilliant concept to teach kids about humility. "Ah Boy, you see? If Uncle Lion -- the mighty, mighty Lion -- can rip his balls apart and swallow his pride to be courteous, so can you, okay?"

But what has years of the courtesy campaign done to us? Can we truly say we're a nation of skipping Mary Poppins?

Do we feel so innately happy that we skip our way to the bus interchange every morning? Or break out into a cheery song and dance as we try to squeeze our way amid throngs of crowd during an MRT breakdown? Do we find ourselves twirling around blithely merry kids or spring up flowers to surprise their equally happy moms?

No, no, no and NO.

While we're not innately rude as a people, we aren't naturally happy.

In fact, to be naturally happy, we need to be natural: Let's not pretend that the only way to deal with one another is to be pretty and nice.

And here's where the Courtesy Lion campaigners must get the other half right: We must be polite whenever we can, but when politeness doesn't get us what we want, we revert to our lion nature.

I can say this with authority because 90 per cent of the time, I'm pleasant and polite.

Here's an example of how patient I am, whenever I receive cold calls from people who seem to determine I am so poor that I need a loan within the next five minutes of my life.

Caller: Hello, good afterrrrrnoon, may I speak to misterrrrr Lyong-Why-Keet?

Me: Yes, speaking.

Caller: Good afterrrrrnoon, Mr Lyong. This is (insert foreign-sounding name here), and I am calling from (insert company name here). The reason I am calling is (insert five long reasons here).

Me: So sorry to stop you there... I don't think I need a loan/spa package/gym tryout/insurance/curry puff/crayons (insert whatever freebies/baits here).

Caller: Oh, but mister LYONG (insert you-don't-know-what-you're-missing tone here), this is (insert super grand reason here).

Me: Yes, I understand, but I don't want to take up your time because I'm not interested. But thanks for calling!

Caller: Misterrrr Lyong, would you like to (insert reasons found on page five of manual)?

Me: No, thank you. Thanks for calling. Have a good day!

And mind you, I'm not making this up. I know it is tough to make cold calls, and these poor people have a quota to meet. Most of the time, the conversation ends well -- I don't offend anyone, and they know I'm not interested in their products.

You see, my mom has brought me up to be pleasant and polite to people around me. But the great thing about my mom is, she's flexible.

As I grew older, she tweaked my upbringing. You must be nice to people. Even if they aren't nice to you, you must still make an effort to be nice. And if they're still nasty, then you should be twice as nasty.

Sad, but true.

Case in point.

Years ago, I made a trip to Genting Highlands, and had requested for a non-smoking room.

When I checked in that day, I was told to leave my bags in a smoking room first, as the non-smoking one wasn't ready.

By the time I got back, the receptionist told me nonchalantly that there was no non-smoking room for me.

So I put on my best courtesy lion smile (paws propped outwards for a ready embrace, if need be), and asked very, very politely for it, saying that I was earlier promised a room.

"No more," the receptionist looked me in the eye and said with conviction.

"Do you think you can try please? I'm really allergic to the smell of cigarettes."

My friendly receptionist then proceeded to fiddle with her computer, then again looked at me nonchalantly and said "no more."

Okay, Wai Kit. Time for plan B: Cue feral lion.

Instead of kicking up a hissy fit, I took an intentional deep breath, and leaned forward slowly.

In a deliberately, menacing low tone, I said "I do not want to shout at you. So I want you to go get your manager, so that I can direct my unhappiness to. I want to speak to your manager. Now..."

And I made sure I enunciated every single word.

Our receptionist scrambled out of her seat (probably to check if she had peed in her panty) and returned cheerily. "Oh, sir, we found a room for you!"

It's a very unfortunate example, but Mummy is right. First, we try to be polite. But if we don't get fair reciprocation, we go on the offensive.

I'm not advocating that we should all claw at one another if we don't get what we want.

But here's what needs to be communicated in the campaign.

Be polite -- or else.

Since, throughout the years, we haven't exactly made progress where courtesy is concerned, it's high time we're reminded that there are consequences for not being pleasant and polite.

Roar.

My fart will go on

If I like you enough, you'd know.

And if I love you, then there's no way you'll miss it.

Unless there's something wrong with your nose.

Yes, take a deep breath. When I get really comfortable with you, I'll fart with abandon. And I maintain that there's nothing wrong with that.

I mean, you fart, I fart, everyone farts so there's nothing wrong with it.

Then again, if it's a case of you fart, I fart, and everyone farts AT THE SAME TIME, then it's a different story. It'd be the end of the story.

So don't recoil at the thought of my farting, because it's something very close to my, erm, heart.

Having said that, I stress that I do have nimble muscle control.  I can fart in staccatos if I want, and I can hold the fart in when necessary, trust me.

For me, most of my happy memories involve farts.

Once, I was in a bus with a few friends in Australia when a girl friend of mine quietly let one pass her gantry. We realised it seconds later, only when we started convulsing and nearly frothing from the mouth.

I three days never shit already, my girl friend confessed sheepishly, in between fits of giggling and gagging.

Then, there was the time when I stayed overnight at a friend's place. The three of us were chatting in his bed when I merrily farted under the blanket. It wasn't until one of them lifted the blanket that the smell drifted out as if we were under chemical warfare attack.

Instinctively, the two of them took cover -- by springing off the bed as if it were on fire. And we had such a good time guffawing non-stop for the next 15 minutes.

Till this day, we look back fondly at that memory.

In NS, I met my kryptonite.
I had one squad mate who'd employ a most disturbing method to deal with peoples' farts -- he'd comically take in deep, desperate breaths while others ran for cover.

Again, those were such happy memories.  

Which is why I'm writing this today.

I know it's not a palatable topic, but let me pooooot it this way - so hear me out.

I am glad I have friends with whom I can share the gaseous state of my dinner.

And if you're one of those, you'd have been through thick and thin with me, depending on what I ate.

Nothing beats being able to let it rip like there's no tomorrow, while you're in the comfort of your friends' company.

I feel so accepted.

To me, this is freedom of expression.

Granted, not everyone likes to play the gassing game like I do.

But it's the same principle nevertheless.

In my case, it's being able to fart freely around friends (and not fear about being attacked).

In yours, it could come in various forms: Being comfortable enough to dance like you're having fits in a club (and not worry about friends discreetly retreating from you on the dance floor).

Or feeling confident enough to heck it and hit those high notes at the KTV (regardless much your friends will squirm at it).

And most importantly, being able to make an honest opinion heard (and not worry about being judged by your friends).

If you have such friends, tie them up and don't let them go. These are keepers.

So friends who've smelled my farts, be assured. My fart will go on.

When I'm 34, you're invited to my funeral

Life is one big cycle.

When I die, I imagine I'd see light at the end of a tunnel, and instinctively move towards it.

Just like how on August 4, 1979, I saw light at the end of a tunnel, and instinctively moved towards it.

And since life and death are intertwined, I thought it would be interesting to mark my birthday next year, like I would a funeral.

I'm not saying people will celebrate at my funeral -- I hope I have no such evil friends.

I'm just thinking... birthdays will be so much more fun (and meaningful) if they were treated like funerals.

Die-die will come

Have you ever made grand plans for a party, only to learn that one or more of your friends have something crop up at the very last minute?

Well, excuses no more, if you treat your party like a funeral. People actually make time to attend these sombre events regardless how busy they are. So yes, I can expect full attendance.
  

Theme players

It's tough to get people to stick to a fashion or colour theme for a party. You send an invite, state in plain English to attend that party in smart casual. Or black tie. Or specify a colour code to stick to.

In the end, you find you're the only idiot who sticks to that theme.


With funeral-like birthday parties, you can be assured guests will respect dress codes. Nobody attends funerals dressed for the mardi gras (unless they're one of the funeral band members).

Present perfect

I'm not materialistic but imagine the sort of gifts you get if you organise funeral-like birthday parties. For one, people will pass the hat around to give you cash.

Plus, you can potentially receive uber expensive gifts, such as sports cars, mansions, Rolex watches and even a pair of domestic helpers!

Wishful thinking

Don't get me wrong when I say this, but we really need to be more creative when we wish friends on their birthdays.


But if you're invited to a funeral-like birthday party, you would probably have to crack your head to say something original about the funeral-birthday boy/girl. Which is good, because this way, people are forced so think of nice -- and sincere -- things to say.

I'd imagine my guests would say things like:

Oh, Wai Kit... he loved to fart -- that's quite, you know, common.

Wai Kit and I had been such great friends. And here's what I really love about him... (tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock).

On your marquee 

I've always wanted such a huge birthday bash that, to accommodate all my guests, I'd have to set up a marquee. And I might get just that, if I plan my birthday like a wake, leading up to a funeral.

Last, caution

Last but not least, the reason I think funeral-themed birthday parties is a great idea is, it reminds us to treasure all that we have.


We should mark the passing of every year with a celebration of what we've achieved thus far.

And while we want to look forward to another great year -- or many, many years -- to come, we should also not forget to treat each day as if it were our last.

That way, we might learn to live our lives with more gratitude, as well as celebrate and appreciate the simple joys that surround us, and which we sometimes fail to see.

My NS expereince was full of shit

One thing springs to mind when I think of National Service: Shit.

Oh, no, no, no -- this is no verbal diarrhoea. NS indeed reminds me of poo-poo. Lots and lots and lots of it, in fact.

I don't know about my fellow countrymen who've served the nation, but while I was in NS, I did a lot of sai gang.
 
You see, I was in the Police K-9 Unit and one of my postings was to the kennels where a large part of what I did every day revolved around scooping up poo-poo that collectively belonged to many, many dogs.

Truth be told, my job in NS stank.

Truth be told, I loved it.

As disgusting as it may sound, being around so much dog faeces has helped me learn to, erm, eat humble pie.

Don't get me wrong though. I don't have perverted preferences when it comes to food choices.

But the thing is, when I was younger, I had never imagined I would one day end up working as a kennel hand in NS -- a job that requires me to get my hands dirty. Very, very dirty.

I mean, yes, I did wish that, when I became a reporter some day,  I would have many, many scoops. I should have been more specific.

On day one of my kennel-hand duty, I was given a grand tour of my workplace, and a detailed brief of my daily tasks -- which took my breath away.

But hey, when work needs to be done, it needs to be done. Somebody has to clear the shit.

And so, I bit the bullet and started doing my job.

Pick up the spade, enter cage, scoop up poo-poo. *gags*. Enter second cage, scoop up poo-poo. Don't look at that shit, Wai Kit! Enter third cage, scoop up poo-poo. Wait. OMG. Is that SHIT on my fingers?! I think I'm going to faint. Enter fourth cage, scoop up poo-poo. Oh, gawd, when is this going to end?!

Of course, I had other menial -- and meaningful -- duties while in NS, but you really can't blame me for remembering mainly the sordid details of my work.

I remember I used to dread entering a particular cage, whose occupant loved playing with his own poo-poo. And it didn't help that it was the mushy type. Every time I stood outside his kennel, I felt like I was staring at a crime scene - the floor, the walls, the gate... all stained.

But our canine friend would think nothing of it -- he seemed to be in a perfectly merry world of his own, who is always happy to have a spade-carrying visitor.

And when I say happy, I mean rrrreally happy. The moment I step into his cage, he'd go wild with joy... and start prancing on me like I was his long-lost buddy. Get down, boy! Stop giving me high-fives on my shirt!

Every time I'm done cleaning up his kennel, I'd need some serious cleaning up myself. 

Eerily enough though, I began to think nothing of it as days went by.

Soon, I started to look at poo-poo in a different light. Some came in different shades of brown, green, and dark chocolate. Some were aqueous and mashed-up. Others looked heartily chunky.

And it didn't take long before I took pride in my work.

Shit on my fingers? Aiyah, just wipe it on the corner of the spade lah. There's a lot more poo-poo waiting to be scooped up -- don't waste time!

And once I got past the eew-factor of my job, I actually started to love it.

Even my visits to our poo-poo-playing canine friend became less dreadful.

Yes, yes, you're happy to see me and you want to high-five my face. But can you please wait for me to clean up your soiled walls, at least? 

Often, my work is laborious. As soon as my day begins, I'd sweat like a melting candle. When I'm done with my duties at the end of the day, I'd feel like I had a shitty day -- but one that's totally worth it.

Surprisingly, I had never regretted asking to be posted to the kennels.

Sometimes, I felt like I was one of the hardworking seven dwarves, cheerily marching into the mines, spades in tow to dig for gold -- and singing while at it.

And it helped very much too, that my fellow dwarves all took pride in their work -- which was a huge motivation boost for me.

None of them complained about work, and we all got along very well.

Naturally, the kennel became a favourite hangout for most off-duty dog handlers -- and I'd like to believe it's because we made the place a positive and merry environment.

The place was always bustling, filled with our laughter and banter while we worked.

I like to think of my workplace as a fish market -- smelly but not off-putting because there're always hearty fishmongers around. Again, I reiterate I don't have perverted preferences when it comes to food choices.

It's been a decade since I've completed NS, but every time I think of my happy days at the kennel, I smile fondly.

Every one of us has unique and special memories of our NS days.

For those who haven't done yours, I wish you'd have scooped up loads of happy memories by the time you ORD.

For those who have, let's take a moment to reminisce those days, and remind ourselves how lucky we are, that while serving our nation, we were able to forge friendships that helped weave heart-warming and comforting memories that bring a smile to our faces.

PG please, no kidding

Not too long ago, a brave friend did what I had no courage to do: Yell at a parent who allowed her two-year-old kid to make a din during lunch -- for two effin' hours.

I am still waiting for a braver friend to go one step further -- slap the parent AND the kid on my behalf, but I don't wanna go there (to Hell, I mean).

My friend's yelling got me thinking.

To set the record straight, I love all kids -- just as long as

a) they're sleeping in their pram
b) there's a plaster over their mouth
c) they're still curled up inside their mummy's womb.

I don't know about you, but the last I checked, I have no motherly instincts that want to nurture every screaming child, so please don't yell at me for being kid-intolerant.

I simply cannot calmly float over to a wailing kid in public, gently wrap my arm around that rascal and press his head against my breast and hush him to a lull like Mother Nature. Sorry, I just can't.

But I don't hate kids per se.

I do like some of them -- the well-behaved ones.

And in my defence, I can be patient with wailing kids. For 15 minutes, max.

Once that time limit is up, my DNA automatically rejects wailing kids -- even if they're still cradled in my arms -- and only God knows what I'll do when that happens.

But let's not get distracted by the wailing -- and get back to the real targets of my post: Parents who don't bother.

I always believe that kids behave the way they do because their parents allow for such behaviour.

So, while I do have some tolerance for kids, I have zero for their parents.

I know I'm not qualified to say this since, God forbid, I don't have any kids yet. On a side note, I cannot imagine what evil I'd bring to this world if I have mini replicas of myself. But if I do have kids, I promise I'll cane the hell out of them if they misbehave.

Now, I'm not about to give a lecture to parents, but in my opinion, I believe in not sparing the rod, lest I spoil the child.

But that's just me.

I mean, I think I'm a pretty decent adult partly because, as a kid, my buttocks and the house cane were like the best of buddies -- they meet regularly and make a lot of noise when they do.

Some parents are very liberal -- they patiently prep-talk their kids. Hey, I have no problems if that works for you, really.

But when prep-talk fails, then parents, you'll have to let the cane do the talking.

If you're too soft-hearted (or lazy) to cane your kid, then society will have to do it for you.

So if you don't do the caning, then the school discipline master will. Or, the NS sergeant will have to help you discipline your kid. Perhaps, you can leave it to your kids' future bosses (or colleagues). Worse, you let the court mete out punishments for your kids.

I know it's grim, but it's not an unreal possibility.

So dear parents, do us and society a favour. Beat the hell out of them if they misbehave.

Our Father in Heaven

Friends who're close to me would know that my mom is an unfortunate woman because

1) She has a son like me
2) She's the target of most of my jokes (fat ones, mainly).

I can't help it.

You'd understand why if you've seen my mom -- and trust me, she's very hard to miss.

But today, the topic isn't on her but my father -- the man whom my mom married (and these days, it's helpful to be specific).

Here's a column about my father, which was first published in Lifestyle in June 2010:

-----------------------------------------------------

Over the years, I have become more distant from my father.

I seldom speak to him these days -- the last time I did was three months ago. I'm still writing for a living, and Kin is still studying in the UK, I told him telepathically, as I tenderly ran a finger over his youthful face on the photo embedded on his urn.

I was four (and younger brother Kin, one) when cardiac arrest robbed us of our Papa.

Needless to say, Mummy doubled up, taking over the paternal role as well (I'll leave the fat jokes for another day).

While I am indeed sad that I didn't grow up with a father, I am comforted by the fact that I still have vivid memories of him.

I remember my tiny self standing at the corridor one day, enraptured by the sight of a huge, blue bicycle Papa bought me. I could only manage to waah, waah, waah in awe, which drowned out Mummy's disapproving mutterings in the background.

Playtime with Papa was also something I looked forward to. "Keep climbing and go all the way to the top," he'd encourage, as I struggled to scale that monstrous-looking structure at the playground.

Papa had a mischievous side too. Just for the kick of laughing at his sua-ku son, he'd encourage me to speak in front of the moving fan, just to see how I reacted to my wind-distorted voice (I was obviously thrilled by that amazing discovery, and Papa would laugh at my reaction).

Once, I was out with Papa and Mummy, and being the day-dreamer I was, I held the hand of a total stranger. I only realised it was a stranger's, when I heard Papa guffawing away at me. In retrospect, while Mummy was the one who taught me to laugh at myself, it was Papa from whom I learnt how to laugh heartily at others (complete with finger pointing).

And then, there were the painful memories, when Papa caned the hell out of me after he caught me bullying a bunch of older kids (in retrospect, I'm glad I threw pebbles at the kids for no apparent reason, for without that, I'd have one less memory of Papa).

As I grew older, I got to know Papa better through Mummy's reminiscences.

Papa cooked well, and was a man with a big heart. Mummy used to say he'd ignore able-bodied beggars but would buy food for the elderly ones who looked too weak to work.

There are many similarities between us too, says Mummy. We both love spicy food, and like Papa, I am linguistically inclined. I look like him, stand like him, smile like him.

I have imagined, on many occasions, how my life would have turned out if Papa hadn't died.

But I've learnt from Mummy that we shouldn't lament at things beyond our control (she led by example by biting the bullet and cheerfully bringing us up).

What I can control, would be how I choose to lead a meaningful and happy life and being a positive influence to those around me. Just the way Mummy (and Papa, I imagine) had shown me.

Happy Father's Day, Papa -- and Mummy.

Update: Kin is no longer studying in the UK. My very bright brother graduated with first class honours, and is now holding a job in a huge MNC. Papa will be proud. I am.

Operation fitness

Exactly one year ago on this day, I was drugged, slipped into unconsciousness, and allowed surgeons to cut me up in my sleep, so that I could recover from a sports-related condition (those who are fortunate enough to have not seen photos of my recovering wound should count your lucky stars).

It took me about two months to heal completely -- and my downtime was a welcome change: No longer did I feel obliged to wake up at 5am to run (and on certain days, 6am to swim), or late-night bike riding sessions if I had signed up for a triathlon race.

But while my physical-activity level dropped to near-zilch, I was physically active still, when it came to eating.

Not surprisingly, in a matter of two months, I went from triathlete to triangle.

But don't get me wrong.

Despite that, I was still in shape. Round is a shape.

And since most good things come in round shapes -- mooncakes, gold coins, halos -- I was in good shape.

But then, I started to worry.

Before my surgery, I won't have problem running from Boon Lay to Pasir Ris, non stop. So imagine my shock when, two months later, I was out of breath when I climbed a flight of stairs.

Then, out of my kind heart, I began to worry for the living things around me. God bless any horse I sit on.

And so, in October 2011, when I was given the all-clear by my surgeon to resume my active lifestyle, I went all out: From park connectors to swimming pools.

My aim: To stop panting like a pervert whenever I took the overhead bridge, and to get back to my pre-surgery fitness level.

Like every marathon route, my journey was painful, and very tiring but a hell lot of fun.

And it's proved one thing -- it's never too late to start (or restart) a healthy lifestyle.

What sort of boss are you?

I'm the new editor of Men's Folio.

That was the cue for the few of us to erupt (yes, some people erupt when they're excited) in a series of noisy cackles and congratulatory chatter, which I'm sure sounded like a variation of dolphin dialect.

The last I checked, we were in public but when friends break great news such as this, it's only right to rejoice with abandon. To hell with the nearby diners.

My friend Aaron has always dreamt of being an editor of not just any magazine, but this particular title.

So you can imagine his -- and our -- joy that Men's Folio is his latest portfolio.

As our collective thrill sizzled to a level within societal tolerance, so began the questions.

The few of us -- all self-respecting kaypoh journos with too many questions for our own good -- started grilling him.

What changes will you make to the mag?
Will there be a wardrobe overhaul?
What pose will you strike for your editor's photo?
Do you need assistants?
Will you remember us when you're famous?!

Decisions, decisions.

Of course, Aaron isn't that shallow -- so one of his main concerns is how he'd be as someone's boss.

And that was when he parried our questions with his.

Now, everyone else was able to contribute with meaning to Aaron's query.

Di, who used to be an editor at several mags, is now her own boss (PR PEOPLE -- in case a potential client is reading this. They deal with, erm, people, I think). So she gave her views.

And then there's C, who runs Wedding and Travel and her company's events and PR arm. So she too, gave her views.

I had many, many views, but none of which was credible because I'm nobody's boss.

Which got me thinking... what sort of a boss would I be, if I were one?

(Notice how I've hijacked Aaron's moment and readjusted the spotlight on myself?)

Granted, I'm a pretty easy-to-work-with person (colleagues, ex-colleagues, enemies, resist comments please) but I think I won't make a very good boss.

Thankfully, I'm not alone.

I have friends who tell me that being someone's boss isn't part of their goal.

I also have friends who tell me being someone's boss isn't part of their goal -- they want to be everyone's boss.

A female friend told me she'd rather "put my head down and just work, and do what I'm good at doing".

I wanted to know just what sort of work required a person's head to constantly be down, but I didn't press on.

But just for the fun of it, I did a quick survey among friends who aren't bosses yet, and asked them what sort of boss they might be.

L, marketing exec, 33
I'm an office bitch, so my next step is to be office bitch boss. I'm very black-faced at work one. People are scared of me but I like it that way. They won't climb over my head. So I guess I'll be a terrorising sort of boss.

D, engineer, 33
If I get promoted and I'm one rank higher than my boss, I won't fire him... I'll make sure he's hired under me... so that I can torture that mother-f***** every f****** day.

B, art director, 33
I'll be stoic. I don't think I'll laugh with my colleagues anymore, 'cos there needs to be a professional distance. I think I'm too soft to scold anyone when they need to be told, so I'll have to work on being thick-skinned while maintaining professionalism.

BC, soon-to-be deputy director, 32
I'll cut off all ties from my staff. I will be harsh because in my industry, speed and efficiency are key factors. I'll stop lunching with my staff so that they can bitch about me during lunchtime.

E, senior teacher, 34
There won't be a difference lah. Why should I change just because I'm in charge of others? I'll be open, approachable, and aim to work with my staff to solve problems. As teachers, we must have common goals to achieve so if I need to manage people, it'd be in this aspect -- to motivate them and steer them to the right direction.

P, architect, 33
It would be tough 'cos I don't think male staff will take to a female boss well. But instead of ruling with an iron fist, I'll charm them into subordination. Muahaha...

S, corp comms exec, 29
There will be rules which I'll set from day one, and I'll make sure my subordinates are clear as to what I want -- and I'll make sure I work doubly hard, so that when I need to tell off my staff, they'll know I practise what I preach.

A, editor, Men's Folio, 33






I hope this space will very soon be filled with meaningful words, Aaron. Words which will make a difference not only to your readers, but also to those who work under you.

All the best, and do the write thing.

Do you think you're ugly?

I’m handsome.

I think.

At least, I know dozens who’d agree with me – my mom, PR people who need editorial space through me, and hordes of friends who reside only in my mind.

Okay, Wai Kit, let’s face it – I have a galaxy of pock marks, and the most notable thing about my features is that they are functional.

Sometimes, I wonder if I had unknowingly said something that offended my maker just before my looks was being decided.

In the words of a very kind-hearted friend, my looks can best be described as accidental.

“Macam kena langa by the lorry, then not enough, the lorry gostan and langa again.”

I also sometimes wonder if I had unknowingly said something that offended this friend of mine.

Yet, my friend’s words didn’t langa me one bit.

Sure, I don’t look like I’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ, and most of the time, I make heads turn – the other way.

But the fortunate thing is, I don’t hate the way I look.

In fact, I feel a hundred per cent fabulous about myself.  

Because I’m confident.

And here's why I'm writing this -- because of a friend. 

 

Monica (not her real name – and I love the way I stress that it’s not her real name because it adds so much journalistic gossip to the story) is an intelligent woman in her late twenties.

She’s highly qualified, holds a decent job and most of all, a beautiful woman: Doe-eyed, a winsome smile that make heads turn (the right way) and to top it off, a svelte figure some would kill for.

Best of all, she’s got a good heart. She’s kind, compassionate, understanding.

Some girls just have them all. Or do they?

Thing is, Monica – despite her appearance, intellect and inner beauty – is the most diffident woman I know.

It’s sad, and wait till you hear why.

Her boyfriend of many years – who, if I may add, isn’t exactly God’s gift to women – doesn’t appreciate her one bit.

From what I’ve heard, he takes her for granted.

Worse, he crushes her confidence, and compares her to other women on the street.

He’d say nasty things about her – in her face – making Monica feel less than who she really is.

Not surprisingly, Monica has zero self worth, which, to me, is shocking.

I almost choked on my Americano when she revealed this to me the other day.

I thought to myself: How in the world could a woman like Monica feel so small?

Come on. She has all it takes to feel super confident, and rightly so.

It pains me to see that she’s not living to the full extent of her beauty.

I’m not asking Monica to flaunt it. But at the very least, I would like her to recognise that she’s beautiful.

But no.

My friend feels inferior because her loved one tells her she’s ugly. Look who’s talking, Mister No God’s Gift to Women.

After hours of prep talk, some tears and words of reassurance, I left the café with a heavy heart.

And that’s why I’m writing about the importance of confidence.

Look. I'm not exactly God’s gift to women either, God forbid.

But if a person like me can feel like a million bucks, then why is a woman like Monica feeling like a million f***s?

The way to feeling – and looking – beautiful starts from within.

In my case, I’m a one-room flat on the outside, but a grand, luxurious home on the inside. And that makes my property value go up.

In Monica’s case, she’s already hot property to begin with. All that needs to be done is a bit of sprucing up so that the interior of her residence lives up to her property value.

And it’s doable.

Like how we spring clean, start by clearing a bit here and packing a bit there, and then some sweeping, mopping and before we know it, the cluttered mess in the house is gone.

So, my dear friend, Monica, you can do it. You will do it.

You’re beautiful.

I know.

Revisiting goodbyes

To me, saying goodbye at the workplace isn't easy, and most of the time, can get a li'l mushy.

But I haven't had many significant workplace goodbyes to qualify my earlier statement.

Here's a column I wrote two years ago, when I left my first full-time job, at Lifestyle, Singapore's largest-circulating monthly magazine.

The following story was published in the August 2010 issue:

----------------------
I was warned.

"No flattery, ah!" my already stern-looking boss said sternly.

According to managing ed Tan Shee Lah, this column is meant for me to thank, and say bye-bye to my fans (that's if I have any, in the first place).

And knowing me and my big mouth, my humble boss has already issued a gag order, so I cannot praise -- and possibly embarrass her -- in this column (that's if I have anything nice to say, in the first place - ha!).

So dear reader, you will not hear me sing praises of my boss. Instead, I will sing praises of this lovely place that's been second home to me, for the past four years.

I love this place where I've been allowed to break the routine with running, swimming, gymming, and pantry meetings for lunch, tea and ice cream.

And when  I do get down to work (what, you think I've got elves writing stories for me issit?), I actually enjoy my work, which makes chasing stories, juggling multiple projects and meeting deadlines a little easier.

Sure, we're all human and work can be hell. Amid pressing deadlines and a sometimes too-heavy workload, it's inevitable that we grumble and argue.

But at the end of the day, the job gets done and the griping, quickly forgotten.

After all, we share a deep sense of camaraderie in NTUC Media, built up from years of random office celebration (birthday parties and whatnots), BBQ and beer sessions after work, and company retreats.

Yes, work is important but people-relations are equally vital.

My principle is, go beyond being professional, and don't distance your colleagues. To me, colleagues can be friends. It's whether or not you abuse that relationship.

If the workplace is going to be second home to many of us, then we should be sincere and treat co-workers like friends and family.

Which is why at NTUC Media, when the going gets tough, everyone gets going.

Two years ago, when we organised a big-scare event at the Singapore Flyer (event management is one of our company's services), everyone in the company chipped in to help. It was hard work, packing goodie bags, communicating by walkie-talkie, and ushering guests around. But we were all happy to be involved. 

Recently, Lifestyle organised a series of Kluang trips for readers.

Again, staff from various departments happily volunteered to go along to lend a helping hand.

As I count down to my last day, I am beginning to, for the very first time in Lifestyle, drag my feet to work.

But I am very sure that everyone in NTUC Media -- bound by camaraderie -- will continue to keep this publication fun and friendly.

Which reminds me -- I should sign on as a subscriber...

Sadako - watch at your own expense

There is one scene in Sadako in which director Tsutomu Hanabusa should have nailed right from the start -- the lid of the well where Sadako was dumped.

That should keep Sadako in her place and save us from having to go through this horrible horror flick in the first place.

Since the 1998 Japan horror The Ring, Sadako has become such a household horror brand name that it's spawned at least two other movies -- The Ring 2 and a feeble Hollywood remake -- neither of which tipped the scare-o-metre clocked by the original film.

This one's no exception.

In this movie -- which is a tweaked version of The Ring featuring a brand new cast and storyline  --  director Hanabusa pushes Sadako to her limits. Our Japanese friend here is no longer crawling out of TVs but instead-- get this -- Mac Books, large LCD billboards and smartphone screens of sorts.

While there is commendable technological evolution in Sadako, the plot remains more or less the same: A cursed video recording is uploaded online and whoever watches it ends up killing himself or herself.

Cue heroine of movie, high school teacher Akane (Satomi Ishihara) whose student leaps off a building after watching the said vid. As Akane probes her student's death, she unwittingly gets embroiled in this cursed video business.

Apart from believable acting, there's little else to celebrate.

There could have been better use of horror-movie techniques, such as employing sound effects.

Sadly, there was no abrupt ringing of the telephone, sudden sound of an opening cupboard, or spooky audio to mark the start of something eerie.

It's so not boomz.

Then, there's the occasional cliched scene that is so predictable I suspect Hanabusa was sleepy when he wrote that part of the storyline.

Also, what's sorely missing in Sadako is suspense.

Unlike The Ring, in which Sadako's crawl-out-of-TV scene caught many by surprise, the hairy hantu in Sadako is crawl-happy, acting like some attention-seeking jack-in-the-box by wanting to pop out of every available screen in Japan.  

What a turn off, Sadako. And you wonder why your cursed video viewers scramble to cut electricity supply of their gadgets.

Or kill themselves after.

Why I'm still a journo

Journalism does not put food on the table.

Okay, maybe it does, if you consider chap chye peng or your char bee hoon.

But journalism does not put very good food on the table -- unless of course, you're a food reviewer.

I always imagine my socialite friends striking me off their potluck invite list as a result, though I really shouldn't be adding to the toilet roll-long list of reasons people shun reporters.

It's not exactly a glamorous job, unless of course, you're a prime-time news anchor or editor of some glossy magazine, or the devil who wears Prada.

After all, it's not as if we're the only ones who can ask questions, snoop around, string info into a story and hit spell check, right?

Plus, I'm always kept on my toes after every story's been published. On some days, prudent readers make me feel like toenail dirt.

OMG. How could he have gotten that wrong?!
That F*****G reporter misqouted me!
Can you kindly tell me what sort of logic this is?
Wow, you're so intelligent! Okay, I made this one up, just to balance views.

Come to think of it, there are many cons to my job.

Yet, I love it.

I know right. Some people are just suckers for punishment.

Perhaps, I love journalism because of the salary? Oh, please, don't even get me started. Then again, why not?

So here we go.

When I was in Secondary Three, my heavy-chested English teacher made the class think of our future. Think about how you can turn what you're good at and what you love doing, into a career, she told us.

After a grand total of 10 minutes, I decided at age 15, that the only option I'm left with -- after considering issues of legality, decency and morality -- is to be a reporter.

Thick skinned, check. Love digging other people's secrets, check. Love to talk -- even to strangers, Oooo, yeah, check, check, check.

And so began my journey to journalism.

But as I started my editorial journey, I learnt that there's more to journalism than the ideal world my 15-year-old self had imagined.

In my uni days, I was given a chance to chase a story with an angle that went against my principles.

Ethics or byline, I remember asking myself. The answer was obvious. To hell with ethics.

My story ended up on page two of the university paper, and was one of 20 stories picked out of 200 submissions.

Though I kept the newspaper cutting, I've never re-read that piece to this day.

It took me weeks of guilt to realise that a byline is worth nothing, a story is worth nothing, if I cannot justify why I wrote it the way it was.

The 15-year-old Wai Kit didn't predict journalism to be like that. Isn't it as simple as writing something the way it is?

Years later, when I embarked on my career in a magazine, I was confronted by a stumbling block: My incredibly low salary.

Eh, Wai Kit, my shampoo girl earns more than you leh, a thoughtful friend once said to me. Lovely person, that one.

Indeed, for many years, my take-home pay had been, take a deep breath, S$1,300, and we're talking about a hardworking dean's-list graduate here, leh. 

For years, the only food that I put on the table was really chap chye peng or char bee hoon, I kid you not.

Two kind-hearted colleagues, who eventually learnt of my poor situation, quietly offered to lend me money at the end of the month, in case I had to resort to eating shredded secret documents for lunch.

But I got by my literally poor literary days because, to use a cliched term, I had passion.

Over the years of my work, I've grown to love every aspect of journalism.

I loved speaking to one and sundry -- from cabbies and politicians to diva pop stars and suicide survivors -- all in the name of a good story.

I loved waking up in the morning, raring to go to work to complete that story which I know can make a teeny-weeny impact to society.

I loved reading the Sunday papers and being inspired to come up with quirky story ideas to rival theirs.

I loved poring over stacks of printed research, leafing my interview pad with a saliva-ed finger, and cracking my head to come up with the best possible way to present that story.

I even loved the tedious process of fact-checking the ozalids before the pages are finally sent to print.

At the end of each month, when the magazines arrive at our office, just thumbing the glossy pages gives me gratification.

I was certain that if I put my nose near the magazine and rapidly flipped the pages with my thumb, I'd be able to smell cold coffee and the sweat that went into the stories.

It helped too, that the people I worked with had the same passion. The same love for journalism. And the same miserable pay. So when the going got tough, we all ate chap chye peng or char bee hoon together.

Most importantly, I didn't dread my work.

Not many people can wake up every day. Some die in their sleep.

And for those who can wake up every day, not everyone can tell himself that, damn, I can't wait to get to work.

I was -- and am -- such a person.

Though I'm earning more than S$1,300 now, I'm still grossly underpaid.

But at the end of the day, I tell myself that as long as journalism can put chap chye peng or char bee hoon on my table, and as long as I still love what I do, I won't think about the cons of my job -- even if I can't earn a lot.

I can only hope that one day, I don't end up eating my words.