Easter and a motor race in sultry Malaysia
While at university in the nineteen-eighties, I foolhardily allowed myself to fall into the clutches of a comely Liverpudlian lass who went by the slightly disturbing name of Dawn. What began as a delightful venture descended into the stuff of which crab-dinner-fuelled nightmares are made. Dawn, you see, had greater clinging power than the vilest leech. Friends regularly remarked upon my breathless, drawn appearance during those awful days. Wisdom has since taught me to steer well clear of females named after hours of the day. I curl the upper lip at the sight of any smiling “Afternoon” and run for dear life when approached by a “Sunset”.
As if Dawn was not enough to contend with, I had, at the same time, unwittingly struck up a firm friendship with an Indian fellow from Malaysia called Ramesh. The trouble was that the friendship was not reciprocal. Whereas Ramesh thrived on being in my company, I shrank from his. I had thus landed myself in the thickest of soups. No sooner would I gratefully wish Dawn goodbye than Ramesh would be “Hi Gitau-ing!” at me with abandon. On one particularly exhausting evening I succeeded in convincing Dawn I was so infested with a loathsome lurgy that I had to be asleep within the hour if I was to stand any chance of seeing another morning. Reluctantly, Dawn withdrew. Just as I was about to curl up with my well thumbed copy of Conan Doyle’s A Study in Sarlet, Ramesh chose to haunt my premises again. I realised then that if my sanity stood any chance of survival, radical action was necessary.
The solution to the problem presented itself to me one sleepless night. In hindsight it seems obvious: Dawn and Ramesh were sundered souls which needed pairing. With a modicum of effort – the odd Ramesh-flavoured pearl dropped carefully into Dawn’s ear and the prospect of insatiable totty waved at a chap whose last acquaintance with the female bosom was at the ripe old age of nine months – worked like magic. Dawn and Ramesh took to each other like pigs to mud. Sadly, though, I had made a miscalculation. Contrary to my expectation of a return to a semblance of equilibrium, the pestilence was about to get worse. Dawn – a woman whose opinion of herself would make Naomi Campbell blush – saw my efforts as a sacrifice on a par with Abraham offering his son, Isaac, as a sacrifice to Jehovah and venerated me as a consequence. To Ramesh I was James Bond, Muhammad Ali and Jesus Christ rolled into one. Thenceforth I suffered not the presence of Dawn or Ramesh but that of Dawn and Ramesh continually. The expression which, doubtless, springs to your mind now, rhymes with “clucking bell”. Indeed.
That which cannot be avoided must be endured and so, stoically, I accepted my fate. Nearly two decades later I can draw some benefit from the experience. When she wasn’t preening herself or cooing at Ramesh, Dawn would gush endlessly about the joys of Liverpool. Not to be outdone, when able to extract his tongue from Dawn’s ear, Ramesh would wax lyrical about the shocks Malaysia was about to thrust upon the world. It was from him that I learned that by the end of the penultimate decade of the last century, Malaysia had risen in status from a “developing country” (meaning piss-poor Third World Republic) to a “newly industrialised country”. “Just you wait,” said Ramesh, “we will have the technological wonders of the world in the next ten years. Mark my words.”
How right he was. In 1998, Malaysia opened the Petronas Towers, the world’s tallest twin-tower complex. This was not a cheap copy of the soon-to-be-destroyed World Trade Centre in New York. No. It was a jaw dropping architectural achievement worthy of the best of them. Malaysia was demanding that the world sat up and paid attention to it. In relatively short order, the magnificent Sepang motor racing circuit opened for business a year later. Again, this was no simulacrum of venerable old circuits like Brands Hatch or Spa. Oh no. Sepang was Malaysia’s response to the circuit design rule book: tear it up and throw it away. Sepang was designed to be – and still is - the most challenging circuit in the world. Racing at the speeds Sepang requires in the heat and extreme humidity of Malaysia makes outrageous demands on the human body. This is a circuit which makes drivers suffer. Welcome, friends, to the now legendary Malaysian Grand Prix.
Michael Schumacher set the benchmark at the opening race in 1999 and his belief-defying performance is yet to be equalled. Having been forced to spend months away by injury, he returned to Formula One at a circuit he did not know and proved to everyone why he was the man to fear. But we are in a new era now. Schumacher now wears slippers and smokes a pipe. This is the era of the maverick, vodka-swilling, tit-fondling Finn at Ferrari, Kimi Raikkonen, the softly spoken world champion, Fernando Alonso, and the first ever black man in Formula One, Lewis Hamiton. Australia offered us a tasty titbit but Malaysia has the potential for a great deal more.
A word in your ear before I go: look out for Felipe Massa. He is not a very happy fellow. He did an excellent job as Michael Schumacher’s last team-mate – a worthy team-mate it must be said - and feels somewhat sidelined by the attention being lavished on his new team-mate, Raikkonen. To Massa’s mind, Raikkonen is not Schumacher’s successor, he is. This is why he was so inconsolable after his car broke down in qualifying in Melbourne and was forced to sit by the pit wall watching Raikkonen comfortably cruise to an easy pole position. I do not think he enjoyed Raikkonen’s imperious win the next day much either. Things like that rankle with the Latin temperament (remember, he is Brazilian). Massa, therefore, has something to prove.
The heat and humidity of Malaysia does not seem to inspire great brewing talent as far as I know (but I will happily accept informed contradiction), so I cannot recommend any tipple from that part of the world (that blister, Ramesh, was teetotal, I hasten to add!). In times like these, then, reach for the Belgian beer dictionary. If you can’t find something you like within it, seek a thick rope and a sturdy tree…
If you can bear to tear yourself away from the Easter celebrations in your local church,
Enjoy Malaysia!
Gitau
Good Friday, 6 April 2007
As if Dawn was not enough to contend with, I had, at the same time, unwittingly struck up a firm friendship with an Indian fellow from Malaysia called Ramesh. The trouble was that the friendship was not reciprocal. Whereas Ramesh thrived on being in my company, I shrank from his. I had thus landed myself in the thickest of soups. No sooner would I gratefully wish Dawn goodbye than Ramesh would be “Hi Gitau-ing!” at me with abandon. On one particularly exhausting evening I succeeded in convincing Dawn I was so infested with a loathsome lurgy that I had to be asleep within the hour if I was to stand any chance of seeing another morning. Reluctantly, Dawn withdrew. Just as I was about to curl up with my well thumbed copy of Conan Doyle’s A Study in Sarlet, Ramesh chose to haunt my premises again. I realised then that if my sanity stood any chance of survival, radical action was necessary.
The solution to the problem presented itself to me one sleepless night. In hindsight it seems obvious: Dawn and Ramesh were sundered souls which needed pairing. With a modicum of effort – the odd Ramesh-flavoured pearl dropped carefully into Dawn’s ear and the prospect of insatiable totty waved at a chap whose last acquaintance with the female bosom was at the ripe old age of nine months – worked like magic. Dawn and Ramesh took to each other like pigs to mud. Sadly, though, I had made a miscalculation. Contrary to my expectation of a return to a semblance of equilibrium, the pestilence was about to get worse. Dawn – a woman whose opinion of herself would make Naomi Campbell blush – saw my efforts as a sacrifice on a par with Abraham offering his son, Isaac, as a sacrifice to Jehovah and venerated me as a consequence. To Ramesh I was James Bond, Muhammad Ali and Jesus Christ rolled into one. Thenceforth I suffered not the presence of Dawn or Ramesh but that of Dawn and Ramesh continually. The expression which, doubtless, springs to your mind now, rhymes with “clucking bell”. Indeed.
That which cannot be avoided must be endured and so, stoically, I accepted my fate. Nearly two decades later I can draw some benefit from the experience. When she wasn’t preening herself or cooing at Ramesh, Dawn would gush endlessly about the joys of Liverpool. Not to be outdone, when able to extract his tongue from Dawn’s ear, Ramesh would wax lyrical about the shocks Malaysia was about to thrust upon the world. It was from him that I learned that by the end of the penultimate decade of the last century, Malaysia had risen in status from a “developing country” (meaning piss-poor Third World Republic) to a “newly industrialised country”. “Just you wait,” said Ramesh, “we will have the technological wonders of the world in the next ten years. Mark my words.”
How right he was. In 1998, Malaysia opened the Petronas Towers, the world’s tallest twin-tower complex. This was not a cheap copy of the soon-to-be-destroyed World Trade Centre in New York. No. It was a jaw dropping architectural achievement worthy of the best of them. Malaysia was demanding that the world sat up and paid attention to it. In relatively short order, the magnificent Sepang motor racing circuit opened for business a year later. Again, this was no simulacrum of venerable old circuits like Brands Hatch or Spa. Oh no. Sepang was Malaysia’s response to the circuit design rule book: tear it up and throw it away. Sepang was designed to be – and still is - the most challenging circuit in the world. Racing at the speeds Sepang requires in the heat and extreme humidity of Malaysia makes outrageous demands on the human body. This is a circuit which makes drivers suffer. Welcome, friends, to the now legendary Malaysian Grand Prix.
Michael Schumacher set the benchmark at the opening race in 1999 and his belief-defying performance is yet to be equalled. Having been forced to spend months away by injury, he returned to Formula One at a circuit he did not know and proved to everyone why he was the man to fear. But we are in a new era now. Schumacher now wears slippers and smokes a pipe. This is the era of the maverick, vodka-swilling, tit-fondling Finn at Ferrari, Kimi Raikkonen, the softly spoken world champion, Fernando Alonso, and the first ever black man in Formula One, Lewis Hamiton. Australia offered us a tasty titbit but Malaysia has the potential for a great deal more.
A word in your ear before I go: look out for Felipe Massa. He is not a very happy fellow. He did an excellent job as Michael Schumacher’s last team-mate – a worthy team-mate it must be said - and feels somewhat sidelined by the attention being lavished on his new team-mate, Raikkonen. To Massa’s mind, Raikkonen is not Schumacher’s successor, he is. This is why he was so inconsolable after his car broke down in qualifying in Melbourne and was forced to sit by the pit wall watching Raikkonen comfortably cruise to an easy pole position. I do not think he enjoyed Raikkonen’s imperious win the next day much either. Things like that rankle with the Latin temperament (remember, he is Brazilian). Massa, therefore, has something to prove.
The heat and humidity of Malaysia does not seem to inspire great brewing talent as far as I know (but I will happily accept informed contradiction), so I cannot recommend any tipple from that part of the world (that blister, Ramesh, was teetotal, I hasten to add!). In times like these, then, reach for the Belgian beer dictionary. If you can’t find something you like within it, seek a thick rope and a sturdy tree…
If you can bear to tear yourself away from the Easter celebrations in your local church,
Enjoy Malaysia!
Gitau
Good Friday, 6 April 2007
posted by Gitau at 3:37 pm
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