19 February 2001

Hello, chums!

It's me, Louie, reporting once again from the hallowed halls of learning at Oxbridge University, where, as you know, I'm on a government scholarship to study political engineering.

Last week was Valentine's Day, so naturally, I was feeling a little sorry for myself, thinking of the little romantic disaster I went through last year.

But then, I thought, come on! Stop mooning about! 

A strapping, educated and witty young lad like myself... surely I can find a little crumpet on Valentine's Day!

So I decided to go and attend the Valentine's Day party organised by the Oxbridge Singapore Society.

What it was was a blind date party.  You pay a few quid, and they match you up with someone they believe is compatible.

The both of you trot off for dinner à deux, and then we all gather back for a large dance.

So I began to get togged up: a Dolce & Gabbana jacket, an Armani shirt with Versace cufflinks, Yohji Yamamoto trousers, Manolo Blahnik shoes.

(As you can tell, I'd decided on something subtle and not too ostentatious. Besides, those were the only things I could afford on my scholarship clothing allowance!)

And I thought, perhaps I should purchase some flowers for my date to be (even though she should be bloody grateful for being paired off with me!)

So I just had a crate of rare purpureocaulis shipped to me, and my peon to carry it behind me.

So anyway, at the prescribed time, I turned up at the venue. 

The rest of the attendees were clearly happy to see, greeting me with their usual salutation of "Oh God, you've come too?"

(I've told them that they needn't be so formal and can call me just "Louie". But I guess they feel a need to address me appropriately.)

After a short introduction, the pairing off was conducted.

The names of all the participants were keyed into the computer, and a specially-written piece of software would then match people based on appropriate factors.

For some reason, I was the last. (I guess they worked in order of sophistication.)

And I was then matched.

With Pokitum Uppadabum, the School of Physical Education Scholar, who's been sent to Loughbourough to study burpees.

At first, I thought of protesting, but then Pokitum reminded me that his father was Dr. Papadum Uppadabum, head of rectal studies at NUH, who's treating daddy's spastic colon.  And I wouldn't want to have anything "accidentally" go wrong with that, would I?

Well, as it turns out, Pokitum is in fact extremely good company, and we actually had a very enjoyable time. He's a gifted conversationalist, and has an inquiring mind which is always seeking new experiences.

At the moment, I'm writing this from his dorm room, where he's popped out  for a moment to buy some sort of "jelly" for a game he wants to show me. What an adventurer! I wonder what he has in mind? To think that I thought that this pairing was a mistake!

Just goes to show that it pays not to be anal about things!

- Louie

12 February 2001

Bienvenue, chums!

'Tis I, your friend and confidante, Louie Chin, still here in the hallowed halls of learning at Oxbridge University, where as your parents no doubt remind you from time, to time, I am on a full government scholarship to study political engineering.

Last week, I was telling you all about this new elective I was taking in biological engineering.

I must say it's a fascinating field because it's more than just biology, which is just science.

The fact that it involves engineering makes it superior.

After all, the government has said it wants more engineers, haven't they, and not more biologists!

Anyway, this week, we did a spot of cloning.

And you know, at Oxbridge, we only perform the very pinnacle of science, so none of that silly sheep stuff.

We decided to clone a human being!

So naturally, there was some debate as to who we should clone.

Some wanted to clone Nelson Mandela, some wanted to clone the Dalai Lama, some even wanted to clone Mother Teresa from stored cells!

But you know, just what did these people really do?  I mean really do?

I'm sure you all know who I suggested should be cloned, but for some reason, this didn't meet the approval of everyone else.

Obviously they were influenced by all these decadent western media types.

But they eventually took up my suggestion.

I guess I can be very persuasive when I pout and sit in the corner, holding my breath and threatening to ell my daddy so that he'll withdraw his funding of their new research library. (To be named after our cloning subject, of course.)

Unfortunately, the great man couldn't make it, as he had a tailor's appointment to make a new blue windcheater.

So we had to do with someone lesser, like Stephen Hawking.

Which sounded pretty stupid to me, since who wants to make a duplicate of someone who speaks like an answering machine?

I mean, all he did was think some science stuff up! (Not even engineering!) 

He didn't build a country, did he?

It galls me to think that after the great man goes, there'll be nothing left of his genetic heritage to ensure the continuance of his policies!

Oh, wait a minute... 

Oops! 

I completely forgot about him.

 I guess he is very much a chip off the old block, even if he's not exactly a clone. 

So we're safe after all!

Isn't that a comforting thought?

- Louie

5 February 2001

Hallo, all!

'Tis I, your chum Louie, still here at Oxbridge University where I'm on a government scholarship to study political engineering.

Lately, however, I've been taking up the government's suggestion about studying more biotechnology.

Of course, I am also adhering to the government's exhortation to be an engineer, above all other professions. 

So I am combining the elements by taking a course in biological engineering.

And you know what, I can see exactly why the government thinks that our country's future is tied to the biological engineering field.

Because through it, we can ensure that the right people inhabit Singapore in the future.

People like us scholars, for example. 

Whose parents are both graduates.

I really believe what the government says: that graduate mothers should have more children, because they produce brighter kids.

I mean, look at me! I'm now on scholarship in the most prestigious university in the world, and it's all thanks to my mother's genes (and perhaps my father's money and contacts in high places).

I'm always inspired by my mother, who's a graduate, and who, after university, embarked on a fulfilling career in mah-jong, jackpot and high tea.

My sister now aspires to be just like my mum, and I say, way to go, sis!

I sometimes shudder to think what I'd be if my mother were, say, just a diploma holder.

Why, I'd be in NUS arts fac!

The Oxbridge biological engineering course is really fascinating!

This week, I've learned about the basic building blocks of life.

About evolution, and how our genetic heritage is formed.

I can't remember exactly, but I think it's something like how good environments create good genes.

I always suspected that this is why rich people are superior, and now I know that there's a scientific explanation for it!

To think that all these rich people who fund such experiments just happen to be proven right by the scientists at whom they've thrown all this money! 

Some may call it coincidence, I think it's foresight!

But what's fascinating about it all is that biological engineering isn't just cold, hard mechanics.

Trying to engender good genes is a lot like art.

Designer genes, I guess one could call them.

(Which reminds me, the new Armani line is out, which means it's time to throw away all my old faded jeans, and buy the new pre-faded ones!)

More next week about my new field of studies, chaps!

Toodles!

- Louie

29 January 2001

Happy Chinese New Year, all!

I'm spending Chinese New Year in jolly old Oxbridge, which, as you know, is the prestigious university where I'm on a publicly-funded scholarship to pursue political engineering!

This may come as a surprise to you, but Chinese New Year is observed in a very big way here at Oxbridge!

I just came from the Main Quad, where the Chancellor of the University was prancing about in a lion costume.

He was trying to grab a cheque which was being dangled from a fishing pole on the third floor of the engineering building by the guest of honour, a Mr. Say Gwei Lo, CEO of Hong Kong corporate giant Daseefutt Holdings.

Although some have suggested that all this is merely to curry favour with rich Asians for continued funding, I can't accept this cynical view.

I'm sure the English are celebrating Chinese New Year in nothing more than the grand spirit of intercultural understanding!

Well, even if they aren't, they'd better, if they want Daddy to help them build their new Business Faculty annex.

Anyway, I must confess I'm not very traditional about Chinese New Year.

I think it's a whole lot of superstitious nonsense, frankly!

Like this not sweeping the floor on New Year's Day thing.

I mean, surely it's not a concern in this modern day and age!

Just ask your maid to do it... and let her have the bad luck. What do we care?

And all this lion dancing, and proffering of oranges, and stuff, it's just primitive and barbarous.

I remember how when I was in Secondary School at Stamford Institution, I wrote to the Principal suggesting that certain Chinese New Year traditions be modified to reflect more civilised practices.

Like substituting dancing round the maypole for lion dancing.

Or replacing beastly Chinese New Year cookies with steak and kidney pie and jellied eels.

Or having a Father Chinese New Year figure distribute Chinese New Year gifts under the Chinese New Year tree, with all of us singing Chinese New Year carols.

Unfortunately, nobody seemed to appreciate how much better Chinese New Year would be if it were a more English!

So naturally, I had Daddy, who sits on the board of the school, have the principal fired the next year.

But not before having him publicly flogged in front of the Ministry of Education.

Perhaps the only Chinese tradition I find tolerable is the giving of red packets.

Even then, we don't really practice it in the traditional way in my family.

Daddy much prefers to send the money to me by telegraphic transfer. Or maybe Western Union.

There's only so much cash you can stuff in those silly little red packets, you see.  So it doesn't make sense at all.

So what Daddy does is send me the bank receipt in the little red packet.

It's rather silly, and not at all environmentally friendly to be expending so much paper, frankly, but that's tradition for you.

Because of my views, some have accused me of being a "banana", you know, yellow on the outside, white on the inside.

When I think of these accusations, I always feel sad. Because it's so unfair!

Unfair that I'm not also white on the outside, when inside me beats the heart of a true-blue colonial! I mean, I even eat potatoes with my rice, for pity's sake!

I know! I'll spend this year's ang-pow money on a Michael Jackson skin job!

And I won't be a banana anymore... I'll be a cauliflower!

See you next week, chums!

- Louie

Wahey! I'm back in Oxbridge again!

Hello chums!  I'm now back in good old Oxbridge University to continue with my government scholarship to study political engineering!

And of course Mummy made me bring all sorts of stuff from home to alleviate my homesickness.

Like my Filipina maid.

Oh well, I guess she can take over cleaning my flat from those PSC people Daddy arranged to take care of me.

I'm sure I can reassign them new things to do, like clip my fingernails or something useful like that.

And of course, returning to Oxbridge means hitting the ground running as far as work is concerned!

I've got heaps of assignments to handle.

But you know, I relish the intellectual challenge!

As I stand over the hunched shoulders of my PSC-issued researchers, buried deep in my textbooks and fingers flying as they write up my assignments, I feel a frisson of excitement, knowing how hard I'm working to expand my knowledge.

Of course, there are jealous detractors (those peasant non-scholars, who else?) who accuse me of free-riding on the efforts of my research assistants.

What rubbish!

It's engaging in practices like delegating work to assistants that makes me leadership material.

After all, how does one learn to be a leader if one does not learn to lead?

And how does one learn to lead if one does not have followers?

And what kind of leader does the work, when he has serfs to do it for him?

He wouldn't be very smart if he did that now, would he?

So there!

Besides, all this mugging and studying is just mere formality.

After all, Oxbridge already knows we're good, merely by the fact that they admitted us.

It would be utterly pointless to fail us once they let us in, wouldn't it?

Then it would make a mockery of their admissions system.

Not to mention the loss in millions of pounds worth of sponsorship from the government.

And of course, from Daddy.

Besides, it's the aim of Oxbridge to make sure that all of their graduates eventually attain powerful positions.

So that they will plough more money back into Oxbridge, of course.

So to give their graduates crap grades hardly makes sense, does it?

It's all so simple, really.

Which is not to say that we Oxbridge grads are entirely without merit.

We're all worth our weight in gold, and to prove it, Daddy sent the Dean 80 kg worth of gold ingots for Christmas.

So there's no way anyone can ever accuse me of not having paid my dues for my privileges!

Whoops! Will you look at the time? Would love to stay and chat, but I have to electrolyse my armpits!

Until next time, toodles!

Happy New Year, duckie-wuckies!

It's me, Louie.  

As you all know, I'm on a government scholarship to study political engineering in Oxbridge University.

But I'm now back in Singapore for the winter hols.

And New Year's Eve was an absolute cracker for me!

We had our usual New Year's party.

Small intimate welcoming of the new year together with family, friends, business contacts, miscellaneous politicians and captains of industry.

Oh, and the usual two hundred or so servants, of course.

At midnight, Daddy popped the Moet and Chandon.

And as he usually does, he aimed the cork at a waiter.

But Daddy's losing his touch a little, as the waiter only got slightly bruised.

In better days, we could all count on him losing an eye or breaking his nose.

New Years are funny things, aren't they?

One always feels a mixture of optimism, and a twinge of wistfulness at the passing of time.

Moi always feels especially reflective, thinking about what might have been.

Like during the early part of this year, when I developed this irrational crush on a fellow Singaporean at Cambridge.

I should have known that was a mistake, as she was there on her parents' own recognizance and wasn't a scholar.

All my friends warned me not to fraternize with the proletariat, but alas! my mind was clouded with desire.

And even worse, when the wretched wench spurned my entreaties.

How many women would have turned down the lavish gifts I laid at her door step?

The bloody witch had no idea how much trouble I went to to procure the severed head of her secondary three P.E. teacher.

Now poor Daddy has to play golf with the Education Minister every weekend, and the Minister won't have to pretend to lose!

And so my pursuit ended badly, with my heart shattered into a thousand melancholy pieces.

I spent much of the next few weeks wandering in a daze, munching on lotuses (air-flown from Shanghai, of course.  Local ones are just nasty) and getting my scribes to pen long, languid verses about my lost love.

I eventually regained my composure when Daddy asked the I.R.A.S. to investigate her father's finances.

So my new year's resolution is not to fall in love so easily.

It shall be difficult, I know, for I am such a sensitive soul.

Perhaps it will be achievable if I make sure that my prospective romantic interest has a sufficiently sophisticated financial portfolio.

That way, should I be spurned, I know that she will have sufficient assets to justify litigation for damage caused to my heart and my standing in society.

Aren't I just a sentimental little fool?

Oh, l'amour!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

It's me, Louie, back for the holidays!

I'm back home from Oxbridge University, where, as you well know, I'm on a government scholarship to study political engineering!

I love spending Christmas at home.

It's always a small, cozy event.

No more than six hundred people, four air-conditioned marquees, fifty servants, a string orchestra and the Singapore Youth Choir.

And traditional home-cooked fare like roast peacock, Belon oysters, Osetra caviar, Norwegian smoked salmon and Maine lobster.

And surrounded by those closest and dearest to our family.

Like the Cabinet.

And the High Court.

And the best part, of course, is seeing my family.

Mummy is always in high spirits at Christmas, weaving her way through the crowds, martini glass in one hand, bottle of Jack Daniels in the other.

She is the very picture of elegance, even when she is projectile vomiting over the shrubbery.

The Tatler reported that it was the most sophisticated puking they had ever seen!

And Daddy... Daddy is the consummate host.

There's even talk that when Daddy retires, he'll be groomed for a diplomatic post.

MFA sources suggest that he'd be perfect to take over the embassy in Bogota, due to his connections and business relations there.

Why, Daddy's even invited some of his Colombian business friends over for Christmas.

I'm not sure what they do, but I think it has something to do with Coca Cola.

They actually flew in from their own private air-strip deep in the jungle!

How exotic and exciting!

It's also good to see my many cousins.

Jezebel is on an EDB scholarship to Yarvard where she is getting a degree in Brownian Nasalism, while Lucifer is reading Nepotistical Studies at Stanton under a PSC scholarship.

In the meantime, Azrael has just passed out of OCS, where he's been awarded the Sword of Whitehorsemanship.

Achievement runs through this family's veins, I tell you! 

There's also invariably a Tatler photojournalist on hand to capture the proceedings.

Of course, we're always a little reluctant to let the press in on a private event.

But we feel that in some way, we should document and share the festivities with others.

Besides, the Tatler journalists I know have always been courteous and unobtrusive.

And besides, they give me decent fellatio.

Then there are the presents.  Daddy told me that this year, he's buying Mummy an island for Christmas.  

It's called "Australia" or something.

And as for me, he's bought me something I've always wanted, but have never gotten - Friends!

Isn't my Daddy great? Now I needn't buy my own!

God bless us, everyone!

And see you at New Year's for our big party!

Toodles!