Nothing worse than explaining jokes. Even decoding tedious ordinarily. In the present case hopefully it might prove different; some much needed enlargement in the perspective on Islam for one thing.
A recent silver-tongued Malaysian politician (tongued and not spooned in this case), the Deputy leader of PAS, Malaysia's Islamic party, goes into a bar.... Only kidding. No. This chap has been currently drawing large, appreciative crowds in the on-going jostling up on the peninsular to unsettle the long-ruling coalition of PM Najib, the man whose close associates have been directly implicated in the murder of a pretty young Mongolian translator involved in the brokering of a large Defence procurement during N’s time as Minister of the department. (Another story.)
An Islamic leader in this case, Mohamad Sabu—Mat Sabu universally. A man delighting political gatherings with risqué jokes that make the more traditional religious figures of his party squirm in their seats.
Latest example quoted in the newspaper this morning here on the other side of the Causeway: attending a beauty pageant over in Sabah, on Borneo, East Malaysia, Mat bumps into some pretty gals awaiting their turn with the judges.
Middle-aged, porky—thick-set rather! —Mat was asked to come hither, as a particular lass wanted to whisper something in his ear.
Oh yeah! OK.
Obliging, the politico was more than a little surprised to hear the sweet susurration tickling his lobes: Ini kalilah.
Ini kalilah. Non-Bahasa speakers will need translation: This time.
…Result: roaring laughter. Audience in stitches, falling about the aisles.
Who wouldn't vote for this religious head. (Deputy Head.)
Ho-ho-ho. What a card!
WTF? an outsider might be forgiven for thinking.
Well, firstly, this whisper offered by the would-be starlet was the slogan, the battle cry, of the opposition in the last election. (Stolen from Australian Labour from the 70s, arguably. Just as the election itself earlier in the year on the Peninsular was likewise in all probability stolen.)
Ini kalilah. This time.
Now, the more crucial addition.
The author happens to have the following information from impeccable sources—a well-known local rake who has been haunting ths lower end of Geylang, Singapore, the last couple of years.
In the course of this chap's peregrinations, during attempted assignations and seductions, the fellow concerned has reported an odd turn of phrase offered him.
More often than he liked; a frustrating, teasing response repeated on more occasions than he wanted to recall and invariably, almost without exception, entirely empty of promise it always turned out.
To the invitations to dance, to share a cosy cuppa, a private tete-a-tete within the cloister, on occasions far too many to mention our fellow has been tickled, tortured, tormented, by a terribly tendentious teaser:
Next time.
Next time.
Next time.
Toward infinity and the end of time, the man dolefully reports.
Up in Sabah Mat Sabu fared better.
NB. Post-Trumpet this kind of political playfulness has of course turned sour. Dating from 2013.
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