Serious, troubling
allegations indeed.
The greatest man of the region, nevermind the tiny pin-prick republic of the little red dot hot-spot. Had there been a larger stage true immortal glory most likely. Widely revered, especially in the Western hemisphere.
This kind of suggestion needed to be taken with a barrel load of salt.
Yet Beefy here was adamant. What a face he pulled if he was simply mischief-making. All round you could ask if you didn't believe, his arm arcing a wide sweep. We all know that. A gambling man of the track employing some kind of strange number system of his own devising. One got a little light-headed listening to the elaboration Beefy presented like a school-teacher with oodles of charm.
We had started with some light fun from the days of the gangs hereabout. Malay v. Chin., winner take all. Beefy had run kerosene tins of opium for Uncle Enek. (Not Enak—Hungry—as the author had mistakenly believed.) Uncle E. could swing anything in his day. Big trade in the gear from down in Ubi kampung here up to Lorong So-and-so in Middle Geylang. Lotta dollars in it. Uncle Enek distributed the proceeds to all round, the whole community sharing. Pablo Escobar, Robin Hood, what you will. We are in the early-mid sixties Dear Reader, the Opium dens still a going concern in the last receding flush of Grand Britannia. The last days of nice, easy, pusher dosh for those trading under the Union Jack. (One had long wondered about the silence in our parts down South and elsewhere on the English Opium Trade/War. Why was that?... How could it possibly have been so far buried in the historical record?...)
The greatest man of the region, nevermind the tiny pin-prick republic of the little red dot hot-spot. Had there been a larger stage true immortal glory most likely. Widely revered, especially in the Western hemisphere.
This kind of suggestion needed to be taken with a barrel load of salt.
Yet Beefy here was adamant. What a face he pulled if he was simply mischief-making. All round you could ask if you didn't believe, his arm arcing a wide sweep. We all know that. A gambling man of the track employing some kind of strange number system of his own devising. One got a little light-headed listening to the elaboration Beefy presented like a school-teacher with oodles of charm.
We had started with some light fun from the days of the gangs hereabout. Malay v. Chin., winner take all. Beefy had run kerosene tins of opium for Uncle Enek. (Not Enak—Hungry—as the author had mistakenly believed.) Uncle E. could swing anything in his day. Big trade in the gear from down in Ubi kampung here up to Lorong So-and-so in Middle Geylang. Lotta dollars in it. Uncle Enek distributed the proceeds to all round, the whole community sharing. Pablo Escobar, Robin Hood, what you will. We are in the early-mid sixties Dear Reader, the Opium dens still a going concern in the last receding flush of Grand Britannia. The last days of nice, easy, pusher dosh for those trading under the Union Jack. (One had long wondered about the silence in our parts down South and elsewhere on the English Opium Trade/War. Why was that?... How could it possibly have been so far buried in the historical record?...)
The Capo Enek did several long
stretches. Ford Caprices were acquired by members of the community from the
proceeds. Rich pickings. Seems Uncle E. continued to orchestrate the trade from
inside in the time-honoured way.
All gangs had their signals and signs. That's where the author began with Beefy that lovely unseasonably cool afternoon. Interesting little things. A fist was ten. Bent fore-finger nine. Eight was cute, the etymology let's call it. A pass above the upper lip and then the lower. Why because? (as the Sing’lish runs here) the shape of the lips is a figure 8 of course. Ha! Last three fingers was three; thumb and first two variant eight. There was more.
But never mind that now. The bomb-shell more or less arrived as non-sequitur. First, on the matter of the famous riot here of 1964 during the parade for the Prophet’s birthday—the last permitted: in fact PAP men were the provocateurs on both sides, Beefy maintained. The strutting Malays in the procession; and then those Chinese pelting with bottles, stones, pineapples and coconuts, whatever came to hand. All lawyer-union leader Lee and nothing but lawyer-union leader Lee engineering. Thereby allowing the POUlice roundup, beatings, curfew, useful panic in the respectable quarters.
That was bad enough of course. Perhaps no surprise. What, governments, elites, setting off a little local and contained fireworks in order to open the way for crackdown, prompt no-nonsense action, restoring public order in a jiffy? Hardly unknown. It was a big claim of course. But Part B. Not only were the Malays pissed with the ruse, but good, honourable Chinese too. Chinese who believed in something other than the emerging PAP program, the separation from Malaysia, the fierceness unleashed against opponents, extra-judicial Cold Storage. Too much to enumerate. Too too much. Old history gotten away with. Crying over spilt milk.
The bombshell proper: old man Lee pere himself—not current Lee pere; the Da of the great ol' man we are talking about here. Grandpere Lee. The clock and watch seller from the Bata building up from St. Andrews; beside the Capitol building and the current Peninsular Plaza. The granddaddy of the current PM.
All gangs had their signals and signs. That's where the author began with Beefy that lovely unseasonably cool afternoon. Interesting little things. A fist was ten. Bent fore-finger nine. Eight was cute, the etymology let's call it. A pass above the upper lip and then the lower. Why because? (as the Sing’lish runs here) the shape of the lips is a figure 8 of course. Ha! Last three fingers was three; thumb and first two variant eight. There was more.
But never mind that now. The bomb-shell more or less arrived as non-sequitur. First, on the matter of the famous riot here of 1964 during the parade for the Prophet’s birthday—the last permitted: in fact PAP men were the provocateurs on both sides, Beefy maintained. The strutting Malays in the procession; and then those Chinese pelting with bottles, stones, pineapples and coconuts, whatever came to hand. All lawyer-union leader Lee and nothing but lawyer-union leader Lee engineering. Thereby allowing the POUlice roundup, beatings, curfew, useful panic in the respectable quarters.
That was bad enough of course. Perhaps no surprise. What, governments, elites, setting off a little local and contained fireworks in order to open the way for crackdown, prompt no-nonsense action, restoring public order in a jiffy? Hardly unknown. It was a big claim of course. But Part B. Not only were the Malays pissed with the ruse, but good, honourable Chinese too. Chinese who believed in something other than the emerging PAP program, the separation from Malaysia, the fierceness unleashed against opponents, extra-judicial Cold Storage. Too much to enumerate. Too too much. Old history gotten away with. Crying over spilt milk.
The bombshell proper: old man Lee pere himself—not current Lee pere; the Da of the great ol' man we are talking about here. Grandpere Lee. The clock and watch seller from the Bata building up from St. Andrews; beside the Capitol building and the current Peninsular Plaza. The granddaddy of the current PM.
Wait for it....
DISOWNED his own born son after all that bastardry, as the old chap
considered it.
….Gasping that almost choked. A god-send there
was no food or drink.
— Beefy!?... Never a whisper previously.
August Mr. LKY disowned by his own born DaddyO??!
Beefy was not afraid to speak the words two
nights ago, come hell or high water. We all
know. We all know. We all know. Perfect and complete conviction.
As Dear Bab used to say, If he was fibbing I have
only passed it on, Dear Reader. True. Twas the very word.
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