About a decade ago, I had a meeting with some folks from the Ministry of Defence for a possible TV project, and I enquired about the possibility of doing Basic Military Training (BMT).
I think they’re still laughing.
I was a proud Singapore permanent resident, but I’d already passed the cut-off date to do my bit for my adopted homeland.
My ego was suitably pricked.
Apart from a torn rotator cuff, a chronic knee injury and plantar fasciitis in my right foot, I was fighting fit.
All right, I wasn’t fighting fit.
An enemy wouldn’t need a machine gun.
A staircase would take me out.
‘Man, I feel like a woman here’
But I wanted that BMT badge of honour to defend myself against the oldest male criticism in Singapore, because, man, I feel like a woman here. It doesn’t matter what I contribute to the country, the retort is always the same.
I wrote many books that championed Singapore?
Ah, never do NS.
I encourage schoolchildren to read?
Ah, never do NS.
I support Singapore over Japan and China?
Ah, never do NS.
I cured cancer, scrapped COE and turned 38 Oxley Road into a sports bar?
Ah, never do NS. (Though I might get a pass for the COE.)
And I get it.
I really do.
In my late teens, I spent my time in East London bars chasing women. Singaporean men of the same age spent their time in forests chasing snakes. Honestly, they had more success with the snakes.
National Service is not just young men, in matching attire, battling imagined enemies. If it was, then West Ham and Tottenham supporters would fulfil the criteria.





