Bland.

I've just re-read the last post and realised how sodding anodyne it is. It's all somehows. Where's a bit of fucking passion, a bit more clear-eyed intent? Let me think...

New Year!

A happy New Year (and Eid)to one and all. I haven't, as you might just have noticed, been blogging to much recently; This is due to a combination of too much work, too much booze and too much baby. However, I intend to rectify this. Since it's the time for good intentions, I'm going to share a few of mine with you. One part of writing on this more is to keep abreast of what I'm doing with them.
1. Stop smoking - yeah, yeah, cliche and all, but I need to do it for me. I stopped before, I can do it again.
2. Cut down on the booze intake: I will try not to drink unless in company. Then I'll get ratarsed.
3. Write more - not just on this blog, but in general. I have some serious editing of work to do, then I will find a publisher.
4. Climb some more mountains - and make my wife and sons climb some too.
5. Make more money somehow - not so much an intention as a need. With only my income coming in at present, we're only just keeping our heads afloat, and I am UTTERLY sick of having to count every bloody penny.
Next is to work out each step involved in making these intentions reality.

And what about this past year? Two highlights - the birth of Sean and completing the 3 peaks. At work, successfully negotiating and organising the exams for the entire department, and posting the best exam results I've had yet.

knackered.

ye gods, it's tiring looking after a mini-munchkin. On top of which, I'm snowed under at work, preparing exams for the final week of term. And generally feeling rather crap. Also, having a bottle of wine on a tuesday night and not going to bed till 2 a.m. due to 'Amistad' being on telly didn't help. My brain feels like mush at the moment. However, I'm going to try and keep this updated as much as possible. But not right now. Bluh.

slightly less safe...

..the unanimous not guilty verdict on Nick Griffin. How anyone can possibly say that what he said at a rally, secretly filmed by the Beeb and shown on TV, is not racist incitement, is beyond me. Mr. Griffin, here's a challenge for you; Do one of those DNA tests that reveal ethnic makeup. Odds on it shows you're a healthy melange of different racial groups, like a significant number of (nominally white) Brits. Then, after you've shown the results on TV and shared them with the slope-browed, slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging , workshy, pig-ignorant scum you're proud to call your followers, go home.
Wherever that may prove to be.
I am proud to live in a free and open country, even if it isn't perfect. I am proud that my grandparents and granduncles fought the shitty ideology you espouse during WWII.

Slightly safer.

..the world, that is. In covering his own cowardly simian backside, George W.'s done humanity a favour by ditching Rumsfeld - and good on the American Electorate, too, for putting the Democrats in charge.

two weeks old!

Mid-term elections..

..and a feed back to a previous entry, asking the question, what is a head of state good for?
vote well, American chums.

And Now For Something Completely Different..Does anyone know a good astrophysicist?

This is a serious idea, produced from my Science Geek side. Please treat it seriously. I came up with the core idea last week, and I've been bending it and testing it since. However, if it is true, the implications are genuinely enormous. If it is not, feel free to ignore it and mock me.

Spacetime and dark matter interaction hypothesis

I started this idea a very long time ago, as a child, ever wondering whether I’d ever be able to travel to other planets and times, a la Dr. Who. I entertained fantasies of exotic engines, warp speed and so forth, until I began to think that there might be a way of doing it without accelerating. About a week ago, an idea came to mind that I have been bending backwards and forwards every way I can, and I can’t find a problem at the moment, apart from the fact it uses a form of matter that is only just on the verge of being described. What is more, my idea seems to resolve a whole raft of complex issues regarding astrophysics and quantum physics, plus some other issues relating to religion and philosophy. It also implies a way to travel that could cover infinite distances and times, but without breaking any laws of physics. I know this is an outrageously enormous claim; This is why I must put this idea into the public domain, where it must be pulled every which way to see if it’s just crackpot or not. Let’s begin.
My current round of thinking about this concept began with the question ‘what would a universe look like if it did not have time?’, the answer, quite obviously, being absolute bloody chaos; everything would happen instantaneously. However, it also implies that a universe without time could not have a cogent space, as distance of any kind implies time between events. In other words, a timeless universe is an absurdity – it could not possibly have shape or substance. Rather like the singularity that led to the Big Bang. So far, so basic; I also started thinking along the lines of ‘what does time and distance look like in a universe devoid of sentience?’ – I wanted to understand what the absolute definition of time is, rather than the mathematical limits of seconds, hours, days, months etc that we place upon time. I also asked myself ‘what would the universe look like if it were smaller/bigger?’
It was this last question that set me following the white rabbit down the hole, or rather, an extremely large, at least light-year-wide, invisible bunny through spacetime.
Dark matter and dark energy have become increasingly accepted features of the universe over the past few years, even though we don’t know what they are, how big they are, or what they’re doing loitering around, being invisible. Dark matter does not seem to interact with the visible universe; we can’t see it, touch it, taste it, hear it or weigh it, which pretty much renders an impossible thing. Yet it must be there, because the universe and the structure within could not possibly exist without it. It is a thing that we simply do not have the capacity of perceiving, yet we can infer its existence.
And it does not interact with the visible universe.
However, what it does do is interact with spactime, simply because it is a fundamental part of the universe, just like gravity, mass, and electromagnetism.
Now here’s the idea:
The universe is far, far smaller than we actually consider it to be.
The reason it looks larger is very simple: dark matter dilates spacetime.
In other words, dark matter somehow acts as a kind of lens, distorting the actual fabric of the material, visible universe.
How on Earth is this provable?
Well, I’m still working on that one, but a couple of thoughts come to mind. Basically, dark matter may pervade the universe, but it should clump in gravitational centres, i.e. in galaxies and around black holes. The greater the amount of dark matter, the larger (and longer) spacetime appears to be. In other words, someone standing at the heart of the galaxy would see space, and the distance between stars, as being far more stretched out than someone standing at a point outside a galaxy. Not only that, it would also appear older than it is. So, you could send some people off on unimaginably long journeys to the centre of our galaxy and outside it, the compare their experiences, although might take a teensy-weensy bit too long – by several million years. Or you could try bouncing some kind of signal towards a system towards the centre of the galaxy, and another equidistant towards the outside, and measure the length of time it takes the signal to return. If my idea is true, it should take marginally longer for the signal aimed at the heart of the galaxy to return. Or you could try with the Pioneer probe, now hurtling away from the solar system and into deep space. If my supposition is correct, then our solar system should appear smaller than it does to us as a spacecraft enters deep space and less dark matter.
Now, dark matter appears to consist of enormous structures – current ideas suggest that a single particle may be more that a light year in dimension – but this helps the notion of the way it dilates spacetime. Although it affects the visible, material universe, what it does not do is affect matter at the subatomic, quantum level, simpy because of its sheer size. This could explain ‘spooky action at a distance’, or the way subatomic materials appear to have an effect on other subatomic particles regardless of distance and time. This is because the distance and time are the byproduct of spacetime dilation through dark matter. Dark matter behaving as I suggest would also explain why the Universal Constant appears to have changed, and why the speed of light possibly isn’t what it used to be. In fact, they have remained the same; what has occurred, from our perspective, is movement of dark matter, giving the illusion of change.
What are the implications of what I’m suggesting?
I’d argue that they are possibly enormous. Firstly, it suggests that we are capable of travelling vast distances without expending much in the way of energy. Quite simply, if you understand what dark matter (and dark energy, too) is, and how it behaves in relation to the visible universe – how it moves, how it clumps and so forth – then, in theory, and with an extremely fast computer and an extraordinarily accurate map, you should be able to avoid it – in other words, to warp through ‘real’ spacetime, rather than the dilated version. In terms of the kind of vehicle you’d need to do this, think more in terms of the Tardis than the USS Enterprise. This is because you would be able to move through time as well as space – hence the need for a really good map.
It also gives an insight into certain philosophical and religious ideas that the universe we live in is an illusion – that’s because it is: Our sense of space and time is a necessary illusion. I say necessary, because our senses have evolved to perceive spacetime as it appears to be, in its dilated state. This also implies that the rate of dilation would be relatively constant.
One thing I also suspect is that, not only does dark matter clump, the amount of it in the universe gradually increases as the universe ages. This would gradually increase the rate of spacetime dilation, leading to the visible universe appearing bigger and older.
Anyway, that’s the idea, in short – I have a few more suppositions that can be added to that, some of which relate to other spheres of science, but I want to work them through. This is a serious idea, and I’d like other serious minds to look at it. If it’s wrong, please tell me and explain why it’s wrong. If it looks right, please test it to destruction.

Here's Sean!

..sleeping soundly just about an hour after birth. Although it's ridiculous to talk about first impressions of a child that's only been out in the open for two and a half days, it's already remarkable how much more settled he appears to be compared to his elder brother at the same stage.

9.40 a.m.

...saw a rising wind, and the beginning of rain - proper autumn rain, carrying a chill in its wings. It also saw the birth of Sean Dogac Paul Gallantry, coming in at seven pounds on the nose, looking remarkably like his brother eight years previously, bawling for all his might for the want of a bit of food - after which, he settled into determined, peaceful sleep. And all my doubts melted like hoarfrost in the sun's steady glare. Photos to follow.

still tired.

...and about to get a damn sight more so. In 36 hours or so, I will be a father once more. Now, I know I should be positive about the whole thing, and in some ways I am - it won't be quite the rude shock that Angus' first appearance was - I find it difficult to work up any enthusiasm. No matter: it is one of those things that one becomes accustomed to. Whether this is good or bad, I don't know. I feel very, very uncertain.
Well, I've wrapped more or less everything up at work, including sorting out a rather complex situation involving exams for the ESOL students, and marking 40+ sets of papers today, on a variety of topics; letters to a friend, descriptions of countries, descriptions of graphs. Some good ones:
'The people og Togo are famous for their love of sport, particularly football, hanball, and athletics. Even though that most Togos are afraid to swim.'
' South Africa has wonderful views of magnificent waterfalls and spectacular mountings.'
'Mortality has been a matter of concern to many countries for some time'
'Since 1960. people have died more dramatically.'
'Many countries have joined the EU in the past twenty years. For this reason, infant mortality is under the control of Brussels.'
These are the kind of things that make my job worthwhile.

Before going to work, I drowned some tomatoes in oil - or rather, stored my dried tomatoes, the last of this year's crop. Here's the recipe, variations of which can be found all over the place:
OVEN DRIED TOMATOES
Cut tomatoes in half - if big, quarter them. place side by side in an overproof dish.add garlic, finely chopped, plus sage, thyme, oregano and basil. drizzle with olive oil and add plenty of salt and pepper. Then, put the dish in an oven set to its lowest possible setting - 50 degrees max. let the tomatoes dry out; for the small plum tomatos I used, this took something like five hours, but it can take up to 24, depending on the size of your tomatoes. They're ready when the jelly has evaporated. Let cool, then pack in a sterile jar with chnks of garlic and fresh herbs, then cover in olive oil and store in the fridge. Taste bloody delicious and last up to two months.

Tired. Hungover.

I can't do this any more. The regular nightly necking of a bottle of wine that is. It takes me longer and longer to recover these days, and increasingly I notice how much of my time boozing has occupied. Last week, I didn't touch a drop for five days: I found myself at a loose end each evening, not wishing to watch crap TV, and so free to get on with all the other stuff I should be doing. However, I didn't. I more or less sat in a state of mental doodling, flitting from one idle activity to the other. It illustrated how much time is taken in pursuit of doing worthless things. Sure, I sorted out my email inbox, but so what? Yep, I did a bit of mass recycling - yeah, whatever. What I didn't do were the things I value - read a book, do my diploma, create new class materials and above all, WRITE.
And now there is the impending birth of sprog no.2; This wednesday, to be precise. How much more of my time will have to be sacrificed, doing all the newborn stuff? As I said in a previous post, I am most certainly not looking forward to all the mind-numbing boring crap that comes with babies and toddlers.

and the prize goes to...

..Orhan Pamuk. Congratulations on getting the Nobel. Actually, I'm curious as to what the reaction will be in Turkey to it, especially considering his recent trial (and its subsequent collapse on the grounds that it was bloody stupid in the first place) for insulting Turkishness, just for having the temerity to mention the deaths of Kurds and Aremenians. I suspect that the reaction will be one of proud bafflement; pride for the fact that a Turk has won a Nobel, baffelemnt as to why anyone would read, and prize, his works. I'm a big Orhan fan - he's an absolutely superb writer, although I think he took his eye off the ball a bit in Snow.

Following the last post, I've received a bit of stick, quite rightly actually, about women who choose to wear hijab or more, rather than having to because of pressure from anxious misogynists. And I apologise for not having thought through what I was writing carefully enough. Fair enough, of course one can choose to wear what one likes, from the tiniest thong through to the most accommodating burqa - but it must be free choice. Two things strike me though: If the Creator made everything, and everything that the Creator makes is essentially good, why is it then necessary to cover it up? Secondly, if there is an injunction to dress 'modestly', surely this applies equally to men? In other words, in a land where the burqa is king, shouldn't men and women both wear it?

Oh Dear. Another week, another labour politician getting into a bit of bother about Islam. And, of course, a few attention-seeking shouty hotheads calling for his resignation. I do understand his point of view though: It is difficult communicating with people when you can't see their faces - try talking in a foreign language on the phone. When it comes to hijab, obviously there has to be a personal choice involved, although my personal opinion is that stuff like the chador and burka is utterly absurd. Also this seeming fear of a woman presenting their face to a man who is not a relative or husband - this strikes me as saying far more about a father's, brother's or husband's fears, weaknesses and sense of low self-esteem than anything; The need to utterly control another's life because you can't control aspects of your own. This is peculiar, as Islam means 'submission' (to the Will of Allah). In other words, trust in the Creator because you can't stay in charge of your own destiny all the time. If you are willing to submit in such a way, why then should anyone feel that they have the right to take absolute control of another's life?

In Death, as in Life...

...Naff rules. Look at this list of the top ten most requested songs for a funeral:
TOP POPULAR FUNERAL SONGS
1. Goodbye My Lover - James Blunt
2. Angels - Robbie Williams
3. I've Had the Time of My Life - Jennifer Warnes and Bill Medley
4. Wind Beneath My Wings - Bette Midler
5. Pie Jesu - Requiem
6. Candle in the Wind - Elton John
7. With or Without You - U2
8. Tears in Heaven - Eric Clapton
9. Every Breath You Take - The Police
10. Unchained Melody - Righteous Brothers
Source: The Bereavement Register
Dear God in Heaven. Who'd want to be sent to the harp farm to the strains of James 'Rat-faced posh tit' Blunt? why would I want the dull thud of earth on my coffin lid be accompanied by some really, really bad 80's pop song? why? If I played these at my own funeral, and by and large it is the deceased's choice, you would have to kill me if I weren't dead already. It just proves the generally utterly execrable taste of most people in this country, and their sentimentality, which is the last bastion of those with no sense of emotion. Instead, they are encouraged to think that love, hate, pain, sorrow, the whole gamut, is expressed through some shoddy three minute songs; Readily-available emotions on your iPod.

Eat, Drink and be miserable.

Mnnurggh. Monday morning. I have had three hours’ sleep, so I am not exactly the shiniest-eyed bunny in the warren this a.m. I woke at 3.30; Nur still hadn’t come to bed, although she did so shortly afterwards, leaving me to turn first one side then the other until light started leaking through the curtains. In fact, I haven’t slept well for the past week or so, mainly because of this bloody student-induced cold I’ve had. That, and I’ve felt generally rather miserable over the weekend. The sense of melancholy was triggered by, of all things, drinking too much fresh coffee. Now you might think I’m joking, but I have become increasingly aware over the past few years of how certain foods and drinks can affect my brain chemistry in spectacular ways. Too much coffee leaves me anxious, aggressive and depressed (although decaf and instant do not have the same effect); certain lagers and bitters can do the same, and just for good measure, fuck up my guts for a fortnight - but ale and spirits I can drink with impunity; Certain foods leave me grouchy and miserable, and so forth and so on.
The point is that there is a very clear link between my moods and what I consume – well, no shit, Sherlock! – but I cannot see what is the exact link between the things that leave me feel shitty. If I could identify exactly what chemicals are involved in causing that, in particular the hideous, temporary bouts of depression (and I really do mean temporary; they can come and go in five hours), then I’d be a happier person.
Fortunately, when these moods appear, I am now much more aware of them for what they are, and know that they will disappear, meaning that I’m far better at handling the situation than I used to be.

Old Times in Bakirkoy

An old colleague from my Istanbul days emailed me today, praising the accuracy of an old post that related a typical day for the gang of teachers in Bakirkoy, circa 95-96. Jimmy was, at first encounter, a tough, hard-drinking Irishman. He used to go round with Kevin, the former DOS at Antik English, the pair of them getting spectacularly drunk. Kevin would sing folk songs of his own making at some point in the evening, before going home to his long-suffering Japanese wife, Keiko. He once set fire to Jimmy, mistaking him for his sofa - this is what led to him being fired.
Jimmy once related to me one of his more bizarre jobs he'd had whilst travelling round Europe; hurling stones at children.
'So you see', he said, sipping a konyak and coke, which was the winter drink of the time in the Cicek, ' There was I and my mate in Italy, no money at all, when this circus appears. A proper fucking circus, all horses and performing elephants and all that. They also had, as it happens, a tiger. A female tiger, she'd just had cubs, so all these wee kids from the town they were in are trying to sneak up and have a look at them. Anyhow, me and my mate pitch up and ask your man if he's any jobs going, and he says, 'yeah, look after the tiger. If any of those little bastards try poking their nose near the cage, heave a bloody stone at them.' And I did.'

Anyway, Jimmy, in honour of days past, here's a few more descriptions of times and events back then, including a vignette of Kevin in full throttle. They're extracts from a book I started writing but then gave up on, thinking that there were quite enough novels and memoirs written by TEFLers already.

THE FISH BAR
The Dilhan was the pub we d frequent in my first year in Istanbul. It was situated over several floors above a fishmongers, hence us always calling it the Fish Bar. It stank like it, too. Actually, it stank of all sorts of things. Fish was probably one of the nicer smells. Inside, the decor was decidedly on the basic side, although the fishy theme extended as far as the odour did.There was netting festooned on the walls and ceilings, along with the odd pufferfish, floating blankly in a sea of booze, nicotine and fried things, as well as one or two stuffed lobsters and fishing buoys. There were also cats. One tabby had made a nest somewhere on the top floor, and seemed to be continually having kittens. In the evenings, the kittens would stare at us from the stairs, like naughty children who can‘t go to sleep until theyve seen what the adults are doing. The bolder cats would actually race across the netting, running across our heads from stair to wall and back. We ‘d occasionally play cat racing, where we‘d bet on which cat could go fastest round the nets. The furniture consisted of long wooden tables with benches and stools. This meant that whenever we were drinking, we all sat on one big, long table, shouting, singing and banging our glasses, which meant we‘d inevitably have up to forty people on the same tab, which inevitably led to huge bills, which inevitably led to huge arguments .
The place was definitely on the unsanitary side. Apart from the smell, there were the cockroaches everywhere. I wouldn t touch anything apart from the booze. On the top floor were the toilets, which didn t work, and whose rank stench would ooze and dribble down to where we were sitting. These toilets were, however, preferable to the one down in the basement, in the kitchen. This one was a hole in the floor type, stowed in a kind of cupboard under the stairs. It was pitch black inside, and the smell was indescribable. It was better to try and piss in the dark: once I lit a match to try and get a better aim, and saw cockraches, shit and fish heads and guts everywhere. One look at the kitchen made me swear never, ever to eat there. Despite the smell, despite the cockroaches and cats, we all quite liked it, because it was dirt cheap, and it stayed open later than most other places. The staff were generally friendly, although the owner, Toad Mehmet, was a fat old bastard. He looked a bit like Jabba the Hutt with a moustache. He d sit in the corner of the first floor, all lardy and constipated looking, a cigarette forlornly dangling from his mouth at all times. He hated foreigners, I think: He looked at us with a bleary eyed contempt, but we paid well. You d be lucky to get a good evening out of him.

THE OLD MANS PUB, EARLY 1996
I got into the Bakirkoy birahanesi, nicknamed the old mans pub, a little later than the others, due to sharing a raki in the cicek. This wonderfully horrible place is closed now, but suffice to say it is what disrespectable spit and sawdust pubs strove to escape from. It stank of stale beer, sweat, millennia of fried things, piss, and rank stale poverty: the ideal place for the average EFL teacher, then. The toilets, whilst not so bad as the fish bar, were pretty rank. There was one for the blokes, a waterless urinal, then another, locked, toilet for the occasional female visitor, which in effect meant the women English teachers. There were ten of us around one large table, made from a beer barrel with a disc of wood shoved on top: Myself, Graham, Carol, Launa, Craig, Mel with her boyfriend Luke(y-wukey), Cath and Tabby, and Matt. The talk was, as usual, quite varied. Grimbo was chatting about football with Matt and taking the mickey out of Carol, I was vaguely talking philosophy and applied bullshit with Craig, While Mel was loudly declaiming on how we weren’t fit to kiss Antonias boots. Of COURSE its hard for us, she said. Were in this country, we don’t know the language, everyones trying to rip us off....
Another round of drinks arrived at the table.
...quick, mark it down as nine, not ten, hell never notice, cant count can he?, but you imagine what its like for Antonia! I mean, she went to OXFORD, didn’t she? It must be just absolutely ghastly for her!
This was greeted by exclaimations of disdain from the blokes, but quick, defensive yeses from a couple of the women.
What the fuck has where you went to University got to do with anything, Mel? Come on!, said Graham.
What I mean is, said Mel, holding on to the edge of the table and rocking back and forth on her bar stool, is that shes used to a more privileged life than us. Shes been to balls and everything! We don’t have a clue what her lifestyles like- I certainly dont.
As she said this, she was leaning further and further back on her stool, while still clutching the table top. Lukey-Wukey picked up his pint, upsetting the delicate poise of the top, which we suddenly realised wasn’t fixed to the barrel. Mel went further back then and began crashing to the ground.
Im goiing! She squealed, and fell over backwards, bringing the table top with her. All the drinks on the table queued up to fall off and bounce off her skull , covering her with beer, vodka and raki. Everyone in the bar turned round to see this sight. Ayhan, the barman, rushed over with a bucket of sawdust, and began to scatter it all over her, so that she became covered entirely in wood shavings. The only drink to survive unscathed was Lukes, whod been laughing his head off. You alwight love? Cmon Ill help you up....
He extended his hand whilst still sitting on his stool. Mel took it.
Here you gooo.. He pulled her up, then himself fell backwards, pouring his pint directly over himself and pulling Mel diretly on top of him. More silence in the bar, more sawdust.

THE SCHOOL PARTY AND ITS AFTERMATH
…by this stage, we were all pretty horiibly drunk. Andy was having a difficult time staying upright: Mad Mark and Dappy Mel had disappeared, Mark yelling something about scoring some cannabis up in Beyoglu: John was staggering around the tables, bellowing ‘Right, who’s got it? Who’s got my fucking TAPE? I am SERIOUSLY unamused….c’mon you cunts…I mean it!’
The Turkish members of staff, those who’d remained, looked on bemused and disgusted. Finally, there were only a few drops of wine left. What now? The pub, of course. Ann, the two Grahams, Simon, Phillipa and my good self all lurched into the Cicek and clomped upstairs. Fehmi immediately cleared a table for us.
‘Beer, Fehmi…..and food, lots of food’.
‘Yesyesyesstraightawayanythingelseohandhowareyou?’
‘I’m fine’
He scurried away.
‘What the fuck did he just say?’
‘Nothing much’.
He came back, carrying a tray of beer and a tray of mezes and nuts. At first, we could hardly drink. Evening was drawing on and slowly thunderheads began to crowd the sky. The air closed in too, and soon became oppressively humid. We chatted feebly of this and that, or watched the football on the tv perched dangerously in the corner.
Even the cockroaches didn’t want to move. Strangely the beer seemed to bring sobriety.
It was at this point that Martin weaved his way to the table.
‘Well, hello lovecats, what’s going down tonight?’
Talk moved on to what everyone was doing that evening. A couple of people had to get the seabus back to Kadikoy, two others decided to dolmus it to Taksim, and someone else was almost unconscious. Martin looked at me.
‘What about..?’
‘Oh no, oh no no no..’
‘Oh go on, we can get tooled up on gin and eat loads of food’.
‘Martin, I’m too pissed for the casino’.
‘C’mon, we’ll go there for just an hour or so’.
‘We’’l need to go home and get togged up first’.
‘No problem. Then a taxi, then booze and food’.
‘just for an hour, yeah?’
‘Only an hour.’
Picture us, then lurking by the casino bar at 2.30 in the morning. I had very nearly been picked up by some overdressed middle-aged woman who looked like her hairsyle had picked a fight with a hedge and lost, while Martin had been casually propositioned by some fat businessman over the electronic geegees. We were deep in our G & Ts and eating out third breakfast.
‘right’. Said Martin, ‘I think it’s time to go.’
‘Yeah…….right……….good idea’
‘…After we play a teensy bit more. I think I’ve cracked the roulette…c’mon’.
3.30. I was still at the roulette table, having lost loads. Martin weaved his way across the floor, his tie somewhere around his waist, spilled G + T, whisky, red wine and vodka over his clothes, and lunged at me.
‘the bastards, the thieving, perfidious bastards!’
‘Calm down, what’s the matter?’
‘Some CUNT has stolen my POT OF CHIPS!’
‘Sure you didn’t leave it somewhere?’
‘Course I fucking left it somewhere! On a fucking table! Next to a fucking machine! I go for a leak, I come back, there’s a pot-shaped fucking HOLE where the fucker should be! They’re a bunch of thieving bastards in here, they all are!’
He stared around balefully, with the mad, paranoid and above all red eyes of the terminally drunk.
‘ Course they are mate, it’s a fucking casino, you daft tool!’
‘I’m not staying in the same ROOM as these, these..fucking fucks…..it’s all a SACK OF WANK!’
He stomped off towards the exit, muttering oaths and curses, and swearing never to come back again.
5 minutes later, he returned, wearing a sheepish grin and holding his pot of tokens.
‘They found it for me! I was going out and I told them, and they produced it out of nowhere. Aren’t they great!’
By now it was nearing 4 in the morning.
‘Martin, we should get going. We’re teaching in the morning’.
‘Yeah, in a minute’.
‘OK’.
The minute passed, as did lots of others.
‘Paul’
‘Uh?’
‘Shit, man, it’s 6.45!’
‘Uh?’
‘Shit!’
The kind of sobriety that hits you only when you’re really, really pissed and have been up all night hit me. Repeatedly.
‘We’re teaching at 9.30..’
‘I think, perhaps, we should…’
‘..go?’ I hazarded.
‘Yes’.
We oozed down the stairs and into the lobby, where bright shining lights and a crisp dawn mocked our wretched state. We retrieved coats and passports and were poured into a taxi by unnecessarily gleaming, shiny, smiling casino personnel. We got home by 7.
‘Right, quick hour’s sleep and then class’.
‘Yeah’.
....
‘Paul’.
‘urg?’
‘Paul, its 9.10 man! C’mon!’
‘bluuhh’
Another taxi boarded, another day beginning.
How on Earth did we survive that day?
Sunglasses, aspirin, the odd shot of whisky and some mouthwash helped.

KEVIN AND THE GYPSIES
........I Saw Kevin, The DOS from Antik English, staggering up the road towards the Yesil. Hed been on the wagon for several weeks, on strict orders of his wife, Keiko: He had now most emphatically fallen off it again. His jacket was mired and dusty, and torn at the elbow. His hair, wild at the best of times, was utterly tangled and bespattered with whatever hed been drinking. He was also in the terminal state that required him to sing at somebody. His target was the gypsy flower sellers outside the cafe. Great banks of flowers in every colour were being bundled, tied and sold by the gypsies. In front of them, Kevin did a vague kind of dance, and then started on some kind of folk song rendition.
OHHHHHH LOL de ROL
YOUR flowers ARE
COOOOOK GUUUUZEEEL
ON A fine SunnY DAAAY
COOOOK GUUUUZEL
CICEKLERRRRR
YOUR FLOOOOOOOOOwers are
VERRRY beautIful...
This went on for five minutes, to the general amusement of passers by. He danced and jigged, staggered, tripped over and rolled in the dust, singing and pointing at the flowers in a drunken spastic ecstasy. Afterwards, he weaved off in another direction.
I saw him again about half an hour later, while I was tucking in to a pide and ayran in the Karadeniz pidecisi. He was walking in a trance state down the road, eyes gazing at the rooftops, while behind him was a small wake of cars, beeping horns and trying to get past. He remained unaware of them, until the car directly behind him actually nudged into the back of his legs. Heturned round, smiled beatifically, then climbed on the bonnet, and began licking the windscreen. The driver sat and cursed, then got out of the car and chased Kevin down a side street.
The next day, I heard about his further exploits: Hed found a bar that would let him in, and he continued to get increasingly pissed up on raki.There was a match that night to decide the championship. Fenerbahce won, and The meydan was crowded with supporters. Kevin apparently staggered into the middle of this, and started shouting Fenerbahce are fucking shit! Boring, boring Fener! Chelsea, Chelsea.... He was lucky, apparently, to escape with only bruises.
Such was the Director of Studies for Antik English.

Ill.

The students have returned, dragging knuckles and viruses in their wake, plus the peculiar odour of stale biscuits, BO, and neglected body that only teenage British bodies have. Of course, everyone's started to go off work ill. I have contracted the first cold of the year - actually, I'm glad in a perverse way, as it means I'll be unlikely to contract another for at least a few months.

Watch Out! Watch Out! There's a (mad bombing Jihadi extremist bloke) bogeyman about!

...or not, as the case may be.
For the love of God, or however you wish to name your creator, what the Hell is John Reid on? His speech and the subsequent heckling are the last thing needed right now. How idiotic:
"These fanatics are looking to groom and brainwash children, including your children, for suicide bombings, grooming them to kill themselves in order to murder others."
Sorry, but this is just another, new variant on the Scary Bogeyman line. You could take this bit from his speech, amend it slightly, and apply it to paedophiles, catholic priests, members of any given cult or opposition political party, or indeed anyone who just happens to look a bit weird, and to pretty much any given epoch in history. After all, the Romans said pretty much the same of the early Christians.
So, how do you look out for a neophyte Islamist fanatic? Apparently, the signs include dropping out of studies, changes in appearance, and hanging out with new friends. Well, that's more or less every single teenager in the UK packed off th Guantanamo Bay, then. I dare say that'd please the average Daily Mail reader.
It is, to put it mildly, deeply irksome to see political leaders who are supposed to know better spout idiotic garbage about subjects on which they are poorly informed. The same, by the way, goes for certain leaders of organised religion. Holy Joe's apparently bumbling lecture, quoting from a medieval Byzantine emporer, helped to push back Christian-Muslim relations by at least a decade, and looks incresingly like a deliberate ploy by a man more than well-crafted in the arts of Vatican sophistry.
As I have mentioned before in this blog, I would far rather see a priestless God than all these Godless priests; That would save us all the collossal fuckups we endure from people who assume their view of the world is infallible, and all other comments are anathema. Have you ever met a faultless person?
Thought not.

Lest We Forget...

All hands to the pumps!

It's a very busy week - enrolments and queries rolling in, queues of sullen-looking teenagers loitering in the corridors, the sudden smell of old biscuits that appears at this time of the year, people flapping around with bits of paper to no apparent purpose, a small mountain of work appearing on my desk, to stay there ignored till I can safely file it away in the recycling bin at the end of the year - and so, not much time to blog with impunity. I must also say that there is a hiatus in my thinking process at present. I have stuff to say, I just can't seem to squeeze it out.

Genius?

Took part in the BBC's Test The Nation quiz on saturday - got only 6 wrong, putting my I.Q. at over 146. Apparently. So if I'm so clever, how come I earn bugger all?

Fatherhood once again. Bluh.

As you may have seen from previous photos, my wife, Nur, is pregnant, not overfed on pies. Proof of this is the pic on the left, done by 3D tomography, of the incipient homunculus. Modern technology - marvellous, innit guv'nor?

This young person, of whom I shall reveal more around the event, is due in November, but because of size restrictions (the baby is BIG, while Nur is tiny) will probably be delivered by C-section on or around October 25th. A welcome sibling for Angus, who is excited by the prospect: A complete family for Nur, the standard model.

You may have noticed by my tone that I do not seem entirely ecstatic at the prospect of fatherhood second time round; This is because I'm not. I dread and/or resent the following:

• sleeplessness and not getting a decent night's sleep for the next 3 years;
• crying, puking, childhood illnesses and nappies;
• five more years of penury - new children are bloody expensive;
• the prospect of trying to find somewhere bigger to live, and not being able to afford it;
• the mind-numbing boredom of playing with young children;
• the terrible Twos phase, followed by the Tiresome threes, Fearful Fours, Feckin' Fives etc etc.
• Having to watch, over and over, until my brain crawls out of my ears and finds somewhere to hide, the same episodes of Teletubbies, Thomas the Tank Engine, Toy Story, Tweenies, Fimbles, and especially, Roly Poly FUCKING Olie (see previous entries)
• Not getting a moment's peace, EVER.

However, a life is a life, and a child is a child, and still precious, and despite all the pety miseries and tribulations that lay ahead, I will still love and cherish the little wotsit.

I'll just have to get a job that means I spend very little time at home.

Who was Ismail Kara?

Ismail: the Mr. Fixit of Dilko. The Guy who was sent to the airport to pick up new teachers, fresh off the plane, they not speaking a word of Turkish, he only knowing a smattering of words - 'Welcome! Hello! Come!' - delivered in a voice that was deep and cigarette-stained. His face was a dark ruddy colour, forged from years of sunlight, fags and way too much raki. When he wasn't pootling round the school, generally avoiding work, or delivering things to the teachers' accommodation, he could be find in the spit-and-sawdust reeking pit of a birahane next door. When you wanted something done, or sorted out, or a bill paid, it was Ismail who would sort it out, one way or another, usually by finding someone else to do the legwork. A cigarette usually dangled from his mouth, which was largely set in a lazy, benign smile. A kind man, by and large, with a good word for everyone. Behind that, though, there had been tragedy in his life; problems with relatives, a daughter killed in a car crash, another one said to have been born with severe disabilities. Yet he ploughed on in a lowly, not very well-paid job, sweating his life by, largely trusted, even though he could be lazy and dishonest to his boss. Someone well-liked, loved even.
I found out when I went to Bakirkoy that he died of a massive heart attack while at work last year. Ruhuna Fatiha.

Bored.

The weather is grey, and threatening rain; I need to wake up early to ferry Nur to work, and wait until the evening, when she is ferried home again; Angus is in constant need of entertainment; Daytime TV has not made any significant strides towards being a more entertaining of edifying spectacle since Easter; And I am twitching around, seeking to keep myself occupied. Yes, it's the joy of the summer holidays, when I seem to spend all my time being chauffeur, entertainer, home repairs specialist, cook and bottlewasher. Oh joy!

Politeness on the bus.

...or in other words, 'get your lazy feckless arse off this seat and let the coffin-dodger rest their bones'.
It's good to see examples of old-fashioned orders disguised under layers of implication and suggestion still around. This from the 197 bus on Saturday night.

I went to Lee and Kate's new gaff. The original plan was to have a Not the Reading Festival Festival, but in the end there were ten of us, hiding from the rain in the conservatory, eating barbie food and listening to loud music, and, of course, getting totally rat-arsed.

yet more pics

How did it feel to be back, after four years?
Well, it was strange, to be honest; in many ways, I felt right at home again, as though I had never left Bakirkoy and Istanbul. It was as if I had tapped into another version of me, one who had stayed behind. I could see myself, walking the same streets, teaching the same lessons, involved in the same humdrum routines. This character, Turkish Paul, descended on me the moment I arrived in the airport. I found my Turkish suddenly sharpened, the way I behaved slightly changed, even the way I walked altered ever so subtly, and this persona departed only on the last day, as I packed him into my suitcase with all my other stuff. On the other hand, I remained observant of things I only half-remembered; the manner in which tired souls walk down hot night streets, with a rocking, rolling gait; the general rudeness of the street - think the way people are on the streets of London, but without the sense of encroaching on personal space; The breathtaking beauty of young Turkish women, their sense of poise or their languid sensuality; And the way that that the eye, amidst all the ugly, soul-grinding tower blocks and new buildings, yearns and strives towards a patch of beauty.
I also noticed the new. Whatever the shortcomings that Istanbul has, it is undeniable that it is making steps forward. The roads were perceptibly better, and there has been a clear attempt to make the general environment much more livable. There is still a long way to go, but it is moving in the right direction.

Walking down the main drag in Bakirkoy, Angus turned to me and asked, 'Dad, if twit isn't a swear word, then why is twat?'

holiday pics...

...boring to many I know, but irresistable to share. A greengrocer's; Nurel and Nuran; Nurel and Hasan; Angus in the Yesil Cafe, Bakirkoy; View from the roof of Gul and Hakan's villa.

tanned and peeling.

....and letting my liver recover from a frenzy of raki consumption. I have had a fantastic ten days of doing pretty much bugger all, lazing in a friend's 3-story villa overlooking a sparkling Marmara Sea. Just what I needed. I'll post more later, photos included.

Here it is - the first tomato of the crop, and just in time for Lammas, too.
Well, I'm off to Turkey tomorrow, and I suspect blogging possibilities will be limited, as we'll be traipsing round relatives and drinking far too much cay. However, if I manage to get to a cybercafe at some stage I'll post.

sticky.

It's too bloody hot. There are workmen upstairs, drilling through thick concrete in order to install a radiator system. Somebody outside is burning something. A teacher has just come in, complaining that a student's aunt called her on her mobile at 7 this morning, wanting to discuss her niece's academic progress. The cross-college computer network is playing silly buggers. I am waiting for key information regarding fees and courses to come in, without which I can't complete the work I need to do before going on holiday. I feel like crap. Everything is currently stalled.
I am strongly tempted to just pack up and go home.

Habits...

...and what would we do without them? It's a serious idea: How would life be different if we didn't do such-and-such a thing? I was flopped out in front of the TV, glass of wine to hand, a few snacks in front of me, watching some godawful shite, and I that is what came to mind. How much more could I achieve, how much more money would I actually save, if I didn't spend most evenings quaffing and watching bollocks?
Unfortunately, habits are precisely there because they're, well, habit-forming. I don't actually need to drink wine, but I do so because I enjoy it; I don't need to watch tv, but it's because I'm already slightly pissed from the wine and it's difficult to work up the enthusiasm and energy to do anything else. I don't need a cigarette, but it goes nicely with the drink. Bad habits, in short, tend to foster other bad habits. I particularly noticed it this week because I haven't done much exercise; it's been far to hot for starters, and my bloody bike is on its last legs, the rear wheel having more or less become rusted to buggery.
What I want to do is this: where possible, replace my bad, time-consuming habits with new, better ones. The one trouble is, identifying exactly what it is I shall do to fill the time.

pics from 3 peaks.

A rainbow; A view from Ben Nevis; On the top; coming out of Fort William; On top of Scafell - the smile is really a rictus of pain.

Boycott?

From, the CIA world factbook, a list of Israel's main exports:

Exports - commodities:
machinery and equipment, software, cut diamonds, agricultural products, chemicals, textiles and apparel.
So, if you want to boycott Israeli goods, check your fruit and veg and flowers at your supermarket; look at the labels in your clothing; find out where your company gets its software from.
However, direct imports to the UK are minimal, so the effect would not be hugely significant, and even if it were so, its direct impact would certainly be upon the poorest people in the country, rather than the warmongers.
As for direct boycotts of companies that support Hezbollah, I haven't the foggiest.

Loose cannons.

Yep, Israel and Lebanon/Hezbollah once again. Can anyone explain to me exactly the rationale behind Israel's military strategy? They claim they are fighting Hezbollah, but how does destroying a country's infrastructure and forcing hundreds of thousands to flee actually eradicate a terrorist group? If Hezbollah were a large, formal army, deploying large numbers of troops around, then the bombing of roads, bridges and other transport links makes a perverse sense, but as it is, it consists of small, highly mobile units that are not going to be particularly fazed by the wholesale razing of towns. On the contrary, I suspect they welcome it: More willing recruits against an oppressive neighbour.
The Israeli foreign minister has noised about invading and occupying Lebanon. Under what right, apart from the fact that Israel is being allowed to act with impunity? And that is the most sickening, that the US, accompanied by a meek and emasculated UK, is permitting this atrocity in the spurious name of The War On Terror. Even more sickening and cynical is that we are permitting this to happen until the number of civilian casualties becomes unacceptable, after which, presumably, we will swagger in under the auspices of a UN resolution.

Loose end.

I'm in an increasingly lazy mood at present, something that isn't good for me. With the hend of classes, and most of the paperwork done in preparation for september, I'm fairly much left to my own devices. And as each day drags on in the heat, it becomes easier and easier to do little, then slope off early. There are still things to do, like course proposals, research, ordering materials, creating new stuff and templates, but when the sun is shining as it is, and there's a cold pint waiting in a pub somewhere....
The trouble is, it's no good for me. I slink into bad habits and end up feeling shitty and lethargic. I need targets to aim at continually, something that was brought into sharp focus by the 3 peaks. I'm at my most creative, intelligent and skilled precisely when I am busy aiming towards something. When I was younger, I would lope off down the pub almost every night, as I put it to myself and others, in order to think. Of course, I was just fooling myself; beating down the ennui and playing at being creative, and achieving bugger all.

EFL/Linguistics geek moment

...crikey, a serious post regarding my actual line of work. It's just an idea that came to mind while considering how children acquire language:
Do siblings tend to make far more spelling mistakes and errors of form and pronunciation than first borns? How much are learning styles and their implications for language acquisition influenced by one's birth, i.e. does a first-born have a different learning style from later siblings?
will a sibling tend to be more vocal and fluent than a first born? will a first born tend to be more analytical, and therefore find the grammar of any given language easier to comprehend?
I can't remember where I read it, but apparently first-borns will generally acquire language from adults, giving them a greater range of vocabulary and a more analytical form of language, whereas later children will acquire it from their peers, making them more chatty and able to get on better with people.
Hmm. Comparing myself and my younger sister, there may be something in the idea. I ceratinly have a more analytical approach to language, and she will happily admit to being a mediocre speller. Also, she is much more voluble than me.
Discuss, dissect, drown me with opinions and vituperation if necessary.

killing a country?

What's the word for the deliberate killing of a country? Patriacide? It's happened before of course, or has been attempted, and now the whole sorry cycle is going on again with Lebanon. Hundreds of thousands of people are reported to have fled; the infrastructure of the whole place is being pummelled to dust; warships are evacuating their own nationals; and Israel has promised to grind Lebanon '20 years back'. So, is that back to the shameful massacres at Sabra and Shatila refugee camps then, led by that blood-boltered bastard Ariel Sharon? Is that what you want, Mr. Olmert? To wallow in another people's blood to attract votes like flies?
If Israel is attempting patriacide however, let us not forget that what Hizbullah are doing is the equivalent of self-immolation, or the eating away of a land from within. Each time they fire a Katushya into Israel, they are equally responsible for the deaths of innocents, both Israeli and Lebanese. The moral vacuity that lies at the heart of their actions is reflected and amplified by the cynical and over-the-top reaction of their opponents.

meanwhile, at the BBC's cloning department...

Hmm, we need another BBC Breakfast News Anchorwoman....let's see...first, we'll have a dash of Sian....
...now, Fiona's eyebrows....
....and a soupcon of Natasha's smug grin...
...et voila! Kate Silverton!

An evening full of the joy of raki

Or rather, the first anniversary bash for the Reading Turkish Society, held in the rather wonderful Island Bar on Piper's Island, Caversham. Raki was available (at �3 a shot - ouch!), and the food, created by Burc Tuncel, was mostly classic Turkish dishes, served buffet-style: Stuffed peppers and tomatoes, Icli Kofte, sea bass, Midye Dolmasi, Cilbir, various Aubergine dishes, white cheese and baklava, to name a few. Music was courtesy of a saz player and an organist, and there was a belly dancer, who managed to get most people dancing. Overall, it was a successful evening, inasmuch as the majority had a very good time. Behind the scenes though, there was another story going on. Jealousy, the deliberate spread of misinformation, allegedly missing tickets and money, people not doing the jobs they'd promised to do, mutterings about why were English people allowed to come to a Turkish event, and a late-night visit from some council officials, investigating why the restaurant was operating outside its licensed hours, why the restaurant was open at all, and a flagrant breach of the rules regarding playing live music.
Overall, though, it was a bloody good evening. I think my wife, who ended up doing the most organising, was glad to see the end of it.

Bullies.

You know the type of kid; There he is, in the playground, a bit scrawny and stunted, tie askew: he's probably ginger. His face is scowling or vacant mostly, except when he finds someone younger or smaller than him, and his face lights up with the joy of bullying them mercilessly. He'll punch them in the face for no reason, except to see the look on their faces; He'll trip people up as they come down stairs; he'll stab them in the arm with a pair of compasses, or steal their lunch; most of all, he delights in attacking people when their backs are turned.
Now you would think, considering his size, that he'd be a prime target for bigger, harder bullies. But no - take a step towards him, and suddenly, his brother, the biggest, meanest, brick-shithouse-built bully in the entire school appears from nowhere and leaves you as a bloody spot of ground. So little scrawny goes on, bullying and stealing with impunity, because he can. What someone has forgotten to tell him, though, is that one day, his big brother won't be there at his side any more....
....and that is precisely how I see Israel. A jumped-up, paranoid, ridiculously macho little country punching far above its weight thanks to big bro America. Its over-the-top offensive is vile; its claims that it is targeting only terrorists preposterous; its ongoing persecution of its enemies, dangerous and destabilising. How can it seriously say that it wants peace, when all it does is exacerbate the situation? If people are starving; if people cannot travel to work; if people cannot access their fields; if people have to wait hours for water, while over a fence, their neighbours wallow in swimming pools; if they are fenced in; if all these things, how can you dare to expect them to accept your version of peace?
This is not to excuse Hamas or Hezbollah, or Ahmedinijad in Iran. They are equally bullies - they just don't have the firepower that Israel does.

three peaks - a few thoughts

So, would I do it again? I honestly don't know. Maybe. I'm glad I've done it - it's been something I've thought about for a while - but I think I'd prefer to do each peak at a more leisurely pace, or better still, find peaks that are a bit more interesting. Ben Nevis is a bit of a motorway, and while the views are spectacular as you climb, it's a pretty boring journey. Scafell was wet, wild and miserable - I can't comment on views, as there was bugger all to see but weather, but I found it unenjoyable. Snowdon - well, I've gone up that several times now. I like the Pyg and Watkin paths, and I'd like to do the Crib Goch route too, but the Llanberis path is just a tedious slog.
A few thoughts from this experience:
There is no such thing as waterproof.
You can never have too much chocolate.
Climbing in the dark when you don't know a mountain is bloody stupid.
Pain is temporary.
You can get through exhaustion - the most important attribute is a mental attitude to the task in hand.
Hiking poles are a bloody good bit of kit.

So, talking hypothetically, if I were to do it again, what would I do differently/the same?
Have good, non-climbing drivers. They were absolutely vital, not just for driving, but also for making up food and drink for people.
Have comfortable cars/people carriers: we were four or five to a van, but it meant that we could let our gear breathe in the back, and the climbers stretch out a bit.
Bring spare maps.
Bring extra clothing - in particular, waterproofs and fleeces, and something to change into inbetween mountains. By the end, everything I had was soaked, and added to my discomfort.
Have a camelback fitted into my pack.
Have a decent sized daysack - my daysack was a bit too small and my main rucksack a little too large for comfort.
Have a waterproof container for my mobile - a bit of a no-brainer, really, but I had my phone in a waterproof pocket and it still managed to get wet. It's still sulking at me.
Make sure that everyone's mobile is fully charged.
Have walkie talkies with fully-charged batteries - we had them, but the batteries fizzed out on Scafell, when we most needed them. Essential for big groups.
Weather and Timing: I saw the last weather report for the three peaks on thursday night. Next time I would like to get as much as possible right up to the last minute, as this would affect timings. Although our main wasn't bed in itself or when we should climb, it was at the mercy of the elements, and that's what buggered us in the end.
TRY NOT TO CLIMB IN THE DARK, especially when you don't know the mountain. Now I know where the path is from wasdale Head to Scafell, I wouldn't mind it so much. Instead, if I were to do it again at the height of summer, I would consider doing Ben Nevis at 5.00 p.m. to 10.00 p.m., maximising the available light, followed by Scafell at 4.45 (daybreak) until 7.45, followed by Snowdon from 1.15 till 5.00. This would all be dependent on weather conditions, although the afternoon climb on Snowdon is ideal for that mountain.
Go up and back down the Pyg Track: going into Llanberis is just far too long.
Wait for all my team to assemble before going up anywhere in the dark: it was too bloody dangerous and a bit too stupid for my liking when we went up Scafell.
Train a bit harder: I felt very tired at the end, as did everyone who did it, and I felt that just a little bit more training would have been beneficial. Our training weekends in Brecon and Snowdonia were extremely worthwhile.

the three peaks - part three

I couldn�t be sure how long it would take for the others to arrive, and I was anxious to keep going: we were only just ahead of schedule. I could make out Rob�s headlight in the rain and dark, so I headed for it. Catching up with them, we came across another group coming down.
�Did you get to the top?� I asked.
�Nah,� said the leader, �We got as far as the crossroads and lost our way. It�s pretty rough up there.�
We crossed a bridge over a beck in full spate; the air in the valley was full of water and the roaring of the stream, making it difficult to hear each other. We followed a steep path upwards, going at far too fast a pace. I asked the other two to slow down a bit:
�We�re going too quickly on a mountain none of us knows. Let�s take it a bit slower and make sure we don�t lose our way.�
And we did, for a while, but Brian kept on moving faster and faster. We came across another group of people, amongst whom we found Julie and Gordon.
�Where�s Richard?�
�He went on ahead�, said Julie. �I�m really pissed off with him � he just raced off and said there were some more people behind me. I hate the dark.�
The other group were standing in the rain, trying to consult maps and arguing. In the dark, with the roar of the water and the howling of the wind, it became obvious that none of us knew where the crossing point for the beck was. We had lost the path. Brian, Rob, Julie, Gordon and I moved further up the stream, had a vague guess at where the crossing was, and went over. I got two bootfuls of water. On the other side, no sign of a path, just a hill full of water. We trudged and slipped our way up, Rob and Brian moving on ahead, leaving me and the two others to our own devices. By now, I was feeling distinctly pissed off, wet and miserable. I was cursing each stone I stumbled on, each jar of my bones, my empty stomach and, most of all, the foul weather, which was gradually getting colder. The night very slowly began to lighten; now I could pick out the ridge above our heads, and a dark guess of a place where the peak might be. I continued to struggle up, helping Julie here and there. Eventually Richard reappeared. He pointed up towards the ridge and said that he�d put his sack with a nightstick on it and told us to make our way and wait. Brian and Rob charged on, I followed, and Richard went to the rear to help Julie. For the moment, I was stuck on my own, out of earshot of either group: me, the wind and rain. I felt very low then, and a bit of me wanted to go home. But, cursing under my breath, I stomped up the side, bashing my toes against rock after bloody rock, and made the ridge. It was getting much lighter now, but it made the view worse: rocks, wind and rain, and bugger all else.
After we�d all gathered together and had something to drink, we stumbled over a boulder field towards Scafell, finally hitting a path lined by small cairns. Rob, Brian and I were now ahead of the others, and we pushed on grimly, the wind increasing all the while, the rain unrelenting. Finally, just after five, we were on the top. Joylessly, I touched the trig point, and looked around at the peak. It was utterly bleak, a field of rocks; And now I was beginning to get cold to add to being wet. Richard and Julie appeared with Gordon. Julie was in a pretty bad way, shivering and unable to eat. Richardr made her put on gloves, and as he was doing so, the third part of our team appeared with Rick. When we told him we�d lost our way, he said,
�How�d you manage that? It�s plain all the way.�
And then we began to descend, which couldn�t have come any sooner for me. I was wet, cold and thoroughly miserable, and those few minutes on the peak had left me seriously worried for the safety of some of us. The wind was now reaching gale levels � indeed, if it hadn�t been for my hiking poles, I�d have been knocked over a few times, it was so strong. Also, I kept getting slapped in the face by a pack strap that had come loose, which didn�t enhance my mood.
The daylight came full, and once we were below the cloud layer the path was obvious. We had probably missed it by only a few metres. We trudged down, step after knee-jarring step, and finally arrived back at the vans by half past seven. We had something to eat, and I stripped off as much of my wet gear as I could, leaving me to shiver in the cold day. The weather had almost beaten us, and, looking at the time, I realised that we almost certainly wouldn�t be able to get to Snowdon and up and down it in the 24 hour limit. I also felt that if the weather on Snowdon was as bad as here, I wouldn�t want to do it.
We set off on the final leg, bouncing through tiny Cumbrian roads under patchy skies, until we finally hit the motorway and dashed south. We kept an eye on the time: would we have enough to realistically make it to the top, let alone get back down once more? We made good time going through Lancashire and Cheshire, then turning onto the North Wales coast road. And then, just as we reached Conwy and turned towards Betws-Y-Coed, it began to rain again, and gradually increased as we headed towards Snowdonia. My heart fell at the sight: great sheets of wind-shunted water and mountain streams in full flood. I�d packed my boots with scraps of newspaper to try and dry them out, and now, feeling them, I found they were still thoroughly soaked. Did I really want to do this?
We pulled into the packed car park at Pen-Y-Pass. Decision time. I took a look at the louring clouds, then thought, what the fuck, and started to get my gear ready. It was now 12.40; that meant that we could get to the top, but not down again, inside 24 hours. It was now a pride thing. Brian, Rob and I started to get our kit on, then Brian dashed off by himself while I was still struggling into my boots. Just as Rob and I were ready to go, one of the other vans appeared, and Rick and Gordon got out. Apparently, everyone else on board was too sore to continue. We didn�t know about the last van or whether anyone had decided to climb or not. We trotted off, taking the Pyg track. On clear days, this is a pleasant, relatively easy route to the summit; On this day, under the wind and rain, it felt hard. I was already exhausted, wet and hungry, and had very little energy left, but I was damned, now I�d set out, if I wasn�t going to finish. I just buckled down to the job, and focused on planting one foot after another, all the way to the top. The rain came and went; the wind rose and fell; we plodded on to the top. Finally, we got onto the top ridge, to be met by a freezing blast of wind and stinging rain; it was so bad that, as we found out a little later, the caf� was shut and the train not running. Still we, struggled on, and finally the marker cairn with the trig point came into view. We�d just about made it with minutes to spare. OK, so we didn�t get to the bottom in 24 hours, but we did the more important vertical upwards bits.
We trudged slowly back to Llanberis, following the railway back over five weary miles, with the joy of walking down steep tarmac road on burning knees and thighs at the end to make sure we were really finished off .

the three peaks - part two

We crossed the bridge over the stream, and started to ascend. Within a couple of minutes, I was already feeling it: I was breathing hard, I had a stitch, and was hot. I pounded away, in fornt of the others, until after 5 minutes, someone behind me said,
�Slow down a bit!�
I looked behind me, and was surprised to see how far ahead I was of the group. I sat down and waited. In seven minutes, I�d already ascended 200 metres.
�What are you trying to do? Win a marathon?� asked Richard. �Slow down and take it easy: your pace should mean that you can have a conversation without being out of breath.�
So I slowed down, and found the climb fairly easy. The weather was occasionally showery and windy, but by and large the conditions were quite good. There were other walkers on the mountain, some just for the day, others teams doing the three peaks like ourselves. One group stood out: a bunch of Yorkshire Asian lads, who I saw on all three peaks, either following us, or ahead of us, or coming down as we were ascending. Why did they stand out? Well, for a start they were the only Asians I saw the whole weekend, which got me thinking about why that should be � is the countryside so unwelcoming to coloured people, and if so, why? The second thing was that they had shaved heads and thick beards, indicating they were probably quite conservative muslims. The uncomfortable image of the July seventh bombers came to mind, training for their murder mission in Afghanistan. Now, I know that�s a horrid and unfair thought, but it still leapt into my mind � those four 7/7 wankers had tainted the imagination, so that any young, bearded, Muslim Asian was somehow likely to be a bomber. These guys were doing the same as us, probably for similar reasons. It is so easy to make assumptions based upon what we see, and then assume those assumptions are true. It�s how prejudice and ignorance thrive.
We made our way up, past the stream and on to a broad, flat path, which briefly made the walk more like a stroll in a park rather than on the side of a mountain. Gradually, our team split into two groups, with the smaller, slower group consisting of Julie, Chris and Richard (shepherding them), and Glenn. After an hour and a half, we reached the beginning of the scree and boulder line, and had a fantastic view over the valley and towards the Great Glen. A further hour and a half, and we reached the summit: cold, windy and rocky. Rob had been up a couple of weeks previously, and it had been covered in snow; now, there was only the odd pocket. The path wound between marker cairns, coming close to one of the gulleys that drop a thousand feet and claim the unwary in winter. I looked down one: there was a little snow, then a chasm with cloud wisping upwards. We headed for the ruined observatory and the trig point, touched it and took photos, then had a brief rest. I got out a small hipflask of whisky, filled a cup, and, standing on the trig point, drank a toast to my Grandpa, who was born in Fort William.
�Angus Alistair MacGregor Grey Wylie! Slainte Mhath!�
After the toil of getting up, that whisky tasted bloody good.
We shook down our gear, and made our way back off the mountain. By the halfway point, Rob and I were ahead of the others by several minutes, and my legs, in particular my knees, were aching. I began to wonder how on earth I would be able to cope with Scafell and Snowdon. The hard, stony path juddered my legs, and more than once I was glad I had my pair of Leki walking poles.
Rob and I crossed the bridge back to the waiting vans at twenty to eight � four hours and fifty minutes after setting out, not a bad time. The others weren�t long after us. We had something to eat and drink, resorted our equipment and filled bottles and camelbacks, than set off again. I was with Rob, Victoria and Brian, and we roared off ahead of the others. We took the route through Glencoe, and as we passed under the high, green, melancholy and menacing slopes, it began to rain. The further south we passed, the more the rain intensified and the wind increased. We came up to Glasgow by around ten, but we missed our turning onto the bridge that led to the motorway, and so we had to go through the city centre to join the motorway there. It was strangely deserted: only a few cars passed here and there, and I saw only a handful of people on the bleak, wet streets.
Once back on the motorway, the rain, which had lessened for a while, increased once more and the wind really picked up until it was a howling gale, hurling sheet after sheet of water at our vehicle and rocking it from side to side. Any idea I might have had of trying to sleep went out of the window. In fact, I was too hyped up to doze, and knew that it would affect me later on. We stopped briefly at the Gretna Services, a strange and deserted place at 1 in the morning. Crossing back into England, I noticed how the sign telling you that you were in England was many times bigger than the same sign telling you that you�d entered Scotland.
We drove on towards, then through, Carlisle, again a strangely empty town under the flail of wind and rain. Soon, we were driving down little country roads towards Wasdale Head, and our next destination � Scafell. At 2.20, we arrived. One of the vans was there � the one carrying Richard, Julie, Chris and Gordon. But where was the other? And where were Richard, Julie and Gordon? Chris was in the van: he had given up the challenge because of a strained muscle. The driver, Edward, said,
�They went on up about ten minutes ago�.
Went on up where? It was pitch black, the wind was howling, and a hard rain was coming down. Neither me, nor Rob or Brian, had ever climbed Scafell before. I wasn�t even sure in which direction it lay. But Brian said,
�let�s go this way�, and plunged into the dark. Rob followed him. I tried to call after them,
�let�s wait till the other van comes, then go up together�but they were already out of earshot. I was left to decide: should I stay or should I go?

the 3 peaks - part one

Well, I�m still aching, though not as bad as Monday. Walking up and down steps is still on the painful side. I feel, apart from pain, quietly elated at having actually done it, as well as a certain sense of anticlimax. Yesterday, I said I�d never do this again, but I�m already beginning to feel that it�s still possible in the future, as long as the weather isn�t as vile as it was this time.
It all began well: My friend, Rob, and I drove up from Reading to his workplace in Kidlington and met up with the other team members early on Friday. We were 14 all told; 3 drivers/ support team and 11 climbers, led by Julie, who had come up with the idea in the first place. We got our three hire vans, loaded up our gear, and set off. I was with Rob, Chris, and our support driver Victoria. We made incredible time on the journey North, thanks to Rob caning it up to Cumbria � we left at 9.40 and were on the Scottish border by about 1.30, including having a break. It was the first time I�d travelled north of the border, and I found the scenery, traced out in bright sunlight, utterly beautiful. After a few more hours, we arrived in Fort William at 6.40, only to find that we hadn�t read our instructions properly, and needed to go back about 20 miles to our accommodation for the night, a youth hostel in the Great Glen. When we arrived , we found the rest of the team had only just got there. The Youth Hostel was a fairly grotty, run-down house, with house martins nesting in the eaves and midges billowing around us. We unloaded our stuff into our bunkrooms, then drove into Fort Augustus for a meal. The restaurant was just above Loch Ness; It had an entertainer, playing middle-of-the road music from the seventies; a reasonable menu, and, after a late evening shower, one of the most spectacular views of a rainbow I�ve ever seen. A tall, blonde-haired scot, wearing a kilt and accompanied by a short, wiry guy in cowboy costume wandered in, both somewhat self-consciously it seemed to me. Outside, drinking a whisky and smoking, I looked at the wonderful scenery and thought: No wonder it�s empty. There�s bugger all for kids here apart from farming, fishing and tourism.
I spent a night of broken sleep, trying to will myself into deep slumber, but not really able to do so until about 4 in the morning. A strange image kept coming to mind: a kangaroo, with a voice saying, �follow the kangaroo.� Where to, though?
Eventually, we were up and out the door by 8.30. We drove into Fort William, with a few hours to kill before we started the journey. We had breakfast in the Nevis Sport caf� � beans, egg, hash brown, sausage meat, black pudding and bacon � then kicked our heels around the town until 1.00. We were planning on starting to climb at 3, so that we could finish around 8, head for Cumbria and start Scafell at quarter to three, descending from there in daylight, then heading for Snowdon.
We arrived at the base of Ben Nevis, near the Youth Hostel and the bridge over the river, by 1.15. Richard and Rick, the two army guys and experienced mountain survival experts, were the team leaders, and gave us a final briefing before we headed off. After that, we heated water, made teas and coffees and in my case, an utterly disgusting Pot Noodle, and sorted out what equipment we would take with us. At first, I was going to take my main pack, but realised it would be too heavy. I ended up with an awkward arrangement of a camelback water carrier and a daysack, which I tried to organise as comfortably as I could. At ten to three, we set out, and the countdown began.

OUCH!

Everything hurts. I am getting an insight into being 76 years old. even typing this hurts. However, Job Done. More later; I'm going to have something to lessen the pain.

hi ho, hi ho...

Right, that's it.
I'm off to go yomping up and down mountains for charidee.
Pictures to follow.

bombers, martyrs

Just saw the video released to Al-jazeera of Shehzad Tanweer's Posthumous message. One part of the video struck me; the so-called justification for killing people was that they had voted for the government, and because the government is responsible for the repression and deaths of people (with an especial, emotional focus on 'our children, our sisters and our mothers') in Palestine, Chechenya, Iraq, and Afghanistan, therefore the electorate is also responsible, and therefore deserves to die.
I've talked before about false syllogisms on this blog, but this is taking it to extreme and absurd limits.
So perhaps there shouldn't be an electorate then? Perhaps we should just wait and do what we are told by some elder whon proclaims what is just and correct? Who should live and who should die? What is right and what is wrong?
Bullshit. The ability to get to the age of sixty and wear a beard does not, nor ever should, automatically be assumed to confer authority and wisdom - look at Prescott and Bush. Or Osama Bin Laden.
The London Bombers - these silly, ignorant, and ultimately murderous little boys, filled with the arrogant cetainties of youth, were cruelly misled by the arrogance and vanity of older men who crave power - not truly for the sake of faith, but for their own ends.
Jihad is, in its true sense, an internal war, just as the 'dar-ul-harb' (the world of war, or dar-ul-cahiliye, the world of ignorance) and the dar-ul-islam are internal places, a fight that needs to take place in the soul.
Blowing people up and killing yourself is not Jihad; it is murder. And that, if you are religious, does not guarantee you a ticket to heaven.

states, habits, permanent conditions...

...a lesson on the present simple tense this morning.
'...we also use this tense to describe states,' I said. 'For example, I have a car, or I am .....years old. How old do you think I am?' I continued, with a smile.
Stupid.
'Forty-five,' piped up a young Venezuelan woman.
cheeky mare.

Moist.

Ye Gods, it's still hot, but now with the additional fun of humidity. Thankfully it's due to get a bit milder. I checked the weather forecast for Snowdonia and Ben Nevis earlier, and the conditions look very promising for the weekend. Cycling home yesterday afternoon was hellish, and I just had to break off my ride for a refreshing cider in a local inn...by the time I got home, made dinner and sat down in front of the tv for the Italy vs. Germany match, I was knackered. I dozed off after about 30 minutes of play, then woke briefly, stumbled into the garden, and fell asleep on a recliner. Woke up just in time to see Italy score, then fell into a night of fitful dozing.

Activist?

Someone asked me, nearly a year ago, 'Why aren't you involved in some kind of activism? You're intelligent, you clearly have a strong set of beliefs, and you're a natural communicator'.
My answer?
'It's surprising to me that I'm not an activist'. And I was surprised by my answer.
Why am I not involved in some kind of political activity? It's true, I do have a set of ideals, but do I actually believe in them? Do I have faith?
I have always been turned off by group movements, I must admit; where others see the solidarity of a band of people, I can just see the mob, and I find it difficult in my mind to discern the difference between a war march and a bunch of football supporters. I am not trying to be flippant. Although there are clearly differences, there is also one clear similarity - the sense of smugness, an emotion I find utterly abhorrent. one group says 'I am doing right', the other says 'I support the best team'. In other words, there is no doubt in the war marcher's or the football supporter's convictions. And doubt is something that has plagued me through my life.
I have recently brought into question in my own mind the function of doubt. In some ways, it has served me in good stead: I am keenly observant of what goes on around me, and I can usually predict and head off situations long before they become problems. However, it has also served in the role of a rather negative editor and censor in my head, and prevented me reaching out to do all the things I am capable of doing. Oh, I do well in my job - for those of you who haven't read this before, I am a lecturer in EFL - but I am keenly aware that there is more, more, more that I can do. And doubt has stopped me. It stops me, and means I tend to revert to bad habits, like drinking far too much or slouching in front of the TV for hour after hour.
This is part of the reason that I decided to do the three peaks challenge - to shake off doubt, and have a little faith for once.
If I am to become an activist, I must first begin with being an activist for myself.

some international foundation programme students: Luis, Kasia and Kristina from my advanced class; more students; Cousin James about to get severely depressed on saurday.

good day, bad day.

England vs. Portugal: shame - and Ronaldo - wanker.
well, at least I won't have to rush home from climbing three mountains in order to catch them in a final.
But afterwards - Doctor Who: Cybermen AND Daleks! Brilliant!
I have given stern instructions to everyone I know to tape it for me.
Back to more interesting stuff in the next post.

squawk squawk! Flap flap!..

..it's re-enrolment day. Well, for our ESOL students anyway, and in fact it's not such a bad idea: we sort out if they want to (or should) return, start filling in the forms, then book a time for them to return in september to complete the whole sorry affair. But, for the love of God, some people don't half make a meal of it - meaning the teachers. half of them are running round like it's the most stressful thing they've ever had to do in their lives. I've bagged the easy job of booking students onto the system.
Anyway, I'm increasingly kicking my heels at present, work-wise. I've more or less finished everything I need to do for the coming year, apart from up-and-coming stuff that I have to wait to come to me. The training for the 3 peaks comes along in fits and starts, but mostly straightforward. I've increased my cycling output to at least 10 miles a day, coupled with walking with a pack. Apart from yesterday, when there was the Academic English award ceremony and lunch, and I got slowly sozzled over the course of the afternoon and evening.

Mneeurrgghh. Monday and raining. So far, a somewhat tedious day of filing, sorting and planning and sorting out other people's IT problems blah blah blah. I'm already missing teaching - even my dull as ditchwater Academic English IFP group.
Annnyway, what to write? On friday, I went out with a group of students from the evening class. Nothing too special - we met at the Back of Beyond and chewed the fat over this, that and the other. Afterwards, I ended up at The Purple Turtle, where I haven't been for a couple of months. Thoroughly drunk, I propped up a corner and watched the joyous mayhem unfurl. The music crackled back and forth, ranging from sublime to ridiculous and back again - The Jam's 'Town Called Malice', followed by some Kylie, then chasing on its heels Liam Gallagher, and the rest of the bar, yelling 'Is it My i-MAG-i-NA-Tiion...' A sense of carefree, playful summer was in the air; It was a moment, one of many I have had there, where only the moment exists, only the ever-moving feast of pleasure that is now, an atmosphere that I have never really encountered anywhere else. It's quite probably the best bar in the world - if you love loud music, loud people, squalid floors and really bad bar fug.

Nearly payday.

Just counting out the change, now; Thanks to various circumstances, I've had to overspend a bit over the last few months, and I am now just living on the money I have in my pocket. Thank God it's an early payday, that's all.
I'm feeling somewhat overtired. For some reason, I managed to sink my way through nearly a bottle of wine and three bottle of Efes, falling asleep on the sofa at two this morning. Stupid! I had also done twelve miles of cycling and a five-mile yomp with a full backpack and gear, mainly to get more accustomed to it for the hike, but also to put a bit of weight on a slightly sore and dodgy ligament in my left foot. It held up well, but it was a walk mainly through countryside rather than a hard, rocky trail.

Just an average, no-classTuesday. It's just pleasant to get some work done, for once. Love teaching though I do, it means that for much of the year I'm stuck with all the quotidian, and have to chance to further myself or the programme that I run. Hopefully, I'll have the opportunity to do that this summer.
I reflected last night on the fact that I don't seem to be getting much learning done - that is, sitting down and studying something for the simple pleasure of learning something new. Oh yes, I pick stuff up day to day - it's my nature to notice and remember - but actually sitting down with book, notepad, pen and computer - no, it all gets lost in the tide of the everyday else. When was the last time I heard a new joke? when was the last time I looked at a subject for the first time? when was the last time I did something for the first time?
This last question is one that I've tried to face more squarely over the last few months. We all become accustomed to routines and habits - some good, some bad - for example, my habit of using dashes in entries, or drinking the whole bottle of wine when a glass would suffice. And as we plod these ruts again and again, we tend to cut ourselves off more from what is possible, and push them towards the improbable and finally, when custom or age weary us, the impossible. After which time, of course, we whine 'Oh, if only I'd done that', or 'If I hadn't done that, my life would have worked out so much different'. I want to explore new things, and take new directions, and not be consumed by what has been and not been in my life, nor by the easy choice of wandering down the same track.
Anyway, here's a picture of me, singing 'The Irish Rover' at the Ceilidh.

the Joy of Paperwork.

..and the joy of no classes for three months. Well, the final exams were on saturday, and my lessons are all done until September 11th; just a few months of clearing my desk, getting stuff ready, and lazing on holiday to come. I've had a pretty good weekend, all told, although I'm still chugging too many beers than are good for me. And now there are only 19 days to go until I do the Three Peaks.
Friday, after the listening exams, was spent clearing up my desk and putting in the recycling bin important paperwork that should have been done months ago. Well, they were apparently important at the time; many things lose significance if left long enough. In the evening, to RISC for the end of term Ceilidh. lots of students there, and v. enjoyable, though I had a couple of organic ciders too many.
Saturday, and I went into work early to set up the Orals. All straightforward, despite a thumping head. I got the first nervous students through, and it was good to see smiling faces afterwards. Spent afternoon either in the garden or watching that vicious match between Italy and the US, chugging beer.
I was up early again on sunday, and went for a short yomp over what pass for hills in my neck of the woods. After that, a morning of cleaning up and getting stuff ready for a father's day barbie, to which mum, dad and sis came. And again, too much booze. Hey Ho.

pics.

Some students sweating it out in an exam; My intermediate English class on their last day before their exam; and a frog I found nestling quite happily under my tomato plants last night.

exams. and booze (later).

Well, that's the first part of the week out of the way; Spending the whole day, two days in a row, with a bunch of people emitting fear sweat is not my idea of heaven. At least it got me out of the office. Overall, I'd say this year's groups of FCE and CAE candidates have had it fairly easy, especially compared to last year's debacle. They went away looking quite relieved. Now it's time for a beer, methinks. Although this may be construed as getting in the way of my fitness regime for the three peaks challenge, I can only feel it's justified.
Anyway, there's the footy on.

Booze and exams.

It's far too hot to worry about exams, yet that's exactly what I have been doing. I had to deliver a set of oral tests on saturday, which threatened to go arse over tit when the examiner turned up at the wrong location, but eventually sorted itself out. Thence to the pub for a qucik couiple of beers with the students, by way of saying farewell, then home and football and beer. lots of beer. However, I didn't get especially pissed, as I sweated most of it out. Ended up setting up the tent in the garden and sleeping in it, alongside my son, whose bright idea it was. Of course, this meant I woke up to the screeching of hundeds of birds as the night slowly faded away. Yesterday was largley spent in sweltering away and drinking more beer.

I wish I was a punk rocker...

....with green gob in my hair.
It's fairly obvious Sandi Thom hasn't a clue about what punk was; a visceral, energetic, angry experience, not initially politically motivated whatsoever. She seems to have this notion that they were fierce, yet compassionate, revolutionaries - or at least that's the gist of her bloody song. Now it would be amusing to take her back to Brixton, 1976, dressed in her notion of a punk rocker, accompanied by flowers in her hair.....
Sandi: Hey guys, look at me! I am a punk rocker! With flowers in my hair!
Everyone else: Kill the fucking hippy!
upon which they would render her flowers unto the floor, gob in her hair, and pogo on her head to friggin' in the rigging.