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.

futile shoplifter.

Coming back from work at 9 p.m. on my bike, I slowed down and waited to cross the road to my local Tesco Express.
' 'Scuse me', said a voice behind me.
I turned round. There was a man, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties, with thinning dirty brown hair, a red face and a walking stick. He was wearing a thick green raincoat and dirty trousers. In one hand he had the remains of a sandwich, and its contents were spread around his mouth in a hungry red smear.
'Got any change mate?' He asked, swaying gently on the spot.
'Sorry mate', I replied, and crossed the road.
I locked my bike up outside the store, then went to the cashpoint. The guy started to walk towards me, stopped, blinked, swayed, then staggered into the shop. I went in shortly afterwards and got myself a bottle of wine. As I was in the queue waiting to pay, I saw him wandering around the same aisle several times, as if searching for a particular item. I paid, then went back to my bike and loaded up. suddenly, the bloke was at my side again.
'What about a fag then?' he asked, hopelessly.
'Sorry, no'
'Oh.'
He wandered away, then suddenly bent to pick something up from the floor. As he bent, a large bottle of Smirnoff Ice erupted from his jacket, ending up with a resounding smash on the floor. The man stared at it, then up at the sky, then back at his lost bit of pilfering.
And then he went back into the store as if nothing had happened, in order to steal another.
Now that is someone who really needed a drink.

plat du jour.

And on today's work menu, we have:
Marking IFP exams
Marking writing samples from an advanced class and an intermediate group
bollocking a student for non-attendance
checking portfolios of work
preparing an evening class
preparing five different sets of exams over the next week
organising room changes
photocopying reports and class materials
advise team on final week preparations
get advice from my boss on someone's contract discrepancy
teach from seven till nine.
forward plan for the new academic year.....
...and that's just a single day. and I earn about �100 per day for what I do.
Bollocks, isn't it?

Fags (The English Type), beer and mountains.

I was going to avoid the desire to smoke and have a beer this evening, yet after a long, tedious, hay-fever filled slog of a day, I thought, Bugger It, and you now find me at the keyboard, cold tinny to hand. It's ridiculous, as I gave in to want once again. I did, as you may know from previous posts, give up smoking for over a year, but slipped back into it through a deliberate act, fomented out of anger. this all goes to prove that anger, and decisions made in anger, suck. Logically, my mind tells me, I don't need tabs and booze, that they are objects of desire, just as much as, say, the need to soup up a really crap car with alloys and ultra violet lights under the wheel base is to a certain type of knuckledragger. when I gave up last time, it was only the first 24 hours that were tricky, and after that, there was the odd five-minute craving episode, of which I reminded myself, and buggered off to do something else until it faded, and, most importantly, without replacing it with another habit. I suspect that if I'd used those patches or the gum, I'd be up to a fifty packet a day job by now. The trouble is that I don't quite want to give up again enough - I just need to nudge myself a bit harder.
This is where the Three Peaks training comes in. Knowing that I have another month before it happens will, I hope, be an achievable target. Also, considering how I felt about pushing myself onwards on the second day of the training session, but still going on to do it anyway, gives me a kind of template for achieving it. Or something like that. I felt, on day two, after a cold and sleepless night, that I couldn't do it, and began formulating excuses in my head that I could plausibly say to the others in the group: I've got blisters, my ligaments are agony, I've got the squits, blah blah blah. It wouldn't have fooled anyone, except myself for a bit. Then I realised what I was doing, and how that negative, I-can't-do-this voice has been so often a dominant sound in my own head, and I told it to Fuck Off, then went and climbed the bloody mountain. At the end, despite being soaked and cold, I felt excellent.
I'm not sure of the whole point of this, but one thing is clear to me - I don't need to stick to the same familiar things, of fags and booze and slumping in the sofa. It's a matter of seeing what is solely desire, what is need, and what the difference is between them. any effort, whatever it is, is often worth it.

Having said that, my beer's just run out.

more pics.

wet or cold...

..or wet and cold. that was the choice I had over the weekend. here are a few pics.

right, I'm going to change the template. this probably means I'll have to re-enter all my links, but what the hey.

I was just trying to send a picture to this blog via email, but it goes to O2's MMS service. Don't you just love technology? I shall be posting, hopefully, via mobile over the weekend. I'll be in the rain, hanging off mountains and worrying sheep. Saturday, the aim is to go up the Watkin path to the summit of Snowdon, then down via the Snowdon Ranger trail and back round to our start point; then Sunday, up on to the Glyders and round. home and bath by sunday evening.

a few pics.

Beer; the side of a mountain; Angus reading a comic; panorama of the valley I live in; me looking stern and teachery. All photos taken with a Sony Ericsson K750i.

reactivated.

I'm back! There are reasons for my absence, which I may or may not share; but right now, I've decided to reanimate this blog, and get it back to routine. it's 6.20 in the evening, I'm exhausted and pissed off and not looking forward to another evening of advanced class, but bollocks to it.
pictures are of me looking pissed off, and the view from Bentyn in the Brecon Beacons, which I hiked up in April, preparing for the 3 peaks challenge I'll be doing in July.

keep still. keep very still.

This is what I'm saying to myself at the moment. My hand and rib are healing well, although I still can't exert much pressure with my hand. Unfortunately, I've now managed to wrench the muscles in my neck and shoulder, so turning my head is proving to be a bit of a bugger.

I'm currently busy with sorting out the exam schedules, but only a couple of weeks to go now before it's all over, and I can spend a long, easy summer either on holiday, doing my diploma course, or a rather interesting research project that's come my way, courtesy of Reading Uni. In other words, the really fun bits of teaching, instead of the slog of bureaucracy.

Sad to see that my chum Marcus has given up the blog. I've enjoyed reading it, and its often percipient, wise thoughts. I'll miss it, mate!

Right, time for class.

What have you done??!

I am seriously pissed off. A tory's been voted in in Reading East! I live in a Tory constituency! Fuck! Fuck! Shit on a stick!
Bastards.
I know who's done this; All the wankshafts who swan around Caversham, thinking it's acceptable to wear polo neck sweaters and slacks (often at the same time), who think it's important to talk about the type of car you drive or the size of your mortgage, or how well you do at the golf club or how well the children do at school, who bray about their wealth, and claim not to be racist but then go on to spew forth the latest bigoted ignorant shite that the Express and Mail can churn up, while swilling on their afternoon gins.
Anything, anything, is better than a Tory.
Well, constituents of Reading East, I hope you're proud of yourselves.

In other news...

...I forgot to mention about the inaugural Reading Turkish Society meeting, and as I have a moment now, or rather because I can't be arsed to get on with any meaningful work, I may as well give an update of it.
Well, it wasn't exactly the colossal fuck-up it could have been. Poorly-organised, yes. Badly-timed, yes. No clear idea of where it was going, yes. Colossal fuck-up, no. The woman organising it had been let down by others who had promised they were going to help, so she was already deeply stressed by the time we arrived to give a hand. In the programme of events, she'd only left half an hour for introductory speeches and whatnot, but wanted somehow to squeeze eight different speakers, plus myself as link, into that time, clearly impossible. Still, we did our best, but overran by a good fifty minutes. Things were not helped by one of the speakers, from the Young Turks society, starting to show a film about the Turkish War of Independence (Kurtulus). Things were not helped even more by the organiser getting panicky and curtailing the showing, afraid that the meeting was getting 'political'. This did not impress a few of the invited speakers, who began to wonder why they'd been invited in the first place. Someone also pointed out that the day (the 24th) was the day that the Armenians remembered the 'ethnic cleansing' of the Ottoman Armenians during the First World War. (note: I'm not going to comment about whether the whole thing was genocide or not: there are plenty who will argue with me either way, and I for one would rather wait until the Turkish government finally decides to open its extensive documentation on the affair.) In short, everything started to go pear shaped, until I stepped in and suggested everyone go and have a kebab. Afterwards, there was a question-and-answer session, largely dominated by general questions to the Turkish Cultural Attache, Izzet Bey, rather than questions regarding the society itself.
And ever since then, the various people who organised this, my wife included, have been pointing fingers, recriminating each other, and generally moaning.
I am utterly pissed off with the whole affair.
I was, however, the only one who came out of it smelling of roses, thanks to being the mc.

Hand/rib update

It has been brought to my attention by my good chum Martin that I haven't been keeping this up to date. So, here's a quickie. My hand and rib are not, as first thought, bruised: In fact, I have a broken fifth metacarpal (apparently called a boxer's break) and a cracked rib - the same rib, in fact, that I've cracked before. This means I can't pick up much with my left hand, and I can't do much with my right side either. Super.

doomed!

I really must write this on a more regular basis...
My hand continues to hurt. My rib joined in the general pain merriment on thursday, so I'm not really enjoying muself at the moment. Added to this is the joy of trying to write a speech in Turkish, which I am due to deliver at the inaugural meeting of the Reading Turkish Organisation this sunday. Which I discovered, at half past ten last night, has not, shall we be say, been organised terribly well. A room has been booked, at The BBC Monitoring Centre in Caversham. It has no tables or chairs. There is no catering, apart from......guess what.....a kebab van! a hundred people are coming. There will be media coverage. The Turkish Ambassador may come.
This is going to be one COLLOSSAL fuck-up.
I may just stay at home on sunday.

pesky garden furniture.

I am currently nursing several bruised ribs and a sorely bruised arm, thanks to a large old wooden bench collapsing on me on sunday.We were at my dad's house for his retirement do, and I was standing on the damn thing, trying to retrieve a ball my son had been playing with, and it decided to first tip, then spilt in two, hurling me to the ground and itself on top of me. Ouch. My left hand is only just coming back to life.

More fun.

Charlie, the student who wrote so elegantly about ladyboys in his country description assignment and has been absent for the last two months, shuffled into view once again yesterday. He handed in his holiday assignment - a comparison of two countries. The opening paragraph does not fill me with hope:

As you can seen in the map of the world, China looks as cock, the head of cock is closed Russia, Mongolia and the Peninsula of Korea, its extremity rump approach the most of southeast asian.

Bloody hell.

zombie pontiff watch?

Rather worryingly, the BBC News website's current (4.25 p.m.) live feed link is titled 'watch Pope John Paul II lying in state'. Why? Is he going to start twitching? Are we expecting him to stagger to his feet again any minute, and start lurching towards the pilgrims?

drooling inanity.

For want of a better title. I've managed to avoid doing anything resembling real work for the last two and a half days, despite teaching five different classes in that time. I've just done it all on autopilot, a skill that has been carefully nurtured over years of instruction so I can give the appearance of imparting knowledge whilst being in something resembling a fugue state.

Chancellor Installation latest: I can easily imagine all the staff gathered for the installation, waiting patiently all day, and the delivery van doesn't come. Then the delivery blokes come up with some cock and bull story along the lines of, 'well, you was out, weren't ya? We rang and everything, but no answer, guv. We slipped a card under the door.'
Wondered idly whether the Chancellor comes with an extended warranty.

New TVU Chancellor Latest - Booze Boss Blags Top Don Spot

From the staff intranet page....

All staff are invited to the Installation Ceremony of the new Chancellor of TVU, Karan Bilimoria CBE DL.
Business entrepreneur Karan is the founder of Cobra Beer and has been a long term associate of TVU. Karan says of his appointment: "I am truly honoured to accept the Chancellorship of Thames Valley University and look forward to playing an active role in ensuring the University receives the recognition it deserves for the tremendous work it undertakes."

Crikey. Other universities get top academics and people of reknown; we get the bloke who makes you feel slighty less gassy after fifteen pints of his finest on top of a curry.

abandoned subs and so on

Cycling back home after a long day of trying to avoid work, I noticed that some careless soul had abondoned their Soviet-era submarine in the Thames. I did try to find a photo from the local rag, but the useless bastards haven't updated their site yet. Seeing as said sub appeared on April 1st, I suspect it's not all it appears to be.
Other ways to avoid doing meaningful work: Try going to D-Film. Make a film. Send it to a friend. Laugh.
Just had a message from Announcements Central informing me that 'The New Chancellor of the university is to be installed on May 6th', and inviting me to the installation ceremony. Images of some aged bugger in ermine being unloaded from the back of a delivery truck, then put on a pedestal and plugged in....
My Trinity Licentiate Diploma in TESOL is not going very well. In fact, it's not going at all at present. It is only with coming back to college that I now think I might finally get some time to actualy sit down and do the bloody thing. I was talking to one of my colleagues, who's also been doing it, and she was moaning about how hard it was. Then, as ever, the conversation turned towards sex.
'I don't think I could cope with an orgy,' she said. 'I'd always be looking over at other people, comparing myslef with the other women and wondering why x(her partner) isn't doing that and that to me! Besides, he's ever so jealous; He'd probably start a fight, and that would look ridiculous naked.'

still alive!

..me, that is. Alright, I know I've missed a month or so, but I have my reasons - mainly work related, in that I've been horrendously busy. Still, it's the beginning of the spring/summer term now, and time to start winding down.
And you can always rely on a dead pope to delay a general election and piss on Prince Charles' wedding fireworks....