Hurrah for good old English Ineptitude!

According to some news reports, the reason why last week's car bombs failed to go off was because the would-be bombers used NHS syringes as part of the detonation mechanism, and these failed to work.
There are times when it is necessary to be thankful for the total collapse of the manufacturing sector in this country and the knowhow that went with it. We can't even make things that move up and down in a tube properly anymore. Soon we'll be too crap to be worth bombing.

choices, choices....

Well, I've taken some more pics, but I'm not quite sure which one I should use in the profile. What do you think? Personally, I think they're all pretty ghastly; Either too cheesy, or in the case of the last one, I definitely look like I've just ripped someone's liver out with my bare hands and eaten it, possibly with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Grim.

It has been brought to my attention that the photo I currently have on this blog makes me look far too grim, and the one on my newly-acquired Facebook page makes me look like a deeply sinister escaped convict, possibly holding a someone else's head behind my back. I've tried taking a few more with the intention of uploading them here; Unfortunately, I now look like a manically grinning deeply sinister excaped convict, possibly dressed in someone else's skin. Once I have better mugshot, I will put it on.

You don't have to be a self-absorbed fanatical islamist suicide bomber to work here, but it helps!

I can't help but feel that there was something mercifully crap and English about the attempted suicide bomb attacks over the past few days, namely that they all failed through a combination of happenstance, good luck, and classic bungling. It's a bit like when Tim Henman fails at Wimbledon; we're all rooting for him (except for those of us who think he's a tosser), yet we all know he's going to fail. Not that he's going to blow himself up on Centre Court, of course, although that might make him a bit more interesting. The two guys who tried to drive the land rover into Glasgow airport - a total bungle. The mystery driver who left the car outside the nightclub - what a foul-up. If you're going to go along the suicide bomber route, there's no point only going the half hog, as it were. This might apply to many things in life. Who knows - if they'd been successful, they could even have done that crap Henman gesture with the waggly fist.
Although, of course, it would be separated from the arm by a matter of several hundred metres.

A drama played out underwater.

I can't leave off the Jury Service Experience without saying something about the drama of it all. You can see why theatre and film are attracted to the action of the courtroom: The problem is, it's just like it is in the movies, but as if the script was written by Samuel Beckett while in a catatonic trance. Hence my describing it as a slow regal procession.
And of course, everyone is aware that they are not merely being their mere selves, they are acting out the roles of themselves too. Oftentimes they protest too much, or meekly overabase themselves, in order to look more honest or sincere or incapable of hurting a fly.The presiding magistrate, like a bewigged deus ex machina, will occasionally make a wry coment to the prosecution or defence team, or now and then turn and smile kindly at the jury, while giving some point about the action in the courtroom at that moment. In the attempted murder case, the prosecuting barrister was full of dramatic self-importance; He swung his gown in such a way, gesticulated with one neat hand, flourishing a gleaming pen. He would suck in his cheeks expressively while listening to the defence, then flip a page loudly and blow out air, before pouting finely over another point in the story. When it came to cross-examining the defendent, he would reduce his voice to a quivering whisper, before bringing to a crashing wall of booming noise, batting away the man's story and denouncing his tale as preposterous.
I had to feel sorry for the Defence barrister. I got the impression that she was relatively inexperienced, and she didn't want to play along with the drama. At times, she visibly reddened, as if embarrassed by the flimsy story she had to defend, or as if ashamed at the blatant lies she was forced to try and persuade us were true. Also, for whatever reason, the judge didn't seem to like her whatsoever. There was certainly a frisson of animosity whenever she (the judge) said 'thank you, that is enough' or even, at one stage, curtly barked 'sit down!'.

And the verdict was..

Standing up to deliver the verdict, I unexpectedly found myself feeling somewhat nervous. To my left was the large dock, made of a light-coloured wood, with thick, unbreakable glass panels stretching to the ceiling; Inside was the defendant, a burly man with sand-blond hair and sand-blasted face, set in an impassive expression.
'Please answer the following question yes or no,' said the Usher. 'Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?'
'Yes.'

It had taken about an hour of wrangling in the jury room to get our decision unanimous. I had had my mind made up by the evidence by the previous day; A couple of jurors, however, still had reservations. It wasn't as if all the necessary evidence had been found, and the prosecution's case relied upon three principal witnesses, plus the unreliable narrative of the victim in the case.

'On count one, do you find the defendent guilty or not guilty of attempted murder?'

Over the past few days, some of the witnesses, including the victim, had used screens to preserve their anonymity. The events in question had taken place in Milton Keynes. In short, a drunken argument and a certain degree of animosity towards Travellers had led to a fight outside a pub, which the defendent had lost; In revenge, he later walked back into the pub, and stabbed the victim in 'the posterior chest, six inches below the axilla'. After stabbing the victim, he calmly walked out, returning some three hours later to warn the landlord that 'no fucking pikeys allowed in here'. He then went to the hospital, presumably to find his victim, where he was arrested. In subsequent questioning, under legal advice, he answered 'no comment' to the questions put to him.

'Not Guilty.'

Although the witnesses seemed to have inconsistencies in their recollection of what they had seen, one thing stood out; an arm flying, a glint of something in a hand, the hand connecting with the side of the body, the victim suddenly falling back, and realising what had happened after only a few seconds, saying 'I've been stabbed!'

'On the second count, do you find the defendent guilty or not guilty of wounding with intent?'

The defence case relied solely on the defendent himself. His version was that the other man had had a screwdriver in his hand, and that he'd knocked it out of the way - 'he must have stabbed himself.' How someone stabs themself in their own back, six inches beneath the armpit, is beyond me. During cross-examination, it became clear that this was a man with a very long history of hurting and maiming others. Maybe that was why I was nervous.

'Guilty.'

Delivering that single word meant that we had just changed his life. Although the actual sentence will not be delivered for a couple of weeks, it will inevitably be a custodial sentence, considering the man's history. And although there was a satisfaction from seeing the case end, I can't say it was an enjoyable thing. The defendent may have hurt, wounded and intimidated others, yet I took no pleasure from the idea of someone else going to prison.

A new monday, a new case

God, what bloody miserable weather. I spent the morning staring out of the window of the jury waiting room, reading bloody Leech and the Guardian, completing the various puzzles within, and speculating on the curious similarity between Gordon Brown and the Emporer Claudius. Something to do with the ears. As for good old Geoffrey Leech, I had to admire his tenacious categorizing, which is certainly thorough, but the number of exceptions he has to his various verb rules makes me suspicious. Besides, I've been working on an idea to help my students understand the whys and wherefores of the English tense system and why any giver speaker chooses the tense and aspect they do, and I seem to have stumbled on a major and easy-to-explain theory of how we see them. I won't say more right now, as it will comprise a Major EFL Geek Moment in a later log. Suffice to say I've been scouring the literature at the moment and no-one seems to have ever described what I think I've discovered before. Whether this is because my basic proposition is deeply stupid, or because it's one of those things that make people slap their heads after hearing of it and exclaim 'Well, duh! Why didn't I think of that!', I don't know. Anyway, I will come back to this.
We entered the courtroom just before lunch to be sworn in, and the case itself started at two. Obviously, I cannot comment on it. However, it was again booze-related, and it struck me how the people involved were those who had in some way fallen without noticing. My good friend Marcus has left a comment on the previous post, querying what I meant by 'law', and whether it was, in other terms, a way that the middle classes seek to impose a certain set of behaviours that are deemed acceptable by 'civilised' (viz: the middle classes) society. What I meant when I talked about its courtesy and slow regal nature was perhaps its exactitude, in seeking to ascertain the exact position and the truth, whatever that may be. Certainly in terms of criminal law rather than the morass of civil law; as an example of what I mean by civil (ha) law, treating fathers who perhaps through no fault of their own have been marginalised and, indeed, criminalised because they do not fit into the Daily Mail version of a family, or because they have been pushed into the pigeonhole of Absent Parent, even though this is not what they either wanted or intended. The ability to actually be involved in the legal process, whether it is to defend oneself, or to give evidence, or to be part of the jury, is both an important freedom and a duty. Unfortunately, it only applies only to the criminal justice system and only at crown court level and above. For the rest, we are required to depend upon the 'service' of the politicians we choose (or not, as the case may be), and invest our trust in those who may not necessarily have our interests at heart, or who do not or cannot understand them.

Bah! What a Swizz!

After being sent out early from the trial and having lunch, we, the jury, trooped into court at 2.00. We sat down. The defendant, I noticed, had been moved back to the dock, and had a huge grin adorning their face.
the judge faced us and told us that the trial, 'for reasons that have taken us all by surprise' had had to be called off, and would be sent for retrial. as such, we were discharged from our duty, and promptly thanked and told to leave. The atmosphere among the jurors was one of feeling cheated; we hadn't been able to hear the last witness or the summings-up of the case, or have the satisfaction of closure by delivering our verdict. It's also deeply frustrating because I can't discuss the case whatsoever. I will say this though: what kept me most entertained was the defendant's evasions and inventions in the face of overwhelming evidence that he was guilty as charged.
It was also fascinating seeeing the exactitude and courtesy of the judge and the lawyers, the slowly regal process of law, seeking to dig out the veracity or not of each witness' statement.

more jury service, more time..

the case drones on. The air-conditioned atmosphere of court cannot hide the dull mildew fug of legal books, the soporific exactitude of legal argument, the sense of a drama played out underwater: so far, I've almost fallen asleep three times. The case is not the most exciting in the world, and will, I daresay, warrant no more than a paragraph in the pages of the local newspaper. I've been playing a variation of Bullshit Bingo to try and keep myself focused. For those who don't know it, Bullshit Bingo is a way to enliven the dullest of meetings. Make a grid of nine squares, and fill each square with a set of buzzwords appropriate to the situation; For example, a management meeting may consist of phrases such as 'cascade down', 'imagineering', 'downsize' etc etc. When you hear the phrase being used, you cross it off the list. It's much more fun when you're competing with someone else, espaecially if the someone else beats you, forgets where they are, and stands up, yelling 'house!'
As I said in my previous post, legal reasons prevent me relating what's going on, but believe me, it is bloody tedious. Not quite as turgid as my first experience of jury service, but still yawnsome.
I did manage to pass some of the day imagining myself on this day ten years ago. I woke up early, then: I had a mild headache and a dry mouth, partly due to what I had drunk the night before, partly out of nervous anticipation of what was to come that day. I made myself a decent breakfast of fresh bread, black olives, feta cheese, large ripe tomatoes, egg, honey and jam, washed down with orange juice and black coffee, and had the lot on the balcony of the tiny flat I'd moved into the day before, completely naked. Then, I carefully laid out my new suit, shirt and cravat on the bed, and went into the bathroom. I looked myself fiercely in the eye and made sure I was certain, then having ascertained I was, I diligently, carefully and leisurely stroked a razor across my face, leaving my skin fresh and smooth beneath the palp. I showered, taking my time; Then, equally leisurely, towelled myself down, enjoying the simple sensual enjoyment of feeling my own body beneath my own hands, and wondering whether it would be any different by the end of the day.
After I got dressed in my finery, I finished off my hair, left the building, and went off to an urgent appointment. I found my urgent appointment in the hairdressers, having her makeup finished off, and looking lovely in her wedding dress.
And how the hell ten years has passed from then to here, I haven't a clue.
Happy anniversary!

Jury service.

So, fresh from leaving no. 1 son at school, I pedalled downhill in light rain from Emmer Green and into town, and locked my bike up outside the crown court in Reading, opposite the imposing lion sculpture in The Forbury, next to the Abbey Gateway that once housed the school that Jane Austen went to when young and unironic. I grabbed myself a Guardian, then went through the security check.
'Where you park your bike, then?' asked the guard.
'just over there', I said, pointing to the bicycle racks.
'Wouldn't do that,' he said, shaking his head,'Judge got his nicked just the other day. Lock it up here, just outside: I'll keep an eye on it.'
After moving it and being checked again, I walked through the pleasant cool interior and into the jurors' waiting room. After being welcomed, signed in, given a locker key and shown around, I was ushered into the lounge, tricked out in the utilitarian greens and beechwoods of corporate furniture, complete with pissed-off looking canteen staff. Other jurors appeared in dribs and drabs; Some chatted, some riffled through the scruffy magazines piled on the tables, others coughed and moved chairs several times, trying to find a place to be comfortable. Eventually, one of the ushers, a thin, nervous man with combed back long black hair, glasses and a straggly goatee, came in, said 'watch this video, then I'll be back', put on the video, and buggered off. One of those corporate videos, the ones with the crap electronic incidental music and people who tell you in smiling tones what the hell you're doing in the place, whether it be on a plane or in a new company or how to do presentations, told us what the hell we were doing there, while the video crackled and fizzed on the screen.
The usher came back, started speaking into a remote microphone, said ' right, can you hear me?' and the microphone failed. In his strongest voice, he went through various health and safety regulations. I completed my Sudoku puzzle, and started on the cryptic crossword in the paper. He told us we may have a wait.
He wasn't bloody wrong.
I read my paper back to front, then started reading Geoffrey Leech's Meaning and The English Verb. Not only is this a sodding boring read, I got really annoyed at Geoff because he is so maddeningly vapid when it comes to discussing the exceptions to the rules governing tense usage that he so rigidly and explicitly sets forth.
Eventually, at ten to three, I was finally called to the court, along with eleven other people good and true. We were sworn in.
Then we were told to come back tomorrow morning.
Well woopy-do.
And OF COURSE, I won't discuss the case, a) because it is sub judice and therefore would be a criminal act to discuss it, and actually I believe that this is an important legal principle, and b) They didn't even tell us what the case was.

pointless.

It's friday, there aren't many people in at work, so it's time for a blog entry. It's been a week that has seen me slowly unwind from being very stressed out over the whole bloody business of exams. We've almost finished with them now, and got the extra fillip of some extremely good results from the Speaking and Listening exams - out of 129 people, only 4 failed. I have just some oral exams to attend tomorrow, then I'm done, and off for jury service. And then, once all the crap is out of the way, and I've put all the paperwork on my desk to the torch, I can try and get on with doing my Dip. TESOL. again.
One problem I have, and one I've mentioned before on this blog, is my inertia when it comes to starting to do something, or when something I've been working on, for whatever reason, grinds to a halt. And this has been a recurring problem with this. In a way, I need someone, whether it be a supervisory figure or a competitor, to spur me on. At the same time, it really bugs me having someone standing over my shoulder, checking up on what I'm doing. I feel that it stops me expressing what's really in my mind, somehow.

Mobile phone covers: I saw one of our Chinese students shouting into her mobile yesterday. Her phone cover was in the form of some kind of cuddly, furry pink dog. Unfortunately, it gave the impression that she was yelling into its bum.

res ipso loquitur (if that's the right spelling)

just wanted to put this pic of mum and dad, moments after their wedding ceremony, on here.

Who am I? Who are you?

Who is there who never says to themselves, 'who amI'? Who is there who hasn't, at some stage in their lives, looked into a mirror and, only recognising themselves partially, behind the tiredness, behind the age beginning to creep into their features, asked, 'who are you?'
And what answers come back? Glib ones, bland ones, tired ones, lies, obfuscations, attempts to dodge some kind of truth, if truth it is, attempts to convince ourselves that we are this type of person and not the other. How often can we absolutely, honestly, say 'I am this and nothing else'?
The problem is, of course, that we are in reality many things, not only to many people, but to ourselves, and often when we don't like what we see in the mirror, we comfort ourselves with fibs about our personalities and physical selves. Advertising is based upon this premise of the self-told lie: 'Because You're Worth It', for example. Not only do we invent a legend, or legends, of the self, our own epic narratives in which we are the scions of ancient, noble clans, or lost princes/princesses or whatever, but we have labels attached to us that in general remain firmly stuck throughout life, once we reach a certain point in that particular journey. So, for example, I am, in various people's minds, and in rough chronological order, a Son, a Brother, the Brainy Relative, the Quiet One In The Corner, The Shy One, The Gambler, The Lover, The Mad Drunk One Who Gets Into All Gigs Free, The Bad-Tempered One, The Teacher, the Husband, the Father, and probably far more, including earthier descriptions, I'm sure.
But is any of this really me? The only time I really, really feel that I am myself is in the midst of quiet, reflective moments, quite like this one now, when all the world is dozing and I try to do what I do best - play with ideas. I don't like labels, I don't like pigeonholes, yet no-one can go through life without having metaphorical post-it notes slapped on them or being bunged into a little slot of some kind.

I believe that I have mentioned in previous posts about the idiocy of packaging; well, here is an example. Seeing this, would you ever seriously want it to pass your lips? And the origin of this particular little monstrosity? A plane trip.
This is my sister and me, hanging around outside a holiday villa in...
The seasisde town of Acharavi in Corfu, because...
..we came to surprise our parents, who'd decided to get married again on the sly! I've refrained from writing about it until now, as I didn't want to run the risk that they'd read this blog before we'd turned up. Yes, after a hiatus of nearly twenty years, mum and dad got back together again, after a long and tortuous path. It's a long story, and one that might be dismissed as stretching credibility. Anyway, they have been back together for a while, then moved in together, and 6 weeks ago decided they'd wed while on holiday, a fact that My sister and I only found out about some 4 weeks ago, after which we found cheap plane tickets, contacted the wedding organiser and ensured the ceremony would go ahead only after we'd arrived, and sworn quite a few people to absolute secrecy. It all went to plan: I will cherish the image of my mum literally jumping out of her sun lounger with shock and surprise, as me and Karen sauntered up to her holiday villa, for a very long time. In all, we had a fantastic four days in the sun, and it was good to be with Karen, mum and dad - we haven't been together on holiday since 1984. And guess where that was? Nissaki, just round the coast from where we found ourselves this week.

blimey. I am knackered. The amount of work I've had to do recently, both of the career and domestic varieties, has tended to preclude writing here. Anyway, I thought I'd add something before my blogging mind scabs over.
One thing I notice, and something I'm sure others have, is an inability to think of anything whatsoever to write after a little time away from the keyboard. It isn't just a matter of working the brain; It's also something to do with having lazy, rambling fingers, unwilling to step on the keyboard in the right places. Also, a general sense of inertia, making it hard to get going.

Sean

Sean yesterday. Cute isn't he?

Well, I'm about to have an extremely fun time in a meeting - the Subject Group Meeting for EFL, Education and MFL. Bluh. It's a forum held three times a year in order to see whichof the subject groups can bore the others to death first. While I'm sure that it is held with the best will in the world, it is always obvious in how much contempt the Ealing and Slough HE teachers helod us, the lowly FE workers in Reading.
Never mind, I'm going to play Bullshit Bingo. If you've never done it before, it's simple: Write down nine current buzzwords or phrases, e.g. 'Cascade down' (pass on information): when you've heard all nine, you win, although I suggest you don't get up mid-meeting and shout 'house!'. It's also far better to play with a couple of friends.

A testing time.

My ears and nose are full of gunk; I am feeling entirely exhausted; My spirits are low and I feel bored, annoyed and frustrated; My stress levels are through the roof; And I've had four stress headaches so far this week.
Welcome to the beginning of the exams season.
The amount of work on my plate is the main reason why I haven't written anything here for the last two weeks.

I've had what feels like an aimless, meandering week, so it deserves an aimless, meandering blog entry. I simply have had no inclination to do much of anything over the past few days, and to be honest it has bugged the hell out of me. I know that I'm a better person when I have a focus: getting something I've set my mind on completed always leaves me feeling good, yet I all too frequently allow myself to drift. A friend of mine once asked me what the hell I was doing teaching, when I should be doing so much more, and although they were right, I couldn't answer them. On reflection, and trying to be utterly honest, the only conclusions I could come to were these:
1. I like being a big fish in a small pond.
2. I'm afraid of success.
3. In some way, I find selling myself, in terms of saying who I am and what I'm truly capable of doing, somehow immoral.
To deal with these in order. For the first point, I'm not alone in this. That is, of course, no excuse: I should be able to move on, and risk not being more than a minnow in the ocean. Quite clearly, this is related to my second point. Additionally, big fish in small ponds are doomed to fail and diminish, so I really should not be afraid to move on to bigger waters. Dealing with the second point, why this should be the case, I'm not really sure, yet I'm certain it's true. Again, it is absurd, because I know that where I have taken a risk, made a leap in the dark as it were, I have almost always been successful. It's staying still and moping that I should be afraid of.
These two things though lead me to point three. The immorality and essential dishonesty that underpins the selling of the self. I have talked about my hatred of advertising on this blog before. Likewise, I have talked about credospheres, which work on a personal and public scale, and have hinted at how it is essentially immoral to manipulate them in order to get acheive personal, selfish advantages. As I person, I am a skeptical, cautious person by nature. Unfortunately, this also extends to myself. In a way, I am continually self-monitoring, indeed, self-censoring. This has its advantages - I am not someone of whom it can be said that I am easily fooled - yet the main disadvantage is that I do not really achieve what I am capable of, simply because I don't believe in myself sufficiently.
I have always been somewhat envious of people who are single-minded in their approach to things, while berating them for being blinkered and ignorant of the world beyond their aims. I am envious because they can get specific targets, and because they seem to be rewarded for being blinkered. I have always found itb difficult to understand the mindset required to be able to do this: It is the blindness of an arrow flying through a beautiful landscape, oblivious to all but its target. Only now do I have some understanding of it. Also, the selfishness required has always struck me as being essentially wrong.
However, I am beginning to think I am wrong.
I watched 'Good Will Hunting' the other day, and while it is, in essence, a fairly typical American self-actualisation film, I did find myself identifying very strongly with the central character. In particular, there is a scene where his friend tells him that is more insulting not to go for success when you are capable of doing so, than actually going for it. Yes, yes, all very carpe diem, but when i consider how hard my parents worked so I and my sister could be succesful, I have to take it on board. Now, I have a decent job that I do well, yet I can still do so much more.
It means I have to stand on my soapbox, then take a dive into that big scary ocean.

but to be fair...