Happy...

...no smoking day!

The funeral: Friday, March the Fifth.

The funeral went as well as can be expected. The weather stayed fair. I drove my mum and Nur there, the vast fields of graves in Henley road cemetery. It was a busy day: funerals were being stacked in a holding pattern, and groups of mourners shuffled in one end of the chapel, out the other, and gawped at the floral tributes belonging to each of their dead. My relatives arrived carload by carload; Darren and Dean, Julie & Archie, Belinda & Julie, Jim, James, Mick, Lisa and Gary, Sophie, Vicki, Samantha; My dad�s cousins and other distant relations, the Gallantry diaspora; Plus various friends of my grandfather and our family. The hearse waited in line, then pulled up in front of the chapel, followed by a limousine carrying dad, Nan, and Aunts Penny, Sue and Julie. A respectful silence, punctuated by discreet sniffling, then we respectfully trooped into the chapel, a small place with a Victorian feel. The wall which contained the entrance to the furnace was wood panelled, the furnace door itself inscribed with the motto �Resurgam� (I will rise again?). The priest, or whatever he was, led us briskly and dryly through a half-hour service, punctuated by some of Grandad�s favourite songs, some prayers for the dead, and a hymn. It was all rather arid, until my dad, Penny and Sophie got up to say their bits, and left plenty shedding a tear. It was only when the priest said �and now we commit Harry�s body�, and a cheap blue curtain swished across to hide the coffin�s absolutely final journey, that I felt a surge of emotion. The final track played: Morecambe & Wise�s �Bring Me Sunshine�. Apparently, my aunts had considered �Always Look on The Bright Side Of Life� at first, but then thought about the next funeral party to come in after ours, and decided against it. We duly shuffled out, quick dry handshake with the priest, then a look at the flowers. Smiles broke out with the sunshine, which now began to dominate the sky. I caught up with a few relatives I hadn�t seen in a while, introduced (or re-introduced) them to Nur, said a few polite things. Then we all drove off to Twyford, to the Coach and Horses Inn. It had been a favourite watering hole of Grandad, who was often driven there to get pissed, then poured into a taxi several hours later. It�s definitely an �Olde-Worlde� kind of place, all blackened beams at head-breaking height, horse brasses and dodgy tiled floors. The last time I�d been there was about 1991, when dad had bought round after round of Carlsberg Special Brew, a drink I have hated since I chucked my guts up on it when I was fifteen. We got in, then Nur remembered to turn her mobile phone back on. Almost immediately, a message flashed up.
�I hate this,�she said to mum. �I�m always afraid it�ll be a bad message about my mum.�
�Well, look at it, anyway, we�re here if it�s bad,� said my mum.
She opened the inbox.
Here�s the message, translated into English:
Big Sister, we�ve given our mum to the earth. We lost her at five o�clock this morning. May Allah give us forbearance.
Fuck.
Dead and buried the same day as my granddad.
Nur collapsed, weeping and trembling in the corner. Of course, we knew the end was near; That�s why Nur had been in Turkey in the first place. It was just the strange, sad aptness of the day. Mum got her into the toilet, while several people offered to get her drinks. After the initial shock, however, she rallied, especially when she saw the reaction of my family. Within half an hour, we had arranged a flight back to Istanbul for her and pressed the money for it into her hand, then bought her enough Southern Comfort to keep her safely anaesthetized till she got back to Turkey. I, who was supposed to get pissed with them all, now given the duty of driver for the day, then sat back and watched my family get magnificently drunk, largely on very, very generous measures of gin and tonic. They laughed, they shouted, they wept, they embraced and said how much they loved each other, they sang badly, and again and again, they told Nur the same thing: We are with you no matter what. You are family, and we will do whatever you need. We stand together no matter what. We know you are brave, leaving your family so far away to come here with Paul, and that is a quality we admire almost above all others.
Detached by my sobriety as I was, I have never truly felt the sense of unity within my own clan with quite so much force as I did that day.
Towards four o�clock, we tumbled out of the pub, and headed for Sue and Jim�s place, where the drinking and eating carried on at a frantic pace. I eventually had to virtually carry mum and Nur to the car, which stank of gin. Mum was, amazingly, actually slurring her words, something I don�t think I�ve ever experienced before. I dropped her off, then got Nur to bed, she complaining of having a bad stomach. I�m not surprised; she�d drunk the best part of half a bottle of whisky. I collected Angus from a friend�s house, and, as we walked under a mild and starry sky along the bridlepath, I tried to explain to him that his grandmother had died and that his mum had to go back to Turkey again.
�Awww� was his only response.�You mean that You are going to look after me again?�
I got him some dinner, then he said he felt sleepy, and he went upstairs and fell asleep next to Nur, taking up the racer�s position, head up, legs flung like someone sprinting, one arm to the face, another behind, that seems so typical of him.
I went to the pub, and had a drink or five for Grandad.

grandfather at rest.

He was in a wicker coffin. Laid lightly over the top was a fine gauzy material, with a shimmering cross handstitched in gold. He was laid out in a white robe, a white girdle rope and a banded collar. His hands (white, grey) laid neatly, calmly over his stomach. His face: Lifelike, eyes closed, his brow slightly furrowed, as though he were thinking through a vexing question. The shape of his mouth was slightly strange. I think the undertakers had slightly overdone the packing, so that it now looked like he had a mouthful of food, or had been caught in mid-eructation. He looked dignified and determined, for all that. My first reaction was that he would open his eyes, put out a hand to me, speak to me in that wonderful warm Old Hampshire drawl and laugh, or, going into the realms of horror, grip my arm and deliver a terrible warning. But no, it was an empty house. I'm glad I've seen him one last time before we send him off tomorrow, but at the moment I'm all mixed up in my feelings: sorrow he's gone, happiness for his life and gentle death, genuine curiosity (part of the reason I wanted to see him in the chapel of rest), a strange fear. I don't know.

two things.

First, I got my new shed this morning. Now I just have to put it together.

Second, I went to see my grandfather at the chapel of rest. We're burying him tomorrow. I've seen plenty of bodies in my time, but not one of my my own family laid out before. Still trying to work out how I feel about it right now.

feel shit. i really, really don't want to teach today.

Back from the dead.

I just found a piece of writing by an old friend and flatmate of mine on Dave's ESL cafe. I emailed him straight away; He mailed back - which was an amazing occurence, as both he and I are lazy bastards when it comes to staying in contact, hence our not talking to each other for the past few years. There's something a little strange about rediscovering an old friend or contact after a long time, something of finding the dead come back to life. So what if we meet? It will be strange: A familiar face altered by time, circumstance and the abuse of alcohol. Our life experiences will be markedly different: will we actually have anything to say to each other?

Nationalities I have taught.

I was filling in a form earlier on, outlining my teaching experience, and the number of nationalities I've had in my class surprised me somewhat - and I'm not sure that I've even included all of them!
I have taught people from China, Japan, Korea, Russia, Taiwan, Poland, Czech Republic, Turkey, France, Germany, Kazakhstan, Iran, Iraq, Greece, Italy, Spain, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Sweden, Finland, Portugal, Switzerland, Austria, Slovakia, Slovenia, Albania, Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, Saudi Arabia, Kenya, Tanzania, Nigeria, Libya, Mexico, Brazil, Colombia, Venezuela, Argentina, Pakistan, India, Nepal, Thailand and the Phillipines.
Blimey.

Still not smoking.

Most of the cravings have gone away. It's only occasionally now, when I've had a beer, that I feel the odd urge. One bizarre side-effect, however, is that I've developed an eczema-like rash over one arm, my chest, and part of my back. I have eczema anyway (I was going to say, 'suffer', but that's bullshit - it's no great hardship. It'd be like saying Geri halliwel suffers from being ginger), but this is weird. Is my immune system playing silly buggers? it's only happened since I gave up, indeed only in the past 21/2 weeks. The only thing I can relate it to is not smoking, or possibly the weather, which has been cold and dry as a bone for about the same time.

Happy...

...St. David's Day, Wales, and happy birthday to my mum and to Nur's mum. Sadly, it looks like it will be the latter's last. Nur phoned her family up last night, and they said that she isn't even moving or eating any more and is permanently on oxygen. I suspect that she may not last even tonight. Ours is a despondent house at the moment: My grandfather, Nur's mum and her father, my dad's wife, our circumstances...it's as though there is some vile, evil, black mind pitted against us at the moment. I don't know where or to whom I can turn. For the sake of everyone around me, I must be strong, yet where is the strength for me? I went a bit mental on friday night, shouting my head off and kicking things - I don't know why: just needed to vent, I suppose.
I saw my grandmother and a few of my aunts on saturday afternoon. They were organising the funeral, and I found them well, considering. Angus had a beautiful thought.
'Dad, I know how we can talk with great grandad'
'How?'
'Well, we can blow up balloons and write messages on them and tie them on, then we let them go whoosh! in the air, then they go up, and great grandad, because he's up in the air, he can catch the messages and read them!'
'well, how does he answer?'
'He can't answer, he's dead, silly! But perhaps he can come in dreams'
The idea of letting go balloons with messages on seems like a charming thing to do - you let the message fly; then perhaps someone, anyone, might answer it.
Yesterday we had dinner with mum. Karen came round too, and like millions of people, we were stumped as to what to write on a little oblong of white card -the condolence card to go on a wreath. We didn't want anything glib, like 'sorely missed', or 'Now in Heaven' etc. I suggested 'Grandad, you were like a popular, fine red wine - frequently drunk', which made us both laugh like drains, but was a bit inappropriate. In the end, we settled for glib.

More on my grandfather

I'm trying to fix in mind my first memory of him. I can't. It seems, to me, that he always was. I recall my sister and me staying overnight in their house, which always seemed to be freezing cold because it didn't have central heating. My granddad used to wear a wig then, which he kept on a faintly disturbing polyester bust when not using it. I remember laughing as he managed to pursuade my 3-year-old sis that it needed feeding, and she proffering a biscuit to it. Mostly, I remember sunday dinners in his house, lazy luches of roast beef and potatoes, with spotted dick (made by my nan) for dessert, followed by lazy lounging in front of the TV, while nan made huge platters of sandwiches for Tea, and Grandad would let me look through huis book collection for something interesting to read. At Christmas, the family would rent out a big, dusty ex-church that smelt of ancient, dry wood, and grandad would get dressed up as Father Christmas and hand out bulky, garish presents. Other memories will come, I'm sure: I need time to think them over.

Harold Gallantry 1922 - 2004.

My grandfather died at 2.00 this morning. It was expected: He hadn't been well for some time. I was going to visit him in hospital this afternoon. I hadn't been able to before, because I've had this stupid damn cold and my parents warned me off going in, in case I passed it on. Seems stupid now. There's a photo of him in the sidebar.

happy birthday to me...

Yay! I'm 36! Happy birthday for all you other pisceans out there...
My evening class of students insisted on taking me out last night. I've pasted a couple of pics below. The darlings bought me a bottle of Tekirdag Raki, the best you can get!

Things to give up for lent.

Here's a list of things to possibly give up for 40 days.
1) Chocolate - boring!
2) Alcohol - is this possible?
3) Walking
4) Sarcasm
5) The ghost
6) Hope
7) Biting nails
8) Impure thoughts
9) Pure thoughts
10) Being awake
11) Wearing black
12) Smiting mightily
13) Wailing and gnashing teeth
14) Listening to 2-10 fm, the sound for Berkshire and North Hampshire!!!

Oh Joy. Now for an afternoon of intermediate English....lovely people, but a bit on the dim side. I think I'd have a greater degree of success with them if I took a basket of puppies in with me. And tea and cake.

still hanging in there

I very nearly had a fag last night. I even had a pack in my pocket, but I managed - just - to prevent myself. I focused on the idea of the illusion - smoking is a kind of lie, the sense of satisfaction after a puff is a kind of lie, the craving is just another lie - and thought of the currently rather abstract advantages instead - lower heart rate, prolonged life, cleaner hair and skin etc etc. It kind of worked.

I am sorely tempted...

..to have a cigarette, now that Nur's back, trailing a carton of fags in her wake. It wasn't so hard while she was away, as there was no smoking paraphanalia in the house, and I couldn't easily slip out for a pack as I was looking after Angus. Now, though, it's much more difficult. I keep telling myself that smoking and craving a smoke are mere illusions, the bodily equivalent of someone seeing a mirage in a desert. Still hard to prevent myself crawling towards wadi-al-ciggy, though.

a rough draft

just a quick piece of poetry - more just an image really, needs tidying up. It was just seeing my son asleep about an hour ago.

He has finally found sleep.
I peer round the door, see
His form quiet,
And, as ever, his duvet
Kicked to the end of the bed.
In sleep, his legs are crooked, one arm
Is flung behind him, the other
Raised to his face,
A frozen sprinter
In a dream of a race.
I walk towards him,
And gently cover his form,
Gently plant the laurels of a kiss
On his brow.
Race on, son, race on:
Past the sun, past the stars,
Outstrip the North Wind,
Skirt some distant galaxy
Then let the sun tug you homewards
That you may tell me the story of your race
As dawn broadens the world.
16-2-04

I miss you.

You are how many miles away from me now, Nur? 1,500? 2,000? Well, you�ll be back on Wednesday. I miss you though. I can always look towards the place that you are, and let my mind seek a way towards you. So, I look east-south-east, about 118 degrees on the compass. I send my eye through my bedside bookcase, between the Alexander Text edition of Shakespeare (a 1986 edition) and the Lysistrata of Aristophanes. My eye goes though the wall, past the pine tree and over the owl sanctuary next door. I travel down our valley, where the slightest noise is echoed back and forth by the trees, where foxes yowl at night. I gather these images, these sounds, the warm scent of the earth lazily uncoiling from its winter bed, to bring to you. I dash down the road now, my speed increasing. I leap over Balmore and see the bare lights of my home town, then leave them behind, mere embers. Now I am flying, flying, flying, crossing Berkshire, then Surrey, then into Sussex. Now I leap into the Channel at Hastings and wade over to France. I bound over the Alps, skirt Switzerland and Italy. Next, I glide across the Adriatic, then float silently above Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia, looking down into a darkness broken only by a few lights here and there. Bulgaria comes, and I hear only a few voices from below, the sound of a car on a late night road, a horse calling in a field. But now I can see but destination: Trakya, ancient Thrace, and then Istanbul. I glide over Edirne, then follow the contours of the Marmara, watching fishing boats tilt, rise, tilt, fall, tilt again and again as the gentle waves carry them. Nearing my goal, I see that the land is cold beneath me: You have had much ice and snow this week. There are more and more ships below me, all coming to congregate where Aya Sofya, the greatest building on Earth, guards the passageway to the Bosphoros. Then, there She is, The City, blaring light skywards, its wondrous towers, its secret roads, its joy and its sorrow, its wildness and augustness. Now I turn, I dive and land in some dark road and search for you from door to door, alleyway by alleyway, until finally I find you in an apartment. You are worn out, you are sleeping: And in your sleep, I plant a kiss on your lips, I lay a rose in your heart, and I whisper all that I have seen as I journeyed toward you. Then I quietly, tenderly close the door, look towards the sky, and find myself back here, writing this. Yet still, my heart stays next to yours.
I�ll see you on Wednesday evening, darling.

Of course!

What Famous Leader Are You?

Wherever you go, whatever you do, it's nice to know that some things remain the same...

...Just read my mate Marcus' account of a day at his school in Korea....plus ca change etc...as a riposte, here's a link back to a typical day in Istanbul...the numbers in the text refer to the tracks on a compilation CD.

Bloody sodding cars, grumble, grumble...

Having had sole use of the car for the last fortnight makes me glad that I generally cycle to work. Firstly, it keeps me fit and my stomach within the circulference of my jeans; Second, it's faster for me to cycle - it takes me a maximum of fifteen minutes, whereas a car journey can be up to an hour; Finally, I never have a problem with parking with a bike. Several months ago, the college began issuing parking permits, solemnly warning that those without permits would be clamped. As is normal with this place, there are millions of cars without permits clogging the sodding car parks up, and noone has done a thing about it. Grumble, grumble, growl, growl......

I talked with Nur on the phone last night. She sounded distant and hollow, probably because she was on tranquilizers. Her mum is in a bad way. I suspect that the end isn't far off now. Nur is due to come back on sunday, but I suspect she may stay out there longer. Angus and I are doing ok, anyway.

A snatched piece of a conversation.

In a lift: 'Why walk, when you can use the lift?', wheezed the incredibly fat woman as she squeezed through the elevator doors and waddled slowly down the corridor, great folds of fat concealing her elbows. A living answer to her own question, I think.

stupid joke.

Have you seen David Blunkett's new girlfriend?

Neither has he.


note: David Blunkett, for those not in the know of British politics, is the Home Secretary, responsible for homeland affairs. a former socialist, he is now regarded as being just to the right of Genghis Khan. He is also blind.

God, I really don't want to teach this afternoon, or this evening for that matter. Still, plough on I must.

For my readership in the far East: Have you noticed how tiny Chinese, Japanese and Korean hand gestures are? When they wave a hand in greeting, the hand waves, but not too much, from the wrist, while the arm remains at an almost parallel line with the body: When they clap, the elbows remain firmly in place at the sides, while the hands do precise little flapping motions. Graceful or just self-control?

Hungover.

....and on white wine too. I was up way too late, listening to old CDs and reading through ancient diary entries again. I got really annoyed with my 25-year old self; One entry contained references to reading a book, but I hadn't mentioned exactly which book it was. What a daft oversight. Judging from the time and place (February 1994, Izmir), I suspect the book was either Grave's I, Claudius or a dreadful read by some pretentious EFL teacher in Saudi, the name of which was Sucking Sherbert Lemons.

Too late, too tired.

I feel knackered. This is the first chance I've had to sit down since 6.30 this morning, the first opportunity to be by myself and try to listen only to my own voice, to see what it may say.

There is still so, so much to be said.

I feel time withering behind me, a spark of fire on a fine yarrow stalk, which twists and blackens as the hungry orange rushes its length, leaving nothing but a fine grey ash to be scattered by the wind; I feel myself as a never-seen cavern in the chalk country that is my home, filled with calcified water from the winter rains, longing for light to burst in that the water in me may rush out, that I may stare gasping into day, finally empty; I feel like the sullen impatience of the red kite, lashed to its roost by a dull day of hard wind and cold gobbets of naily rain, desiring nothing more than to raise its russet wings like a banner against the sky, and sail the wind, an omen to scryers; I see a trail of lost opportunities behind me like goods flung from the back of a boat in stormy seas, the occupant not noticing his loss until he arrives at his destination and his cargo, he finds, is gone.

There is still so, so much to be said.

Always beware of the English Course you choose....

An advertisement for a course....
SNAKE HEAD ENGRISH
Unit 5, Block 12, Shaolin Road, Fujian Province, PRC
�HEY YOU! YEAH, YOU NEW GENEERATION! COME ON, DREAM IN ENGLISH ON ENGLAND!�

Coarse detail for that week:
Monday: PAY DAY: You pay $20,000, we get you to ENGLAND!!!! Then you pay more. Or, we torture you granny. You arrive in UK in back of led roll�rel loll�big truck and go straight to wonder home: converted freight container!! You share with only 42 other!!! 1th lesson: Vocabulary: Theme: �Cutting vegetables in farm�

Tuesday: Glammer! 1st conditional: �If you no work 24 hour day, seven day week, shining Samsung miclowave, we will tear you pet budgie head off!

Wednedsday: Social Engrish: Getting a National Insurance number. We give you one, then you sign contract promising you work for next ten year. Or we burn you house to ground.

Thuday: Visit to factory!! Depart 4.30 a.m. Bring own lunch. We take you in special no-window white van. You stay in factory, learn great ever day English, as, �Oi you! Pick that up!�, �I think �1 is fair wages for a twelve-hour day�, �No, it doesn�t hurt, I can carry on working, look, I�ve put it back in the socket�. Stay in factory until 12.00 o�clock p.m. midnight!! You work! Or we get Ming Dynasty on you parents!

Fliday: OUTING and CULTURE STUDIES: go swimming and cockle picking in loverly MORECAMBE BAY!!! Note: you must pick 300 bags cockles or we shoot you family!!!!!

SNAKEHEAD ENGRISH ! YEAH! YOU HAVE GREAT FUNNY TIME AND ENTERTAINING! BECAUSE, WE GREAT ENJOYMENT MAKE! OR YOU DIE!!!
OK, so perhaps it's in poor taste, considering what happened to those poor guys on Morecambe Bay, but it's nothing compared to the parasitic arrogant pondlife that engineered the tragedy.

Ah, the weekend...

Four days on the trot, seventeen smokeless days this year. Savings: �40.80

It has been brought to my attention that entries in this blog make me sound like an utterly miserable git. Well, I do have some justification for that, of course, but I will strive to let the sunny side of my disposition shine through. Rather than the cynical, sneering and satirical bastard that all my friends know and love.

Thursday. Hmmm.

Third day in a row without a cigarette, a total of sixteen smokeless days in 2004 so far. savings so far: �38.40

Am only having slight cravings, and when they do appear, I go off and do something until they bugger off. I'm having a pretty tedious, albeit productive, time of it at the moment. I mean productive in the sense of getting some decent lesson planning going and being (or trying to be) proactive in sorting out my financial situation. Just organising the paperwork has been useful. Now, if I could get my backside round to doing some real creative work, I'd be happy.

I haven't been getting to bed till 1.30/2.00 the last few days, a result of which is my feeling and looking pretty crap. Despite my tiredness, I find it difficult to get to sleep. I've spent far too long instead netsurfing. Chat rooms are strange *places*: I can't see the point, really, unless they're on a fairly specialised topic. Most of the conversations are inane to the point of catatonia. One chatroom I visited purported to be for university/college lecturers: For some strange reason, I became involved in a conversation with a woman whose boyfriend had apparently become wedged solid inside his pet dog whilst buggering it. Well, it brightened up an otherwise dull evening, I suppose.

Right, time to give up. Now.

I'm going to take the opportunity of Nur's absence to give up smoking. It's high time I did: I've smoked since I was sixteen, nearly twenty years ago. Jesus! where did that time go??? This means I will have to take up another activity to displace any craving. It can't be eating - I don't want to get a like a fat git! Any suggestions out there?

The fact of the matter is that, in order to rid myself of one bad habit, I must also rid myself of others. Detrimental routines seem to compound each other with me, linking into my sense of self-esteem (or lack of it). For example: I go to the pub at the end of the day because I'm feeling down about something. I have a pint. I smoke because I've always smoked when I drink. I drink more because I'm smoking, and my throat gets dry. I smoke more, then I lurch over to the fruit machine and drunkenly lob some money in it, which I promptly lose. This makes me feel lower, so I drink more beer, run out of money, go to the cashpoint, drink, smoke and gamble more, then suddenly wake up in the morning, feeling miserable because I don't have money. This pondering distracts me from getting on with my job, which makes me feel low, which in turn leads to the pub......

I can't just give up smoking: I have to reeducate myself in drinking. Since university, I have been quite a heavy drinker. Never an alcoholic, fortunately, but that's only because there's some tiny bit of me with a sense of self-preservation. But I will drink until I feel fairly pissed, which is not good.

The vampiric village hall pantomime.

Dear God in Heaven,
Thank you that I'm still alive after the bloody farrago I've just had to sit through. This afternoon I went along with son, my mother, my aunt, my cousin and his daughter to a pantomime laughingly fashioned out of 'Treasure Island', in which another of my aunts was participating and had cadged some tickets for us. I went along despite feeling tired and ill because my son wanted to - mainly, I suspect, because he knows he can chew through tons of sweets and drink fizzy sugary crap during such entertainments. Well, the one last year wasn't too bad: all the usual 'Oh no it isn't!', 'Look behind you!' and garish dames crap, but moderately well done, by AmDram standards. This year though: Oh dear. fair enough, it was clear the villagers had done their hardest, but they were fighting a losing battle against a script that was too long, too confusing and had too many characters. All the kids in the audience got bored and started yelling or crying or running around, while the adults sat in stoic silence. Jesus, it was bloody awful. I could feel the life force being sucked out of me, the dreadful waste of hours from a life getting shorter as it is. The only bright point of the entire production was a fairly attractive young woman who was wearing very tight black leggings, a result of which was to give us a view of a spectacular camel's hoof. That and the sweets they threw out at the end.

two weeks of solitude and entertaining a five-year-old.

Well, Nur's gone to Istanbul. At this moment in time, she should just have passed into Turkish airspace, and be skimming either the Marmara or The Black Sea, depending on which way the wind's blowing. Two weeks....fourteen days of fun looking after Angus. It could, however, be longer; It depends on the situation while she's there. Also got the half term looming. Joy.

I've just finished marking my academic English class's assignments. Not an uplifting experience, I must say. A few have completed the task as required, properly researched, annotated and bibliographed, but others - well, it shows that they can copy beautifully. Guess who'll be getting 0% for it?

alternative career for EFL lecturers?

This is what happens when you don't check your contract......EFLer kidnap concerns

...

Can't think of anything to write really, so I'm just going to riff with what's going on in my head at the mo. I missed a bloody blizzard by minutes: I was just leaving college when it all kicked off. after an hour of waiting, I decided to walk home. Halfway down the road, it stopped. Ha bloody ha ha.

Nur's going off to Istanbul tomorrow morning - I'll drive her to the station to get her bus. She is most definitely not a happy bunny at present. She talked with her mum last night, who apparently sounded much brighter and chirpier than before. Still, she's going to have a sad time of it, no matter the outcome.

I now need to do a ton of marking for the Academic English course - what joy, scrutinising essays for evidence of plagiarism. Then, of course, I'll hand the things back and the guilty students will say, 'I didn't no copy! No! My work!', until I show them the relevant pages from a Google search. Then they'll grin and smirk. Twats.

On another learning front, it looks like I might be giving Turkish lesssons, which will be interesting.

Right, enough of nothing being said, time to do some real work.

and you think your job's bad?

....check these out!

still no snow.

they promised snow! Where is it? What have you done with it?

money

According to the BBC's Breakfast programme this morning, the average graduate will earn �21,100 p.a. in their first job.
What do I earn?
�21,830.
Since graduating in 1989, I have had a total pay increase (taking into account stuff like inflation) of about 3%.
Shit.
No wonder I'm buggered financially.
They say teaching is a rewarding career......

It's cold outside, but inside I'm all warm and fluffy. Not.

Another miserable week commences. I'm just wondering how hard it's going to snow. This time last year, we had about an inch of the stuff and it took me 3 hours to get to school! Pathetic. At least I'll be on my bike. Wife is still unhappy, obviously, and scared about what lies ahead for her. I wish I could go, but lack of money seems to forbid that. Bugger.
On the money front, everything's still crap, but at least it's crap that is having a bit of light shone upon it, revealing itself in all its loathsome tudy splendour. I've found a couple of websites that seem to offer decent advice: now to put it to work.

an extract...

...from the joy of raki.

Izmir, June/July 1994
Whole days would pass in that smoky living room, the three of us drinking beer or the local white wine mixed with orange squash to make it more palatable. We sat and smoked and watched MTV on the knackered TV, listened to Nirvana, Blur, Green Day, Madness, anything. We�d sit in the smoke, wearing the lightest clothes we could. Even speaking seemed too burdensome, too sweatmaking at times. Beer bottles slowly accumulated in the hallway, until we had to jump over them to get to the bathroom. The kitchen had died long before, and was stacked with the corpses of long-expired dinners. The fridge had become an experimental ecosystem. Guy, Andrew and I were slugging at our beers,when I saw a cockroach knocking at the living room door. Not just a cockroach, but the biggest bastard I had ever seen. Its black carapace glistened evilly, its antenna twitched and searched.
Jesus, look at the size of that bastard! Andrew yelled. We all got on our feet. The bastard scuttled away from us.
Quick, trap it!
We chased it, and it ran behind a beer bottle. We were all armed : Me with a newspaper, Andrew with a shoe, Guy with a can of aerosol and a lighter. We gathered round the bottle where it was hiding. Right, I said. After three, Ill lift the bottle, then we take turns to smack the fucker into oblivion. OK?
Quick nods from the other two.
Alright then, get ready.......one.......two......three........go! No!
I lifted the bottle, and there it was in all its loathsome glory. It then did the unexpected: It charged us.
AAAAGGHH!
We all dived for the cover of the living room.
A few minutes passed.
Has it gone yet?
I think so.

Friday. Cold. Miserable. No money. Bollocks.

I feel like crap. After lessons last night, I rather stupidly went out and got drunk. It didn't make me feel any better about my predicament, unsurprisingly. I just sat in the Cooper's Arms, supping beer and failing dismally to complete an Auracaria crossword. Somebody else in there must have been depressed too: The juke box was playing Tracy Chapman, REM and other sad stuff. After arriving home about 11.30, I found Wife and Child curled up asleep in the latter's bed. I cracked open a bottle of Korean rice wine that one of my students had given me. Not bad. Nur woke up, and we talked and smoked in the kitchen. Her elder sister, the cow, has still not told their father about their mum's condition: She wants Nur to tell him when she arrives in Istanbul. She isn't even looking after him, preferring to focus all her attention on her mother, even while the poor man screams in pain and desperation. They have been married for soemthing like 50 years, since they were children (a common village practice in Turkey until relatively recently).
God, life just seems to be throwing me curve balls at the moment. I NEED TO BE STRONG FOR MY FAMILY'S SAKE. But where can i get that strength? I'm on my knees as it is. Someone help me find a way through all this, please!

Bum, arse,bugger and tits.

...just venting my feelings. I've had a shit day, and I've still got to teach...God, I could do with a nice cold beer...

from bad to worse....

Just when I thought things couldn't get any harder, they just have. I got a phone call from my wife's sister yesterday afternoon. She sounded upset, but wouldn't say anything apart from 'Get her to call me. Our mother's really ill'. I tried calling my wife, but she had her mobile switched off, so I got out of work as quickly as possible and pedalled home. When I arrived, I gave her the message, she called, and just crumpled. Her mum's been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and it looks like her father's in a bad way too. It looks like she may have only weeks to live. My wife booked her flight back to Turkey last night: She goes on the 30th and will stay two weeks. I spent half the night comforting her, or trying to. What the hell could I say to her? I felt numb. Now, on top of the financial problems, we have this, which is way more important.
My own side of the family, too, has problems: My grandfather is in hospital, and my dad's wife has breast cancer. It is really being brought home to me, hard, how much my family will need to rely on me over the next few years. And I need help myself. Oh God, please give me strength!

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year to all Chinese people! I expect most of my students won't be appearing today......Hopefully, this year will be a good one for me, as it's a monkey year (a green wooden one, apparently) and I'm a monkey. It can't be any worse than what I've been through, anyway. Had yet another letter from the bank telling me they were unable to pay another bill....

Time for bed....

....I am wet and knackered, having cycled home in the rain. I've just been thinking that I haven't included any raki joy in here recently, but I soon shall. For the time being, however, here's a quick recipe:
Lamb's Brain salad.
Take 1 cute, fluffy, ickle little lamb. Slit its throat in the approved halal method. Saw though the top of the skull and remove the brain, making sure to carefully cut the nerve cord. Boil the brain until tender, then let cool. Arrange some cos lettuce leaves on a plate. Place brain in the middle. Serve with a slice of lemon. Squeeze lemon on the brain and wait for it to emit a high-pitched shriek. That's the bit I like.
Afiyet olsun!
n.b.:No ickle lambs were harmed in the making of this entry.

still grey, still dull.

It has now been raining since 8.30 this morning....bleah. I've just found out that John Lydon, aka Johnny Rotten, is to appear on 'I'm a celebrity, get me out of here!', alongside such luminaries as Diane Mohdahl (alleged sports drug cheat), Neil 'Razor' Ruddock (football bod), 'veteran' alleged DJ Mike Read (the man who banned Frankie Goes To Hollywood) and the Professor for gender dysmorphia studies and Really Big Jugs, Jordan (who, in an interview with the Sun, has promised 'to get it all off'). This could be a very interesting prog to watch indeed......then again, they could evict Rotten early on and it goes rapidly downhill from there.

I missed most of the 'Newsnight' interview with The Beloved Tony Bliar last night regarding tuition fees. I myself am deeply against student loans et al, as I'm certain I would never have been able to go to uni had they been in place when I went. However, one comment from a young female member of the audience got my goat. It was about public taxation to pay for HE, and It went a bit like this:
'Well, a dustman should be glad to pay for me to go to university to become a doctor, because he'll be glad when I save his life. He and others like him should be paying for university students.'
Quite apart from this young lady's vacuous thinking, the assumption of superiority really annoyed me. The obvious answer to her should be, 'Well, are you glad to pay for the dustman to come and clean out your crap? Would you do it yourself? How do you know that the dustman isn't actually well-educated but has chosen his/her own way through life? And do you actually give a toss?'
It's all very Ayn Rand really, isn't it? The assumption that the world will grind to a halt if there was no benign intelligentsia. No, the world would grind to a halt pretty fucking quickly if there weren't immigrants to keep your corner shops open all hours, to clean your floors and wipe your toilets, no unskilled labour to clean your bins, sweep your streets, sew your clothes, make your fancy trainers, tan your leather, make your fabrics, pick your crops and slaughter your meat.
Right, end of rant, I've got to go back to class.

why the hell do I feel so inert today?

Dull, dull.

The town of Reading on a wet January day is not a very enticing prospect, particularly when I have to face an intermediate class in an hour. It's no wonder we have so many pubs here.....

Yet another Tuesday.

I'm trying to get my addled brain in order, alongside my buggered financial situation. In terms of money, I really have reached my nadir. I finally told my parents about it, not that they can really help, except with practical advice. I hadn't wanted to say anything, but I didn't really have anywhere else to turn. We totted up mine and my wife's total debts: They came to a staggering thirty three thousand pounds. It was horrifying. How the hell did that happen? All I'm doing is paying some other bastard. Note that this money hasn't gone on fancy living - far from it, it has been to try and live decently. And that debt has been racked up over the past four years since we moved back to this bloody country. I mean, what the hell is going on? I'm not looking to be a millionaire: I'm not looking to swill champagne every other day; I'm just trying to live. It seems like a strange punishment being meted out to me for having the presumption to go and live abroad. At least now I can see where our money is going. Now what shall I do? A consolidating loan is out of the question, I think. I can look for additional work, but that is likely to be something like working in a bar, and that is not going to haul us out of the morass by itself. I can look for another job, but what?

today's philosophical question (s)

.....why are right-wing American commentators (Rush Limbaugh et al) so dumb? Why are they so full of hate for anyone who doesn't agree 100% with their rantings? Why are they so scared?

Still mnnurg. But with added evening.

Oh well, just another 2 hours 45 minutes before I can stagger out of here. The afternoon lesson was dullish. They are a very nice intermediate English group, but not the brightest buttons in the sewing drawer. Also, they are ridiculously passive when it comes to doing anything in front of the class. They work well when placed into pairs or small groups, but ask them a question in front of the group and they clam up. The fear of answering wrongly. This up and coming evening class, however, are a joy, as they usually are - inquisitive, bright, and willing. Then I shall go home, have whatever's in the fridge, and sleep. God my life's exciting.

Mnnurg.

A productive morning so far, workwise. I've created four presentations and a new score calculation spreadsheet, plus garner materials for the next couple of days' lessons. Now, if I could get time to do another job and pay off my bills, I'd be happy. As it was, I spent about four hours last night, trying to untangle the financial mess that is my life...

Monday musing

I was reading through an old diary entry yesterday. It was from ten years ago, when blogging wasn�t even a randy gleam in its maker�s eye. At the time, I was nearing the end of my third month in Izmir, Turkey: I�d just got two new flatmates, John and James: And I was still somewhat bewildered and lost, wondering what the hell I was doing in the place. As entries go, it was pretty mundane. I was rejoicing over the fact that I had found a place that sold porridge oats. �At last I can have a real breakfast,� I wrote. Until that point, all I�d been having was the chewy standard white bread sold all over the country. The idea of having a full Turkish breakfast � white cheese, eggs, olives, tomatoes, cucumber, tea and honey � hadn�t even entered my head. One sad attempt to make toast over a gas ring had been abandoned after the bread caught fire. I was, at that time, still trying to do everything the English Way, rather than stepping over into the pace and customs of Turkey, as I was able to later. So, there I was yesterday, my 35-year-old self reading about my 25-year-old self, and being sucked down a pathway of memory.
Someone has said that a diarist lives three times: Once when he lives it, twice when he writes it down, and third when the diary is read later. It was strange, reading this other me. Here was this person with largely the same opinions, beliefs and habits as myself, yet subtly different. For a start, this guy had more hair than me, and was thinner and (probably) better-looking. Then, I was still reaching out, groping towards whatever the future held for me. How would the 25-year-old Paul react if he had known, ten years hence, he would be back in his home town with a wife and son and still teaching English? As I read, I could see myself again, leaning over the page, dusty light coming through my bedroom window as I wrote on a desk made from a wardrobe door, and the tingling jingle of the AyGaz van echoed through the street outside. And now, here I am, remembering yesterday, an image of me sitting on my bedroom floor, reading a ten-year-old diary entry and imagining a younger self, a procession of imagination like Russian dolls nestling within each other. After all, what is the past but a construction of memory?

The weekend cometh...

....which would normally be an occasion of great rejoicing. Instead, I am left to ponder where I'm going to get the money for groceries from. Jeez, I am so buggered financially, I don't know where to start. Has anyone out there got a spare �15,000? Failing that, some advice?

I dream...

Morpheus


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
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George W. Bush is a Chimpanzee: The joy of syllogism

I was in a chatroom last night. It advertised itself as a room for college and university lecturers, and, wanting to participate in a bit of intellectual cut and thrust, I entered it. As ever, however, it turned out to be something of a disappointment. One woman was complaining of another user sending unwanted private messages: Some guy was looking for �a smart hottie to do some C2C!!!�: Two others were discussing what they�d had for dinner. In the midst of this maelstrom of intellectual debate, one user was deriding anyone and everyone who opposed George Bush�s policies. Here�s a sample of what he said:

Ifix: Bush�s steel tariff policy was wrong.
RLSM: Hey, you liberals all say that.
Ifix: I�m not a liberal. I just think that the policy doesn�t work.
RLSM: The man can do no wrong.
..
CandidEye: The invasion of Iraq could have been handled better..
RLSM: Tell me � do you support Saddam?
CandidEye: Of course not, but the war was launched on a false premise.
RLSM; So you liberals say.
CandidEye: Why don�t you try and debate properly?
RLSM: Why do I want to talk to commies for?

And more in this vein. What interested me was the way RLSM made his leaps of logic. Firstly, he used the word �Liberal� as an insult. There�s nothing new there: Since 9/11, the word has been used in this vein to deride anyone even mildly critical of the president�s policies. He then moved on to say that liberals were first, communists, then Stalinists, then homosexuals and finally, the French � obviously a most deadly insult. Joining in the childish fun, I equated Bush with Hitler, then left the room while he exploded in rage.

Now, while I would certainly describe myself as generally liberal in my politics, I definitely cannot say that I am a communist, a Stalinist, a homosexual or even French. What interested me most about what RLSM was saying was how he arrived at his premises: the wonderful world of the false syllogism.

A syllogism is, of course, a flexible philosophical tool for arriving at a conclusion from a set of premises. Usually we include a general, universal primary premise with a secondary premise that may be universal or specific, and from them we reach a conclusion. For example:

Men can grow beards.
Plato is a man. (Syllogisms frequently use dead philosophers.)
Therefore, Plato can grow a beard.

As we can see, when the premises are reasonably universal or reasonably specific, we can arrive at a reasonable conclusion. However, syllogisms can be easily wielded to produce false conclusions, especially in the hands of those for whom logical thought is an alien concept. Here are a couple of examples:

Men have beards.
Plato doesn�t have a beard.
Therefore, Plato is a woman.

Liberals don�t like right-wing policies.
The communists don�t like right-wing policies.
Therefore, all liberals are communists.

Can you see the problem? Yet the entire thrust of right-wing American popular political debate is based upon the use of false syllogisms. Your average shock-jock lazily reaches for a premise, tacks another to it and voila! Instant opinion. Or they might take the conclusion, use that as a premise, and move on to even whackier conclusions. In truth, this has absolutely nothing to do with reasoned debate: It is merely the ugly logic of the mob, the erratic desire to reach a conclusion no matter what, and truth be damned.

Anyway, two can play at this game�.the next time someone lazily accuses you of being a commie, or a Stalinist, or a homosexual (or hetero, to be perfectly fair), or, God Forbid, French, you can come back at them with some of the following, employing the same warped way of thinking that your accuser uses. And yes, it is puerile and silly, but what the hell�.

Chimps have close-set eyes and purse their lips when confused.
George W Bush has close-set eyes and purses his lips when confused.
Therefore, George W. Bush is a chimp.

Which leads to�.
Chimps throw their own faeces at potential enemies.
George Bush is a chimp.
Therefore, George Bush throws faeces at potential enemies.

Or�
Chimps can learn to imitate aspects of human behaviour.
George Bush is a chimp.
Therefore, George Bush can learn to imitate aspects of human behaviour.

Feel free to make up more insulting versions of your own.

It is bloody wet here!

I am so glad I didn't try to cycle in this am...it's horrible! I'm going to make a few changes to this blog which should make it more readable, with any luck.

Art? I know what I like...

There are some very strange artists out there....look at this!

Tuesday. Wet. No money.

I am not having a very pleasant day, work-wise. A load of computer cabling has just fallen off the wall, I got soaked cycling in, I had to disappoint a group of students who were waiting for a new teacher anmd drag a load of new recruits round on the town tour. I also have to get my lessons ready for this afternoon and tomorrow. Oh joy. That, and the stress of worrying about where to get money from. I really am desperate for money to pay for bills: I just don't know where to turn. If there are any kindhearted souls out there with advice or cash, please, please, please contact me.

The first blog of the year

Been to busy, too tired, and too sad to blog. I decided to not worry about money until after the end of the festive season: I didn't want to make others unhappy with my unhappiness. Now I do have to worry, and how! I have precisely two pounds twenty pence in my pocket, and that's it. All the money I have. I can't even get groceries for my family this week, let alone pay for the mortgage, insurance, credit cards, loans, etc. etc. I really don't know what else to do. I can, of course, get more work, but I've worked out that I'd need to work at least another 30 hours a week to dig myself out of this. I really don't know what to do. It's not even as if I was living an extravagant lifestyle: On the contrary, I'm rather frugal in most aspects. How did it all go wrong? How? There's been an evil shadow over me ever since the earthquake in Turkey in August 1999. Every decision, including returning to the UK, has turned out badly, and now I'm about to lose my house and probably my family. What can I do? If anyone is reading this, please help. Please. I'm prepared to do anything now (as long as it's legal) to dig myself out of this situation.

merry xmas!

Happy christmas to all and sundry! I know it's only the 22nd, but what the H. For the limited number of readers of this blog, can I ask you to look at purely creative, my blog for creative stuff? If you like it, can you please let me know and pas it on? there's nothing there yet, but I'll be adding a doodleboard on it soon for my photos, sketches and pictures. These will be relatively low-res stuff: If you want them, they'll be copiable, but if you want originals, they'll cost! Art, ideally, should be free. However, ideals aren't gonna pay my rent, sadly. The writing I will be posting on it is all copyright. Of course, I won't be able to do anything if you decide to quote any of the poetry ad hoc, or quote it, and quite rightly. The sketches and the prose however are a different thing. Performances of any sketches will have to be with my express permission, or I'll come round your house, rip your right leg off and beat you to death with the wet end. Comments are most welcome.

Tuesday.

Not Friday.

we love santa!

I wanted to be Aragorn, but all I got was a bloody hobbit...

Congratulations! You're Merry!


Which Lord of the Rings character and personality problem are you?
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Laughed my head off!

I just got this from the Fortean Times....enjoy!
ON THIS DAY
15 December. In 1980 members of the Truth Tabernacle Church in Burlington, North Carolina, staged a mock trial, charging 'Satan Claus' on ten counts, including child abuse, impersonation of St Nicholas, Baal idolatry and falsification of Christ's birthday. He was found guilty and habged in effigy. In 1989 a huge effigy of Father Christmas was made with conscientious attention to detail for one of Tokyo's largest deparment stores. The staff were delighted, but got their western festivals confused. Father Christmas was put on the roof and crucified.

Five days till end of term....still no money!

A thought just flicked by.....Saddam looked like a really dishevelled guy auditioning to be Santa in some godawful shopping mall. Perhaps that should be part of his punishment: Consigned to a dire grotto every xmas, with really bad jingly nusic and elves nipping out for fag breaks every five minutes, while children sit on his knee, punching him.

Still no money...I went into a bank on saturday to ask about a loan, but it's not looking hopeful. The bastards are happy to dig a hole for you to get into, but not so useful when it comes to being hauled out. I really am in deep financial shit. Perhaps I could have done more to alleviate the situation, I don't know, but it seems that this bloody country has somehow got it in for me. Every time I thought things were starting to look brighter, then bang! Whack! Ka-pow! I get hit for another bill, and I have to piss money. If Anyone has advice, I really will be grateful for it.

rejoice? rejoice?

Just to get my two pennorth in of comment re Saddam's capture. I suppose you can best sum up my feelings on the subject as grim satisfaction. I am sure most Iraqis will probably be pretty pleased he's been taken....it brings an end to many uncertain months. I, for one, will most certainly not feel the euphoric pleasure in the circles of power in London and Washington. Where are the WMDs? Where are they? The reasons for the war have yet to be justified. Besides which, a tyrant may have been toppled, but the motives and execution of the war are still illegal, no matter which way it's painted. Then there are the American companies doing to Iraq what is little more than state-sanctioned plundering, an act in defiance of the Geneva Convention. If George Bush really believes in freedom and not money, he'd do best to get out ASAP, job done. As for Tony Blair: For Christ's Sake, just bloody resign, would you? Just go.

money....the extreme lack thereof.

I am feeling utterly depressed. I don't have a single penny to my name, despite working like a dog for the last three years. What the Hell has gone wrong? I brought my family back to the UK in the hope of giving them a better life, and have struggled with debt and destitution ever since. I took out a loan a couple of years back in the vain hope that that would alleviate things, but it has been a vile, rotting albatross corpse round my neck. I face a festive season with no cheer, followed by the hounding of companies, baying for my money. I am on the brink of losing my house, my possessions and probably my family. What can I do? what the Hell can I do? I've been declined a consolidation loan by a few companies now....apparently, 'poor credit'. Well, that didn't stop them offering it to me before, did it? I've had to rely on credit cards just to get through the last few months, and just when it seemed that things were about to get brighter, wham! Another demand, then another and another. I can't seem to escape. If there is anyone out there, anyone, with advice or about fifteen thousand pounds to spare, please, please email me: pjgallantry@hotmail.com. Advice will be most deeply appreciated.

the unbearable lightness of blogging

It is only when one has spent hour after hour of meaningless trudging round shops, looking for ideal gifts, that one is faced with the essential unknowability of another person.......who knows, maybe they will like that feng shui toilet holder after all?

In a fog.

crappy bloody Wednesdays. Hate the sodding things. I was saddened to find out, via friendsreunited, that my first ever girlfriend had died, apparently of leukemia. I only went out with her for four or five weeks, but still....death doesn't affect me as much as it used to. When I heard of deaths before, in particular my peers, it would quite often freak me, but that was because of the senseless or arbitrary way they died. In particular, the deaths of Johnny Barratt (car crash), Trent Whitehouse (murder), Fiona McKenzie (suicide) and Debbie McNeill (carbon monoxide poisoning in a small Istanbul flat) stick in my mind. Young death is horrid. The death of my grandfather, however, was a different matter. He slipped easily into shadow after a long, healthy life. In his final week he lost all sense of time and space, and would as easily converse to someone who had been long dead as talk with me, or be in his native Fort William as be in his nursing home. When it comes to my time (which I hope is a long way off!), I would hope to go as he did: seeing the world for the waking dream it is, and sliding gently away from it, off to new adventures.

evening.

I feel knackered. I still have two more hours of class to get through, and I'm doing grammar. arrrgh. I feel like having a pint and a cigarette instead, but I'm trying to resist the urge. I haven't smoked for two days now, and I want to continue. I want to give up. Physiologically speaking, I should be over the worst, as the nicotine should have entirely evacuated my system by now, and oxygen levels in my blood should be rising significantly. It's just the mental itch of it.....there's a string of time, with beads of desire on it, desire to have a fag, that is....just got to get over each bead at a time.

Something I didn't mention earlier on; I hardly slept at all last night. I notice that this always occurs whenever I don't smoke or drink. I kind of fitfully slept. Continually interrupted by weird dreams. Oh well, shit happens.

lunch.

What's going on with the blog? It's doing all sorts of strange things.

Further to earlier:
Money making schemes.
I could set up a website dedicated to all those Chinese students out there who need a personal statement for their UCAS forms but who can't be arsed/haven't bothered doing enough English to do one. 50 pounds a shot? sounds good?
Another website project: If you remember, Fay Weldon was paid a wodge of cash a few years ago by a jewellery company to write a novel featuring their products. Well, why not advertise via the web for people who want to feature in a novel? 5 quid, say, gets a mention, 10 a mention and description, 50 gets dialogue, 500 a minor role 2 thousand gets a major protagonist. good? bad?

Tuesday!

Oh well, only another 11 shopping days or so to go till xmas...doesn't matter, I don't have any money anyway.....I seriously need to find strange new ways to make wonga. I have creditors baying for my cash left, right and centre...bastards. That's the way it's been ever since we moved back to the UK -there is always some parasitic sod after money. I have tried to curb my expenditure to the best of my ability, yet I'm still haemorraghing cash. What the fuck can I do? A part time job is a possibility, but how long will I be able to work seven days a week? Besides, I really resent not being able to spend time with my family. I hardly saw my own father as a child: I'm damned if I'm going to do the same thing to my son. There's no money in EFL, unless you're John and Liz Soars; So what now?

Illness.

Feel horrible today. I didn't feel too bad when I woke up, but I've got progressively worse over the day. Feel very woozy indeed. This has nothing to with getting pissed yesterday. It's genuine illness. bluhhhhhhhhhhhh.

We had a birthday celebration yesterday, for Sam, my aunt Sandy's hubby. He's 70 in a few days' time. sprung it on him as a surprise, and got as many of our relatives as was possible to come: My mum and sister, alastair and carole, ann and roger, steve, dan and niamh, alison and john, and even margot and adrian from darkest essex. Much wine was drunk. When we got back home at about 9.00 last night, I immediately fell into a deep sleep on the sofa, and stayed there till 1.30, the second time I've done that this week.

my five year old limbless attack ferret could do better than that!

So you think you can paint better than Pablo? try out this website.

On another note, I notice that the readership for this blog has increased dramatically. I am, as Queen Victoria once said after accidentally walking into Lord Palmerston's bedroom after a hard night on the gin, absolutely fucking staggered. Thank you all!

purity...

Your Ultimate Purity Score Is...
Category	Your Score	Average
Self-Lovin'	55% Explored the pleasures of the flesh	65%
Shamelessness	76.2% Has yet to see self in mirror	79.3%
Sex Drive	73.7% A fool for love, but not always	77.7%
Straightness	8.9% Knows the other body type like a map	44.9%
Gayness	100%	83.3%
Fucking Sick	94.7% Refreshingly normal	89.9%
You are 68.03% pure Average Score: 72.6%
Take The Ultimate Purity Test and see how you match up!

for the record, the lower the purity score, the dirtier/straighter/gayer/outright pervy you are.

Hvaet!

Enough is enough. I am bored of myself; I am tired of the tired face that stares back at me in the mirror in the morning; I am weary of letting life happen to me. It is high time I started happening to life. I'm tearing away the bushel, and I'm going to let my light shine for once. I have spent too, too long being the usher to others, of thinking of doing rather than doing the deed. There are too many amazing, wonderful and fantastic things in this world to let me worry about the everyday dullness. Now is MY time to shine. Watch me......

still monday...

It's now 1.48 in the afternoon and it's still raining. I have a class in an hour, and I'm still racking my brains as to what I'll do to them tomorrow afternoon. I have to make some semblance of an effort, as I'm being observed. I am also trying to avoid smoking. I do need to give up: Fortunately, I'm not a heavy smoker - perhaps ten or so a day - but it's high time to jack it in. I'm nearly 36, and I've been smoking since I was 16 - way more than half my life. Assuming that my intake has been more or less constant over that period, it means that I have smoked over 73,000 cigarettes at a total cost (by today's standard) of approximately �17,200!!!! Jeezuz. That would buy me a three-bed summer house in the southwest of Turkey. If only I'd known.......
Going back to a previous blog entry about drinking, what about the cost to me of that? I'd say I proabably spend �40 a week, minimum, on booze. Since I have been frequenting pubs since the age of 16 as well, that would mean I have spent at least �41,500 over the same period. Oh deary, deary me..........

Happy Monday! :(

It is a horrible, wet, miserable, blasted vile day outside. I cycled into work this morning: got wet, but at least I got in. There is a certain pleasure in wheeling past a locked queue of cars...one of the bastards nearly got me with his door, though. It is now 10.30 ish, and I still have to do anything that remotely resembles work, even though I have plenty waiting for me. Clearing up the mounds of shit on my desk, for one thing. I am kind of cramped into one corner of it, piles of books and paper threatening to topple over. At least noone can see what I'm doing.
The weekend also was rather tedious. Did the shopping on Sat. planned to start buying Xmas goodies, but failed. Bought myself some shoes instead, as I'm in desperate need of them. Sloped out in the evening: ended up at The Purple Turtle, where I saw an old shoolmate. Talked drunkenly to him for several hours and found it strangely uplifting. Staggered home at some godforsaken hour.
Sunday: loafed around in dressing gown till gone one. Made a Turkish Breakfast of sorts: olives, white cheese, bit of meat, boiled egg, bread, honey and tea. mmmm. Also went out for a walk, a Sunday Habit that has lapsed somewhat since I got married. Walked along Hemdean Bottom, up to the ridge then up towards Emmer Green and back. Short walk, but refreshing.

fun with tagboards

Just something to do when trawling through other people's blogs....if you come across a tagboard, leave cryptic messages, such as 'your blog is a load of senseless drivel you tw*t', just to wind them up. Beware: the tagboards don't like swear words though.....

cheating bastards!

on a different note....I've been reading more of these crappy blogs by spoilt little Singaporean rich kidz who think they're sooo cool. In particular, two caught my eye: the little fuckers are preparing for some kind of English Lit exam, and were proudly boasting about how they were trawling the 'net for some essays so they could cheat their way through. Tosspots. I've had to deal with a few similar cases at the college, where Chinese students in this case thought they could just cut 'n' paste someone else's essay work and pass it off for their own. Hey you rich Singaporean Kidz! some advice!
1. we teachers have a special device for essay checking. It's called 'google'. all we do is tap in a randomly chosen sentence from the essay, and if it turns up, bingo! we have your balls on a plate!
2. If you ever, ever appear in one of my classes and try that kind of stunt with me, I will unilaterally declare independence in whichever classroom I happen to be in, in which, as chief executive, I shall declare torture legal, and introduce you to the terror that only a rolled-up cheated essay can inflict.

Thursday.

In theory, I rather like thursdays - I only teach one lesson, and that's not until the evening. In practice, however, it's a different story. I intend having a lie-in, but still get woken earlier than anyone else by the need to look after son and wife - get breakfast for former, then coax him into school uniform and make his lunch, while gently coaxing my wife from the fields of sleep without getting my arm ripped off. So, I'm still awake early. This is usually compounded with a mild hangover, as I treat myself to a bottle or so of good wine on Wednesday night, knowing I'm not getting to work early. A whole morning stretches before me: A whole morning to do new and wonderful things. A nd what do I end up doing? Watching daytime fucking TV. Before I know it, Kilroy's voice is saying something like ' Your husband? been kidnapped by aliens? nd then? Gang-probed? And liked it?' in that peculiar west-midlands inflection of his, and then I kind of come out of a strange trance-like state in time for the one o'clock news, nothing done, nothing achieved, and the washing-up festering just a little more in the kitchen. Oh well, bollocks to it all.

living in istanbul

quite a nice article about life in Istanbul by Maureen Freely in today's Guardian.

A recipe for you all.....

It's been months since I posted a recipe here, so here's a nice veggie one.

Fasulye Pilakisi

You need:
Green beans (string beans or similar)
A tin of tomatos or freshly crushed plum tomatoes
an onion
olive oil
salt sugar
1 clove garlic (optional)

heat olive oil in a saucepan. Finely dice the onion and cook gently until it caramelises. Add the tin of tomatoes. top and tail the green beans and add. add salt. top up with just enough warm water to cover the beans. simmer for an hour until most of the juice has evaporated. just before finishing, add a pinch of sugar. can be eaten hot or cold.
Afiyet olsun!

let's see if this pic works...

Mmmmmmurrrghhh

I resolutely felt like staying in bed this morning, and not coming to work.....a sure sign I must move on.

It has been pissing down all weekend. Apparently, we've had more rain in the last forty-eight hours than for the whole summer. Well, it's good for the garden, I suppose...

I went to Gilly's birthday party on Saturday night. She's a teacher-cum-opera singer with a mane of wild hair. The party was supposed to have a Robert Palmer theme, which was my fault. She'd been thinking of ways on livening it up when I drunkenly blurted out the idea in the pub. And did anyone come dressed in dodgy haircut and jacket with the arms rolled up, or with hair slicked back, bright lipstick and microscopic black dress? Did they fuck. Instead, we all lolled around in her kitchen diner, drinking too much. Which was fun.

Just added Ugur Akinci's blog on the side bar. It looks pretty interesting.

Is that all you've got?

Dear Australia,

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

HAHAHA.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.






HAHA BLOODY HA.

Thank you.

a picture of me.....

friday afternoon

I really cannot be arsed to teach this afternoon. that's all.

Kadir Gecesi

Friday. Tonight is the 'night of Power' in the Islamic calendar, the night when the Koran was revealed by Gabriel to Mohammed. It is a time when it is believed that a single prayer has the effect of a thousand, any single act of charity has greater strength, any act of contrition cleanses the soul. In the light of this, it makes yesterday's events even sadder. When I lived in Turkey, I always liked Ramazan, and not just for the delicious bread that's made then. Then was a quiet sense of celebration every evening, and a feeling of everyone coming home to be part of the family - that kind of sensation you get at christmas time, but extended for most of a month.
My wife phoned round most of her friends and family after the explosions. They were all OK, but two had lucky escapes. One girl actually works in the HSBC building on the first floor, facing the front. She was attending her mother's funeral yesterday, and so wasn't there- fortunately for her. Many of the most seriously injured and some of the dead worked on that floor. Another woman, sister to one of Nur's friends, was walking by the same building, and got slightly injured by flying glass. Again fortunately, she didn't require hospitalisation.
What has pissed me off this morning is the reaction of politicians, particularly Bush, Blair and Jack Straw. It is all generic platitude-mumbling. Read what they say: it could be a formulaic set of words for any given atrocity. You pricks started this: now find a way to finish it well.

the bombings today

I have changed my blog title for today because of the news that's just come through.
I heard about the bombings at lunchtime: I felt sorrow and anger. I know the area round the consulate really well, having spent many times in Taksim. I saw the list of the dead and injured in hurriyet. Most of them were Turkish names. And this was a strike against 'British interests'?
The bomb must have been huge, judging by the devastation by the gates. My mind is on all those poor guys who work in that crowded intersection in front of the consulate: the spices and snacks guy and the grocer who work the entrance to cicek pasaji nearby: the bloke who sold dreams of money with his national lottery tickets: the man and his apprentice boys who sweated and slaved from the middle of the night to the closing of the day making bread, pastries and cakes: the noise and joy of yorgo's wineshop, on the slope leading down to the main road: the taxi driver i always saw outside the consulate, sipping on a glass of tea and smoking, never seeming to go anywhere: the men who pushed great handbarrows up and down the slope of tepebasi, one day carrying rags, another trays of simit, yet another great bales of unknown things: the vendor of pens and bags and schoolbooks in the tiny shop on the corner: All the rush and hurl of life, running and trudging through that junction, slipping onto Istiklal caddesi, or into cicek pasaji, or down into one of a hundred miniature alleys. All of it ripped to pieces.
These bombings, and those of last week.....why? in the name of all that is holy, why? the people who've done this call themselves devout and pious Muslims. Is that why they attack innocent people during the Holy Month of Ramadan, and on the eve of one of the most important days in the Islamic calendar? One of the words that comes to mind to describe them is heretic. Make no mistakes, those who did this cannot be truly described as muslims. Where, in the Holy Qu'ran, does it give sanction to this kind of act?
I know I'm being disjointed and rambling, but that's how I feel. I love Istanbul dearly, even though I no longer live there. My mind and heart still drift back to it in moments of reverie, and I find myself once more walking down the sad bustle of Istiklal, or wandering through the Secret Maze of Old Istanbul, looking for the truth that pushed Emporer and Sultan to walk incognito in the same way. And now some bastard, in the name of a bastard truth, has done this. Leave my City! Leave my friends and the faces I know! Istanbul has survived worse than you, I know, and will carry on after you have been buried and forgotten.
I mourn for all those who have died today and those from last week. I mourn for all those families who have been affected by this. I mourn for the blow to this mournful and joyous, wild and sedate City.
Please do not view me as being on the side of Bush or Blair - far from it, I firmly believe that the way these two have behaved over the last two years has been nothing short of criminal, particularly in the way the war in Iraq has been prosecuted, which is in direct contravention of the Geneva Convention. Yet I cannot possibly be on the side of the dangerously misguided fools who did this. Blood should not be answered with blood, no matter how desperate one is.

wednesday.

I will be so glad when today is over and done with.

Yesss!

A long, dreary day, made longer by an attempted abstinence from fags and booze. I haven't slept properly for the last couple of nights now. This makes me somewhat worried. Am I so much of a boozer that I need alcohol to sleep?

does the title field work now? I wonder...

just trying something folks....hold on....

and i have the leather jacket and shades....

You are Neo, from "The Matrix." You
display a perfect fusion of heroism and
compassion.


What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzuz. I've just spent fifteen minutes reading the self-absorbed drivel of teenage singaporean rich kidz who think they're soooo cool. May I say something? Your English is shit. Now Fuck Off and die in a sweat shop, making me my trainers.

monday! It rises like a regular horror....I had to teach for another teacher this morning. A lesson as grim and grey as the weather outside.
I just found this site.....give it a try if you want to find out what your brand name is....

Friday rolls round again...hurrah! The OFSTED inspection is over, now the witch hunt begins. Our department came out of it well, but apparently the college as a whole has had what has been termed as 'mixed results', for which read 'bloody awful'. Fat Freddie McCrindle is probablt eating some of the faculty managers as I write. It has been a very stressful two weeks, not only on the professional side of things, but also the personal. I have felt deeply introspective over this time: I look around at what I am, where I've been and what I'm going to, and I feel deeply disturbed. Once more, I seem to be on a cusp. Looking ahead, my options don't appear too bright as I am. As I must be, well, it doesn't look appealing: middle age, middle of the road, middle bloody nothing, then death. wow. My finances are a mess, I am in shambolic shape, I'm wandering round, following an uncertain flag wavering here and there across the landscape of my life. I need focus: some definite target, a way forward. I both envy and cannot comprehend those who are focused on a single path in their lives. How do they exist? How can they blot out any consideration for all the amazing and terrible things around them and walk a single bright, burning strand?

Another knackering day

I am bloody knackered. I've just spent six sodden hours wandering round the beautiful and decidedly cold city of Winchester with a group of students. I still need to teach for a further two hours. Then cycle home. In the rain. Then make dinner. Then get up and do it all over again tomorrow. Calling someone, somewhere: please, please give me a job that involves lots of sunshine and hanging round bars.

Oh, the joy of mondays.... I now need to plan my entire week's output of lessons, which bodes to be fun...This includes taking a group of students to Winchester tomorrow, to gape at old stuff. whoo-hoo.
After classes on Friday, I and several others went to the Fisherman's Cottage for a few drinks. The inspectors deemed our department to be 'good', which is more than can be said for a lot of the college. I got far too drunk than is good for me. Indeed, this seems to be happening more often these days. It's not a question of how much I drink, but rather the effect: My behaviour appears to be much more pratlike. That, or the part of my brain that governs social behaviour is a lot more alert at an advanced level of drinking than it used to be, and therefore I'm more aware of the chaos I'm causing.
The weekend saw me feeling bleak and tense, especially after spending a rather dire sunday afternoon with some friends of Nur. Don't get me wrong, they're very nice people, but they're boring as, well, a wet sunday afternoon. Conversation was dominated by talk of cars and houses, as per usual. I could feel my brain withering and atrophying over the course of two and a half hours. Back home, I made mince pies, then roast lamb on a bed of leek and carrot tagliatelle, with dijon mustard potato puree and a red wine gravy....yum!

mmmnnnnnaargh. bad sinus headache. we're halfway through our OFSTED inspection, and everyone is half dead from stress. I am severely in need of a good drink or seven.

I was the object of possibly the most misdirected piece of racist abuse ever the other day. I was going home on the bus, chatting with a couple of people in Turkish, when this snotty little fourteen year old sidled down from the top deck, sniggering. He pressed the bell, then, just before getting off, turned to us and said, 'you fuckin black bastards. why don't you fuck off home to your fucking trees, you bunch of coons?'. Honestly, those were his precise words. Hell, I'm whiter than he was. I gave the little cunt a mouthful of invective back, but shit, was I angry. I still am. Just because I was using a different language....what the fuck are such little pricks taught?