Chunk the third.

here it is...

Three: How do you read?
One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time.
Carl Sagan

In which the Author returns to pontificate; He comments upon the action and characters so far, hopefully pre-empting bilious comments from the critical reader.

You choose a book; One from your own personal library perhaps, something you haven�t read before, or a tattered, dog-eared old friend that you haven�t seen for a while and wish to become reacquainted with. Or your local friendly librarian hands over a hardback title, one covered in a battered plastic wrap, that smells of mustiness and many hands, and contains tatters of past lives as bookmarks: a bus ticket, a torn piece of note, a used cotton bud, complete with waxy residue. Or you�re at the airport and you hurriedly buy something chunky with a glossy cover, where the author�s name is writ large and the title, which contains the definite article and a word like �protocol� or �dossier�, is writ small, and you hope it will suffice for the beach � junk food novelry. Or you find, cleaning out an old cupboard, all those books you once had to read at school, and all the ones that you never had time for, and you pick out one in wonder, then blow off the dust.
And then you open the book. You glance at the first page, with the title, the author�s name and the publisher. What do you do then? How do you read? In this world, there are so many things to read, and so many things from which a meaning can be inferred if �read� in the correct way. Long, long ago, long before our ancestors invented pictograms and hieroglyphs and abstract symbols that conveyed a sound or a meaning, they could read the sky, the wind, the movement of animals, the flash of a red eye in the dark, the meaning of a face. Back then, mystery and understanding were one, as simple as times when fog rolls over land and makes the solid earth and ephemeral, changing air one thing. The painting of animals on cave walls rendered them real � if you looked at the painting for long enough, you would find yourself watching a herd of the real thing, and if you were watching a herd of bison, then pretty soon you would find yourself in the depths of a cavern, looking up at a painting composed of a few lines. But then along came symbols and hieroglyphs and writing, and suddenly what we see as �real� and what we see as �mystery� were pulled asunder. The more that was written, the more that various meanings were piled upon even the most innocent word, so that to extrapolate the true meaning of any given sound or symbol required extravagant lengths of interpretation. This infection of the written word spread in time to the uttered word, so now when someone says �hello�, it can be interpreted in many ways: Is the speaker sincere, is it a genuine greeting, is he angry with me, and so forth. And as writing spread, so there were more things to read, and the more there was to read, the ways to read things became many and varied. Look at this list of things: A label in a skirt; A cigarette packet; A bus ticket; A newspaper front page; A newspaper article on the economy; A religious book; A comic; A novel by a respected, �serious� writer; A novel by a populist writer; a cookery book; the telephone directory.
Now tell me, do you read all these in the same way? What would happen if you did?
Of course we don�t, because then all these things would either be imbued with tremendous significance or none at all. Then again, perhaps everything is significant; Perhaps everything we read has layer upon layer of meaning. That�s the problem with words � what may seem the simplest phrase can suddenly elude the grasp of even the best-read of us. And then there is the simple matter of reading a book. Some people, after leafing through the first chapter, will then skip to the very last page to see the outcome. These characters are the type of person who wants to know what�s ahead of them at all times, in order to render their lives simple. Then there are those who read a classic, then read the introduction (usually by some academic) afterwards; They are people who wish to have the book�s secrets unlocked for them and their ideas confirmed. And what about the type of reader who races through page after page, wolfing down great gobbets of a writer�s delicately crafted fare, merely in order to reach the end and claim to have read it? Don�t invite this character to a gourmet meal: they�ll tear it limb from limb, then belch loudly and go to the nearest McDonald�s. There is the languid dipper, who picks at a chapter here and there, never deigning to do anything so gauche as to actually finish a book from start to end.
But then there is that rarest of readers, the participant in the text. He or she reads diligently, carefully, with neither too much attention to significance nor too little, who treasures a writer�s craft without coddling it. This reader will carefully consider what the author has proffered, tasting it thoroughly and accepting or rejecting as necessary. It is far too easy to be precious about books, but the truth is that a story has to be tough, considering the battering it will get at the hands of the reader and the critic.
What I am trying to say, I suppose, is please be gentle with this tale! I can only do my best; and if so far you have not enjoyed the tale, what can I do? I�m as stuck right now as you are; However, you are in the fortunate position of being able to skip a few pages, or right to the end, or pick languidly if you wish, while we poor creatures must trudge through a line after line to ascertain our fate. A reader, in truth, can travel in time through the individual universe that each tale proffers � you can see the characters� future fates, then flick back and watch as we reach it. Even if you don�t like what you�ve seen so far, bear with me � it�s going to start getting interesting in the next chapter. Probably.
You may have surmised that I, the Author, am a fictional construct. Indeed, you may have seen how I seem to have been fitted into the tale. You may be right, you may not be. If it is the case that I�m fictional, why has my written style changed? The first few paragraphs of this interlude do not much resemble those of the first chapter; so what is happening?
There are two possibilities:
Either I am an appalling writer, and cannot create a consistent style, or:
I am taking the piss somewhat.
Whichever way you guess, you can�t be certain either way.
Can you see me grinning?

But what to say of Dan Thompson and Taylor Coleridge thus far? The latter, I�m sure you will agree, has an absolutely ridiculous, but strangely rather cool, name. Now, let�s not pretend this is, in any way, shape or form, a real tale; therefore both Dan and Taylor are ciphers for something else, even if the former has expressed himself with all too real emotion. How we read the characters and their situation will inform how we see their tale, even if we read more into it than is intended. So, we have someone in a pub, having a drink and feeling depressed; An old friend of his walks in and mentions his lover; they finish their drinks and start walking towards town, stopping off for a small drink on the way, which is where they are frozen for the moment. It might be salutary, at this point, to keep tabs on how much they have drunk; After all, this might be fiction, but we don�t want to ruin it by having them drink life-threatening quantities of alcohol and still function like real people. So far, then, Dan has had three pints of Bass and a bottle of lager in the Prince of Wales; Taylor has had two pints of lager and a bottle of same. Since we joined the tale at two o�clock, we can presume, I think, that Dan has had something to eat. This will keep him on his feet for the next few hours. I have a feeling that the pair of them are going to consume considerably more in the next few hours. Then again, have you considered the possibility that Taylor Coleridge is no more than a figment of Dan�s depressed imagination? I know, it�s the old �And suddenly I woke up and it had all been a dream� scenario; Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn�t; Shall we go and find out?

Four: across the dark river and into the maelstrom
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times�..
Charles Dickens
In which our heroes cross the Thames by Reading Bridge; They reach the Blagrave pub and there encounter some great thinkers; And past the Town hall come face to face with a stag party and a hen party.

�Come on, there�s a bus, let�s grab it!�
We needn�t have hurried; there was a large queue waiting at the bus stop in front of the playing fields in Westfield road. For such a warm and sunny day, this group seemed a miserable bunch. There were a few pensioners shuffling forwards and a pair of harassed-looking mothers with young kids, who all seemed to be bawling their eyes out.
� I�m late as it is!� shouted the bus driver. �Come on love, on you get, I haven�t got all day�that�s it, on you get, put it over there�.can I see your pass, lovely��

Chunk number two

here's today's portion. Much harder, I must say.

He glanced up at me, then put his nose back in his notebook and began scrawling frantically.
�A pint of Bass again�, I said, and the barmaid (barMAID? She was at least fifty, with great sagging bingo wings flopping over red elbows, and a face like an overweight trout) filled up my glass. I looked at myself in the mirror, and behind me, at the seven or eight people ranged on sofas and barstools who were watching the match. Their faces were intent and fixed � the same kind of expressions you see whenever someone watches a not particularly interesting stretch of a game, or a play, or a debate, waiting to see the outcome of the next move. Myself, I looked weary, frustrated and beaten. I paid for the beer, then slunk off to my seat in the corner. I lit a fag, started trying to do the crossword again. Nothing. I flung my pen down again, and beat around in my own head for something, anything to do. Oh God, I muttered to myself. I�ve got to get my life together! For Christ�s Sake get me something to do!

Now here�s the laugh: Just as I�d thought that, the door opened. Call it divine intervention or diabolic or just an awful bit of literary plot-twisting (and why shouldn�t life be like a bad book plot, anyway? Let�s face it, most lives are twisted, confused, fearful and full of coincidences), but in walked someone I hadn�t seen for almost four years: Taylor Coleridge.

Taylor and I had travelled together for nearly a year, working our way up from India, round the Arabian Peninsula, then through the Red Sea and Suez Canal and finally to Beirut, where I lost him in a bar. He was a most excellent companion to have on any journey: witty, conversational, knowledgeable, creative and prone to following his own whims. I don�t think he�d ever settled down anywhere, but preferred to wander, merely because he could. In a way, he was somewhat like his near-namesake, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, but without the laudanum or pomposity. After losing him, I�d continued up around the Mediterranean coast, while he, as I learnt from other people and from one badly torn letter and a few brief emails from him, had headed back into the desert, then up onto the Silk Road and subsequently towards China. While I would expect to find him in an Algerian souk, a Turkish pazar, on a camel in Tajikistan or on the summit of a mountain I�d just climbed, one place I�d never expect him was here on my home turf.

He saw me and smiled his lazy, feline smile.
�Ah, there you are�, he said.
�Jesus! Long time no see, my man! How are you!�
�Same as ever. Just chilling, thought I�d come along and see how you are. Nice place, this. How are you?�
�Ah, you know, not bad, not bad. The same. What are you drinking?�

I got him a beer and we sat down together. I asked him a few things about his travels and what he�d been up to, and he sketched them in for me. He seemed to be a bit more taciturn and less upbeat than I�d have expected, but then again it had been four years since we last met.

�So what happened to you last time we were together? I got up for a slash, I come back, you�ve buggered off.�
�I could say the same for you, Dan. I lean over to chat with that most enchanting babe, I turn around, and you were no longer there. I looked around, I couldn�t find you, someone said, there�s a party round the corner, do you want to come, I went, you were left behind. That�s the way it was.�
�You could have tried to find me.�
�You could have done the same.�
�True. Sorry.�
�Nothing to be sorry for. Here we both are, on this fine July day, drinking beer in your local in your home town�what could be better?�
�Yeah.�

We drank our pints in silence for a while and watched the TV.

�She says hello, by the way.�
�Who?�
�You know. Beattie.�
I was stunned briefly. Beattie was�.well, Beattie. I�d been pretty intense with her a couple of years previously, and in fact, I�d been thinking about her that morning, wondering about What Ifs.
�How the Hell do you know her?�
�You talked about her often enough � and I saw photos of you two together. Anyway, I came across her in Bangkok. Recognised her straight away, said hello, mentioned your name. This was two weeks ago.�
�Jesus! Really? How was she?�
�She was good, very fine �and, in fact, thinking about you. She�s the reason I�m here. I was heading for the UK and she still had your address. I decided to check it out, thinking to have a beer on the way, and here we are.�
�So what was she up to?�
�Still teaching, and still single. My man, you must have really done something to her � when I told her I was heading back this way, she asked me to look you up. Said she had some kind of premonition that you needed help, something like that, and your last email had sounded like someone in jail. And looking at you, I�d say she�s about right.�
�What�s that meant to mean?�
�I mean you look miserable as sin.�
He looked straight at me, and he was absolutely right. I was miserable. What could I say? I lit another cigarette.
�Ah, shit, Taylor, I don�t know. You�re spot on, but I don�t know what to do. I�m stuck here and I can�t see a way forward, it�s like, well, I don�t know, like I�m in the middle of a big wood in the middle of the night and I can�t see a way out. I feel � well, I feel lost, I guess.�
�That�s not like you.�
�It�s this place. It�s England. Once I got back here, it was as if all the travelling and working in all those places hadn�t happened, like some kind of dream. No-one was interested, no-one wanted to know �you know, �so what was it like?�, and you start, and they go �hm, yes��.
And I spilled it out � the months of frustration, the shitty jobs in anonymous offices, the whole hateful trudge of the nine-to-five with a whole bunch of others who hated their jobs, their lives and each other, and above all, man�s total indifference unto man. Taylor listened quietly, and bought another round.
�So why don�t you get out again?�
A good question, but how could I answer? I was stuck; that was the only answer I could give. The sunlight edged round the carpet; the match on the TV came to an end; and it came towards three.
Taylor knocked back his pint.
�Come on, finish off,� he ordered.
�Why? Where we off to?�
�To find yourself again, Dan T. To find yourself again. Beattie was right, you need rescuing. This is what we�ll do; let�s saunter into town, wander from place to place, and try to find where your soul went, my man.�
�And get utterly arseholed as well?�
�That�s the idea.�
Well, what else was there to do, but neck my pint, have a slash, then follow Taylor Coleridge as he led me down towards the wild hub of Reading on a Friday afternoon, evening and night?
As we came out of the pub, the weirdo I�d seen before sidled past us, glanced at me again, coughed an apology and crept around the corner. Suddenly, it felt good to be in sunlight again, especially with my old friend and the prospect of doing something rather than fester by myself. I felt a current of excitement, as if I was back to my journeys once more.
�Shall we take the bus?�
�No, we�ll have to wait ages from here. Let�s walk down the hill and catch one in Caversham.�
As we walked past the duck pond and down Peppard road, I noticed that someone had somehow managed to uproot, haul and then dump the sign that said �WELCOME TO READING. TWINNED WITH DUSSELDORF� from Henley Road and lay it on the strip of grass by the bus shelter, which had, as ever, been kicked in and graffitti�d by some arsehole. The word HELL, in large red letters, was sprayed on it.
�Nice welcome�, said Taylor.
We carried on walking down the road, past Buckingham Drive and Sheepwalk, where we could see the town beneath us, drowsy in a reddish haze; The gasometers at the confluence of the Thames and Kennet, the shopping centres squatting in the town, the church spires waving feebly between the tower blocks. We hit Caversham, and stopped in the Prince of Wales for a quick one. Sitting on the patio, we watched a large group of teenagers, all of them riddled with acne and all looking sullen and hateful in a way that only an English teenager can, wander past, then stop and go back, then redouble their steps once more. They were arguing between themselves about where to go, what to do. One argued for sitting on the bench on Balmore hill, another said to sit on a bench in the park, while someone else suggested sitting by the river. They went first this way, then another, aimless.
Fuckwits.

Today's chunk of writing so far.

Here we go...

One
In a series of increasingly irritating interludes to the narrative, the author introduces himself and comments upon his incipient creation, along with observations of a trivial and foolish kind.

I believe it was Pasteur who said something along the lines of �Chance favours the well-prepared mind�. Well, in that case, I can expect no great opportunity to befall me, as I am utterly unprepared for the task ahead of me. Fifty thousand words in one month! What a stupid enterprise to enter without a notion in the head as to plot, characterisation, and whatnot. Yet, I am determined to give it a shot. I am, as you may guess, the author* of the following sad story, in which � what? The plot is, so far, nonexistent, the characters a series of mere wisps of the imagination, the scenes in which all shall be played out nothing but speculation. As such, there is clearly a need to, as it were, pad things out a bit, with a digressionary chapter here and an aside there, or the judicious (or not) use of quotes and summaries to head my chapters. Besides, I see no reason why I may not intrude upon the action as I see fit, as and when I want, just as Henry Fielding did in Tom Jones. This is my piece of fiction and I may do with it as I will, and hang the consequences. The consequence, of course, being that no-one is likely to read this (save my aged, future self, cackling over it), but, well, this is meant to be a bit of amusement. Of course, if you�re one of those readers who just wants to get on with the action, you can quite easily avoid these rambles altogether; I feel, however, that you may be missing out � after all, the rambling road is all the more interesting than the motorway.

So here, I present my tale. At the moment, it involves a man in a pub. I don�t know what�s going to happen next; At the moment, he is just sitting there, nursing a pint at around two in the afternoon, wondering what to do next. The location: My home village, in my hometown, namely Emmer Green, in Reading, Berkshire. After all, one of the exhortations to any new novelist is to write about what one knows, and why not start with the pub I know best in the world? And the character�s name? Let us call him Dan. And why write about Reading, of all places? Well, as I said, because I know it; But also, because no-one else ever has written much regarding the place, as far as I�m aware; Hardy calls it Aldbrickham, and is not particularly nice about it; Jerome K. Jerome denigrates it; Defoe praises its wealth; and that�s about it. Of course, the Reading I write about should not be confused with Reading, the real place, just as one should not confuse a fictional character with someone who ostensibly resembles him or her, even though they share the same name, family, clothes, opinions, lovers and so forth. No, the town is as much a character as Dan, even if it is a boring one. This is Reading as a metaphysical place, and yes, I am well aware I can here spluttered laughter erupting from the mouths of any reader who lives in it, or who has had the pleasure of getting lost on its ring road. It is metaphysical inasmuch as any real place can be made representative of other things. It must be said that Reading is about as solid and real a place as you could hope to visit; For that reason, let us try to render it as evanescent as cloud, and the characters that appear in it as solid as the bricks from which the physical place is built.

As the author* of this tale, I�m not sure what�s going to happen next; I am as swept along with all this as you are, so permit me to be not so much the Chorus to this story, as an interested bystander, drifting behind my own creation, recording his every move along the way, using different voices to catch him. That is, of course, if he deigns to move � I�m not sure how much he likes his pint, or lounging in this pub on a sunny afternoon in July, smoke furling in the light from languid cigarettes and an international football match on the TV in the corner. I feel, however, there is some frustration building within him, and that some other shall come along presently. Now, of course, the problem arises: How to present him?

Which narrative style to use? Externally? Let my voice alone guide, present, manipulate and swoop through each character as and when? Perhaps different perspectives: the character seen through the lens of a camera, a layer of smoky fug, a police report, a diary entry, someone�s email, a hastily scribbled note, a lover�s letter, a court summons, a news report. It will immediately be obvious that our hero, and all those others who may appear, will appear to be almost completely different people according to which perspective I, the author*, use. The only way of being certain of whom is being described is from a physical perspective, and that is itself unreliable: I don�t even know what my character looks like yet. So, how about internal monologues? We gain a perspective on the individual�s psyche, but it is a necessarily limited perspective, a view restricted by what the teller of the tale can know, see and feel � and again, it makes our story tenuous. Well then, and how else? Photography? Cartoons? This is an exercise in words, not pictures, so that counts those out. Dialogue solely? Perhaps. Descriptions of coughs, shuffles, movements of hands, gestures, looks? Maybe. Crosswords, acrostics, logic puzzles? Entertaining, possibly.

Merely by writing, as I write, possibilities start queuing up to be counted and used � the whys and wherefores of those phantoms, my characters, rising to feed on the blood of the pen and utter what they must; Different possibilities for writing styles and perspectives parade for my inspection; And the reader � the great Objective Reader, for whom I write � who are you? What would you like to read? How shall I entertain you? Your host I must be; Here is the scene, here the bill of fare; I hope you will be amused and fed, and then go on your way content. And so, let us swing into the scene, and find, for want of a better word, the hero of this book. There he is; His back is to us as we come in the door; In his mid-thirties, although he looks younger, except for the streaks of grey in his hair, which has just begun to thin; Handsome, but haunted, and his face is scowling into his pint; a lit cigarette is in his left hand, and his right holds a pen, and he is scrawling over a crossword. He is arranging some letters in a circle, and then reading them backwards and forwards, side to side, up and down. His circling pen stops, then rapidly he writes seven letters in one of the clues. It says:

* Of course, I may not be the author, but the Author, another layer of characterisation in this story. But then again, that�s for me to know and you to work out, isn�t it? Ha ha ha.*
*In which case, who just wrote this?

Two: At the sign of the White Horse
Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer.
W.B.Yeats
In which our hero, Dan Thompson, ponders his thunderingly tedious life, and seeks escape; Upon which he meets an unexpected friend from the past; They have a drink, then the friend suggests moving on to another bar.

�FUCK OFF�.
�I�m sorry?�
�That�s what I�ve just written. Fuck off. Begone. Go away, you fucking weirdo, and stop staring at me like that�
�Oh..sorry��
And off he fucked, the weirdo. Looked like a scarecrow, with wild hair, staring blue eyes, unshaven and overweight. And he was dressed like a right arse.
I was at the end of my tether. I felt knackered, lost and unwanted. Here I was, thirty-five, and hideously aware of time�s rapidly spinning thread. I was pondering what I�d managed to do up till then with my life, and I didn�t really like any of the answers coming back my way. Sure, I�d been abroad for most of the past decade and had had a blast, but it had been a voluntary exile in many ways: When I�d left, the country had been a total shithole, as was my life. Now, I was back, and here I still was, in my old boozer, with the same faces lining the bar as from before, living the same lives, and me back as though nothing had changed at all. I felt fucking bilious and weary. It seemed to me that my foreign sojourns had been nothing more than an escape, an adventure, a diversion from the dour realities of Reading. What I found even more galling is that they hadn�t had the good sense to leave of decorating the White Horse. Where it used to be liberally caked in crappy old prints, horse brasses, dodgy plates and strange fire implements, and stink of rancid viscera, it was now a place where you would happily bring children. It had decking, complete with large sun umbrellas and heaters. It was open plan. It had sky TV, which was at this point in my tale churning out some international friendly. It had a non-smoking dining area. It even had an aquarium. Actually, the latter wasn�t too bad; When the talk became tedious, I�d have something entertaining to stare at. And here I was, at two on a Friday afternoon in July, drinking beer and failing to do the Bastard Sodding Araucaria crossword in the Guardian (as ever), and wondering what the Hell I should be doing with life. It was a hot day, and it was one of those that seems to simmer with frustration and regret. I had no job, a damp room in a damp house with a couple of damp housemates who worked for a call centre, and I felt like I was going nowhere. Hell, I�d been debating with myself since 8 in the morning whether to go into town and check out the temporary job situation, or write off for some work abroad, or just go and do something different, but no, I ended up back in the good old White Horse again.

I knocked back my drink, then headed to the bar. The fucking weirdo was still there, nursing a pint of bitter and scrawling something in a notebook, and occasionally muttering a word or giggling to himself.

Hvaet!

I'm starting the novel today. Wish me luck over the next month. I'm going to post extracts as I go along so you can rate and berate them.

Dear American readers: it's election day tomorrow. Whatever you do, please vote - it doesn't matter who for, although you probably know that I personally don't like simian horsef*cker pseudo-redneck knobwicks, but please vote. It's important.

Cheating Gits.

A very apposite article from the BBC about cheating gits trying to wiggle into university. I say that it's appropriate because I've been dealing with a couple of them today - one guy who blagged his way onto an HND course by expediently adding a number onto his results form, so that he had double the credits he actually achieved, and another begging for a fake results letter!
The arrogance of a minority of my students never fails to astound me. Only yesterday, one of them called, angry that he hadn't been granted a pass even though he had paid for the course! He obviously thought that payment automatically conferred a certificate.

27.7833333333333333333333333333333333333

,or 1666.666666666666667. Or 50,000. That's the scale of the challenge ahead of me. If I devote one hour per day to the national novel writing month, I will have to write this many words per minute. Freaky. I'm don't have any very firm ideas, beyond a vague plot involving two blokes and lots of pubs. I am, however, determined to do this - and, loyal, tiny band of readers, should you wish to donate anything for my endeavours via the button on the left, I will in turn be donating to Breast Cancer research.

3 days to go....

Turkish Accession to the EU

Here's the latest on this issue. I don't write as much as I probably could or should about Turkey, but Turkish Tork, Aegean Disclosure and Maviboncuk (all in the links on the left) do a good job.

On the meze front, by the way: A turkish friend has given me a vine roller! It's like a giant cigarette roller, and will also do, according to its accompanying blurb, 'sigara boregi (cheese puff pastries), mercimek koftesi, tekirdag koftesi AND lahana dolmasi (but only on the top setting).

John Peel.

I've literally this minute heard that John Peel's died. No bloody way. He was too young to go.

101 uses for a head of state...

....or rather, what is a president/monarch for?
Obviously, it depends on which country you're in. In the UK, we don't require much from our queen than to be inbred, equine-looking, and good at waving. For this, the taxpayer gives her a lot of money.
Likewise, our Prime Ministers are meant to be hard-working (but not ambitious), devout (but not in-your-face religious), clever (but not cunning), and decent (but not boring).
Of course, we are dealing in ideals. The monarch is the symbolic head, devoid of power in a political sense, but imbued with it; The Prime Minister is the one to get his hands dirty.
What about a president?
Well, a president is the boss of the entire government and its attendant civil service; He (or maybe she, eventually) approves or vetoes new laws, but cannot propose any him/herself; He is the commander-in-chief of a country's military powers; He represents a particular political viewpoint. So far, so basic.
But how far, exactly, does a president act as a symbol of a nation? Is the man the symbol, or is it the office of the president itself? In the UK, there is a clear distinction between the symbolic and the real. In a country with a presidential system, let's say, um, the United States, how does one make the distinction? And if it is difficult enough for a citizen of that nation to make the disctinction, how can you expect someone on the outside to do it? If the real and symbolic are one and indivisible, then surely the actions of the man (or woman) in office have a direct impact on how the symbol, and therefore the whole nation, is perceived by friend and foe alike.
I understand there's a big election for a president somewhere soon, and that it's too close to call. Now, I'm not the Guardian, with its spectacularly patronising and distinctly tongue-in-cheek advice to voters in Clark County, Ohio, but if I had to vote for a man (or woman) who would wield massive executive power and symbolise my nation for the next four years, I might want to ask myself the following:
In terms of representing me to the rest of the world, how will this candidate do? If the candidate is the president seeking a further term of office, how has he/she done?
Has the incumbent increased my sense of security, comfort and wellbeing through his/her actions, or will the candidate increase my sense of security, comfort and wellbeing, without compromising that of others?
As Commander-in-chief, has the incumbent taken reasonable, sensible and logical measures to protect my nation, or has he made my situation more dangerous? Will the candidate be a reasonable, sensible and logical commander in chief?
Has the incumbent allowed through laws that oppress, curtail and/or censor, my rights, freedoms and opinions? Is the candidate likely to pass laws with the same effects?
Has the incumbent allowed into office, through his role as boss of the government and civil service, those who should be disqualified from holding a role in government? Will the candidate do the same?

Well, those are a few questions. For myself, I don't trust symbols, especially when they get mixed up with real life: The king waving the sword, the eternal cowboy galloping into the eternal sunset, the gallant band of soldiers rallying to one bright and shining flag - myths, all myths.

Back to the Turtle!

I went out with a group of old friends on Saturday night, namely Dr. Lynne, Matt, Lee and his wife Kate, both of whom I haven't seen for over a year, and John Wild, who I've only seen occasionally in the past few years. We started off in our old haunt, The Coopers, which used to be a rock/goth pub but got prettified in the mid nineties, then went up London Street to the Sherpa restaurant for a curry, then rolled back down to the Turtle, where we proceeded to get utterly lashed. Last week must have been a duff one, clientele-wise, as it was a good, varied mix of people, including one spectacular Goth woman in full leather basque-and-boots getup. Towards the end of the night, three women were grinning at waving in my direction. I smiled back, but thought they were waving at someone else, so I ignored them. This pissed them off, apparently; When we were leaving, they said, 'Thanks for ignoring us!' 'What, me?', I said. 'Yes, we just wanted to ask if you were really Daniel Bedingfield'
What.The.Fuck?????????????/
DANIEL SODDING BEDINGFIELD?
My Arse. I have been compared to many famous people before, quite often insultingly - Emilio Estevez and Shaking Stevens come to mind. But this was taking the piss on a major scale.

Too good not to share, part two...

After my student's wild stab at trying to describe why he was writing about Thailand for his Academic English assignment, I sent him away to rewrite the whole thing, partly because it was bloody atrocious, but mainly because he'd plagiarised everything else. He's just bought back the revised edition. You'd have thought he would have understood the words, 'Now Charlie, this is an Academic English assignment. That means nothing about ladyboys, right? No cutting off dicks, OK? Describe the bloody country!', to mean Don't Mention The Ladyboys. And did he heed my advice?
Here's the latest effort:

After discuss long neck girls, lut us turn to disuses another people, who are men change denatured sex, those men are very different from normal gentlemen after operation. They cut off their dick; inject some medicine, which could change men become pretty ladies. After the operation, they usually join song and dance ensemble for dancing and being taken photography by visitors. Unfortunately they only can live until forty-years-old, and then the whole of them will dead, the reason is that operation.

Christ on a bike.

I have a strange, creative feeling..

..wriggling around in my head. It's that time of year again, when NaNoWriMo begins! It's the (Inter)National Novel Writing Month, and I'm determined I'm going to do it this year. I intended to in '03, but, well....
I'm going to post the fruits on here. AND, if I make any money out of it, half the proceeds will go to breast cancer research.
Join in here.

How to get a National Insurance number..

Here's my good deed for the day, prompted by Marcus trying to get a NI number for his wife. It looks like a catch-22 situation when you first encounter it; Without a number, you can't get a legit job, and you can't get a number without a legit job. Here's the way out of the maze, although you'll be hard pressed to find anyone in authority to tell you straight:
When you apply for, or get a job, explain that you have a temporary number - you create it like this. The first two letters are always TN (for temporary number). It is then followed by your date of birth, in dd-mm-yy format, then either M if you're male or F, obviously if you're female. so, if you were born on the 10th march 1976, your NI number will be:
TN-100376-M(or F).
See? Easy!
Once you've got the job, ask your employer for a letter, confirming that you're working for them, then make an appointment with the nearest DSS centre in order to get a permanent NI no. You should get one within a fortnight. On the day, take the letter, passport and any other documents you need to show that you are entitled to work in the UK, then you'll get a NI number in 1-3 months.
C'est un piece du piss.
Feel free to disseminate this bit of info - people coming to the UK to settle don't often get informed about this, as it means that they get stuck in shitty, badly-paid jobs with little security.

The Purple Turtle

I met up with a few old friends on Saturday night, including Dr. Lynne, back from her Oz jaunt. Very good to see old faces again, but come 11 o'clock, I made the mistake of staggering off to The Purple Turtle for a few late beers. Apart from wasting my money, it was a somewhat saddening experience: From what I could see, a large minority of the clientele were early middle-aged blokes with paunches, grey hair and glasses. Time was when the Turtle was a real kick-ass place, particularly before it moved from Duke Street; Now, it looks like it's become part of the fogey Heritage Trail, with men trying to recreate the youth, live a little riskily (ha!), and get down with the kids. Sad.

Too good not to share....

...or an example of the kind of stuff I have to put up with on a day to day basis. The following is an extract from an Academic English assignment, handed in by one of my Chinese students. In it, he's explaining why he's decided to describe Thailand. Everything is as he wrote it:

I very interesting about two special people in Thailand, this is cause I write about Thailand for this country description. On the one hand those are the long neck girls, who have lived in east of Burma for nearly 4 century. Since 1948s, they were Persecuted by Burma, after that most of them moved to the hamlet for refugee in Thailand. The long neck girls have not any trick to earn the money expect their long neck. Since the little girls are 6-years-old, they have been trained wear the circle of copper. On the one hand that is can be earn some money for their needy life, on the another hand, they believe long neck can take good luck for them; another special people is a man change in sharp of sex, (I don�t know the name of them actually, although I am looking up the dictionary, unfortunately I still can not find out that name.) that men are very different from normal gentlemen. They cut off their dick, and inject them some medicine, which can let men become pretty ladies. After that operation, they would join a group, and dance for the show, take photograph with the a tourist.

What can I do, but bang my hand against the wall?

a bloody awful photo of me an Nur 

crushing grapes - and yes, my mum did sterilize her feet first. 

harvesting grapes for wine. Me, dad and mum. 

The Day the Thames Dried Up (After Orhan Pamuk)

Here's a small bit of fanciful writing.

In Chapter Two of his wonderful The Black Book, Orhan, in his guise as the columnist Celal Salik, describes a moment when the Bosphorus dries up, exposing its many secrets to the columnist (anti-) hero, who goes looking for a legendary Cadillac, containing the corpse of a Beyoglu hood and his moll. In a strange way, it expressed a similar desire of mine, but on a considerably smaller scale: What would happen if the Thames, as it passed through Reading, dried up entirely?
It was a notion I entertained on those lazy days I spent fishing on its banks in the late seventies and early eighties, usually during the summer holidays, with a background of tennis from Wimbledon, or the World Cup or Olympics or some such sporting endeavour, and the music provided first by Donna Summer and disco, then the Pistols and the punks, then Ska, Two Tone, Reggae and New Romantics: What would it be like, to see this river reduced to nothing more than a trough in the ground separating Reading from Caversham?
I imagined day after hot day, spent lazing on the banks, noticing how the torrent over the weir slowed to a trickle and its rich green odour was replaced by something ranker and more defiled; How the water table sank centimetre by centimetre, leaving banks of newly exposed mud, first gleaming, then crackling into hexagonal shapes; The river weed withering, then being replaced by willows, buddleias, plantains, reeds, sycamores, brambles, grasses, and dandelions, and the ducks, geese, swans, coots, moorhens and grebes being supplanted by sparrows, thrushes, robins, blackbirds, crows and whatnot; And when there was no more than the odd steaming puddle to remind the citizens of Reading, who crowded and hurtled across the bridges on their ways to and from work, of what had once been, I and my playmates would scour the drying riverbed for signs of our history.
Amid the numerous corpses of shopping trolleys, we would discover the coins we�d given to the river in supplication at the beginning of each fishing season in the hope of catching plenty. Where once they floated on the tranquil surface, the narrowboat owners would have set up their crafts on the steep banks, propping them up on old bits of scaffolding appropriated from the river bed , and constructing verandahs from pieces of flotsam. Creeping through the scaffolding poles, we�d discover, along with the inevitable cans and bottles hurled by generation of drunk after drunk, buttons, caps, wallets fat with filthy rotting notes, odd trainers, strange trousers, things flung away in fury or shame, plastic things, metal things, worthless things, things. And we would collect these exhibits of our society in the thousands of old, mud silted plastic bags we would find lining the surface of this new valley.
But once my friends had gone home, I would stay on in this new playground, and start digging for that history beyond my own present: For example, I would walk carefully through the swampy ground until I got to Caversham Bridge, now arching high overhead, and with a handy willow stick I would scratch the moist earth for evidence of the Chapel of Our Lady of Caversham, destroyed in the Reformation, to which, according to contemporary sources, �An Oone Winged Angell did bringe the hede of the speare that did perce oor saviours side�: Perhaps I would even find It myself, the Spear of Destiny, here in a (as I discovered later) not particularly remarkable town near London. Then again, I could walk back to the weir, and try to find evidence of the great battle between the Vikings and the Saxons in 760 a.d. � perhaps a broadsword, maybe even a longship, sunk with a perfect cargo of rowers, their skeletons waiting patiently for an order to pull on their oars that would never come. I would come across the tiny skeletons of the victims of Mary Jones, who, in the nineteenth century, was convicted of the murder of seven infants in her charge, but was suspected of the deaths of many, many more. Perhaps I would come across the relics of some saint, once venerated at Reading Abbey, but dispersed by Henry VIII�s wrath. Then again, there would perhaps be the black and putrid ribs of one of his sailing barges, having sunk with its cargo of beechwood for the ceiling at Hampton Court. Stepping through the rusted metal maze of shopping trolleys, bicycles, stolen motor bikes and car parts, I might come across cannon shot and musket balls from the Civil War. In this slimy green valley, where once swans dappled the surface and fish patrolled the depths, and where now kids performed tricks on their mountain bikes or smoked spliffs in the shadow of the old weir, and the beggars and addicts who haunted the town during the day came to their makeshift beds at night, and which the local paper bemoaned and implored the local council to do something about, I would compile a list of all those discarded objects that filled it, a list that would tell someone who we were. And from that list, I could compile story after story, each one related to Reading and its secrets. My book would have a double, a triple, a multiple meaning, each one more mysterious than the other, depending on the reader�s ability to pierce words and phrases for further meaning. The book of Reading, that is, the book of the settlement of the people of the mysterious leader known only as Reada, or �Red�, would also be the book of reading, an instruction into the mysteries of books and words themselves, and the reader, or Reader, would become sucked into this strange construction itself. Reading, reading; a place, no more unusual than anywhere else, it would be transformed into Minos� labyrinth, Dante�s journey, Gulliver�s travels, Ibn Batutta�s great lifelong quest, simply by the act of recording it all; And when I finished the book, I would set it in a witch-jar, seal the top, and bury it in the bed of the Thames just as winter�s rains finally began, and the river flowed over the trees and the beggars and the poles holding up the narrow boats and swallow the mystery once more for another generation to discover.
And then, of course, I would wake out of my reverie (How could I not? All stories are dreams, after all) to find my fishing line snagged on something in the flowing, rich-scented river; some weed perhaps, or an old bottle - something I couldn�t see, anyway.

sod this for a lark...

...all this bloody work malarkey. I'm knackered: I haven't had much time to myself since the last entry. Thought I'd write something down, though, before my next class.

Sue's funeral went as well as these things can. The crematorium chapel was packed - there were about 300 people by my reckoning. Afterwards, we had an enormous wake at my dad's house. He was in quite a state, so we made sure his glass remained filled. I may write in more detail later.

Spent last weekend indulging in various bucolic pursuits, namely making cheese on saturday (a surprisingly easy process) and making wine round at my mum's on sunday. She has a vine in a corner of her garden, and we pulled off 60 pounds of grapes - enough to make about 10 gallons of wine. After we'd gathered, mashed and mixed everything up, we sat down to a huge lasagne, salad and loads of red wine .

Hello!

Just to say Hi and thanks for the message to Pol Curley, a chum from university days. Keep on reading my mangled burblings!

Found out that Sue's Funeral takes place next tuesday, at 11.30. Rather than send flowers, I'm going to donate to the hospital in Reading which looked after her. Besides that, I want to do something more: Raise money for cancer research or something, and think about some way to do it. And not just here, either - something that connects to Istanbul, and Nur's mum, who also died of cancer.

A phone conversation.

Me: ..so you're interested in part-time evening courses.
Possible student: Yes, yes I am. I'm an international student.
Me: Where are you from?
Possible student: Slough.

Blaaady 'Ell.

Forget the previous post. I'm in a skittish, restless mood, that's all. I don't have a class till 3.15 this afternoon, and I'm doing my best to appear busy.

I'm having fun trying to put Google's Adsense thing onto this site. Not. It would appear my template doesn't like the cut'n'paste code. Sod it, who needs ads anyway?
I was idling on the computer last night, interspersing surfing with playing minesweeper. What the fuck for? I don't want to waste any more of my life.

And they're off!

yay, the start of the real teaching today. I'm busy plotting how much of three hours' class time I can waste with vague exercises and bureaucracy. To my consternation, I've discovered that two elementary munchkins, who somehow managed to wangle a 5.0 in IELTS, are in my group. I'm laying bets on how long they last: Odds are they'll be off by the end of term. I asked one of them which university he wanted to go to. His brow furrowed. 'Universty?' 'Yes, which University would you like to go to?' 'Univesty?' 'UNIVERSITY' 'Ahh! Yes, I want go WAR-wick'. 'What do you want to study?''Account.''Why?''I like account ver'much.' Faackin' 'Ell.

Watched 'She's Gone' on ITV last night: I can't say I was impressed. The storyline - young woman goes missing, father goes in search of her, discovers all sorts of stuff along the way - has been covered many times and by better writers. The depiction of Istanbul and Turks was, to my mind, rather lazy and disingenuous. Apparently, much of the location filming was done in Malta, and it showed as well: shots purporting to be from a rooftop looking over the Golden Horn clearly weren't, the police vehicles weren't the ones used in Turkey, and many of the buildings, even though they had Turkish flags draped over them, weren't the sort you'd find in Istanbul. One very crap shot in the final couple of scenes: The buildings used for the backdrop were the same as those used for the prison in Midnight Express! The acting was largely wooden, apart from Ray Winstone, who did a good job as a confused, self-centred bear of a man.

Susan Gallantry.

...or just plain Sue. My dad's third wife. Sadly, she lost her battle with breast cancer this morning, at 4 a.m. Over the last five years, she showed incredible reserves of fortitude and courage in the face of an incredibly vicious, aggressive form of the disease. While she was afraid, and I certainly would have been, she never stopped trying. She was, I recall, incredibly nervous of meeting the rest of my dad's family at first, particularly my sister and me, as she was worried that we would reject her out of hand. Instead, she found herself welcomed, as she was a pleasant, kind woman. I tryuly believe that my dad found a great deal of peace and happiness with her, and the man who had in part disappeared in the years follwing his split up from my mum returned. For him, too, this has been a harsh trial, and this year in particular has been a cruel, evil bitch: My grandfather died back in February, while Nur's mum died at the same time.

Sue leaves behind my dad, her three children and a grandson.

Safe journey, Sue.

Booze and illness.

Bluh. I feel ill. Ill enough not to go into work yesterday. Cold/fever/sore throat kind of thing. Spent the day instead hunkered under blankets, drinking lemsip and making lentil soup. I thought the latter would make me feel better, which it would have done, had I not burnt my bloody throat while tasting it. As night came on, I decided a glass of wine would be the done thing. Knocked the sodding glass over. Arse.
On BBC Breakfast this morning, I blearily watched a news report about under age drinking, and 'David Blunkett's summer crackdown on binge drinking and violence'. From this sentence, I inferred two possibilities. Either A) David Blunkett is a one man crackdown team, dashing from bar to bar and terrorising all the munchkins with their cider and blacks, or b) Blunkett has a terrible binge drinking and violence problem of his own, and has sworn to forego both over the summer. The image of Blunkers off his head on alcopops, rampaging through the corridors of Whitehall, randomly and viciously passing legislation at terrified onlookers, crawled through my mind.
Well, it was early in the morning.
And I still feel ill.

Can this really be true?

Here's a link to one of Dave Egger's short stories in The Guardian. Is what he says really true? If so, then what the Hell are you doing, Mr and Mrs average American voter? Get the war monkey out, get Lurch in!

And so another hour of my life is sucked away...

.....by an utterly pointless 'team briefing', in this case the Learning Resource Centre's 'Learning Services Roadshow'. Apart from sounding like it's going to be presented by ageing DJs in fake satin bomber jackets, it covered an area of learning that has nothing whatsoever to do with my particular skill. It looked at assessing key skills requirements for the munchkins who get shunted onto the college after having failed their GCSEs. It was also shoddily presented, something that really gets up my nose as a lecturer. The powerpoint was just a repetition of what the presenter said; It failed to engage interest; It had a specific aim, was was largely aimed at the wrong target audience; In short, why the fuck was I there? And I have another one to endure this afternoon, the 'Campus Briefing and Update', which which take the best part of two hours to deliver, by none less than the director of the college, Lee. He resembles a dealer in quality used cars.

What a fantastic weekend! Weather-wise, I mean: I spent most of the time loitering in the garden, practising the age-old art of pottering, i.e. pretending to be busy. Tried to do a barbie last night, but didn't have enough charcoal.

Went out on Friday night, for Mike's leaving do -he's off to Romania today.

On hearing (but not seeing) the Festival

I didn't manage to get to the Reading Festival this year, due to lack of money. I still managed to hear some of the best bits, though, thanks to where I live: It's a valley about a mile and a half north of the site, and when the wind's in the right direction, the sound from the main stage bounces up from side to side. On a good night, you can individual whispers. The darkness sounded good, as did The Streets, but most memorable for me was staggering back from the pub at 11, listening to 50,000 people singing 'We Are The Champions'.
I am definitely going next year, come what may.

back to work.........

.........and hence the reason why I haven't been blogging. Never fear, normal service is to be resumed. I also see that my counter has gone back to normal.

what's going on?

I've just visited my page and was staggered to see the apparent number of visitors! over 1 million!!! Where the hell did they come from?
I then checked my emails, and it seems some wag has linked my page via weblinker to a couple of dodgy-sounding sites.
thanks for the extra trade, but you are taking the piss abit.

a view from the hotel. 

me. 

Angus on the beach. 

spooky eyes!  

a tortoise in paignton zoo. 

stonehenge, maaan... 

work.

Bluh. Back at work. I've had a week and a half off, hence no entries for a while. Well, we managed a few days down in Devon - Kingsteignton, to be exact. Which was nice, but I could have done with a few more days of it: By the time I'd wound down from the stress of driving all the way there, it was time to come back. I'll post some piccies later. Driving there only confirmed to me what arseholes Audi drivers are. Is there any rational explanation for their need to tailgate you on a motorway, aggressively push other cars to the side of the road, and be general all round dickheads? As a cyclist, I hate them (and don't start me on FUCKING Volvo users - smug beardy middle class, daily mail reading bunch of knobshafts): as a driver, I find them despicable.

And another thing....it's six months since I gave up smoking!

and finally....

The Good News. Saddam Hussein has been given the death penalty.
The Bad News is that Beckham's going to take it....

well, that's next year's holiday sorted, then...

...but not this year's - actually, I have bugger all cash to afford one....unless there's some kindly soul out there with a couple of grand going spare..?
 We had a few Turkish friends over last night. They've come over here for five weeks to learn English and soak up (probably quite literally) the atmosphere. Impressed them with the food: Potato salad, a really good bit of melon, fresh off the vine tomatoes in a salad dressed with lime, olive oil and a dash of dijon mustard, kebabs and lumps of meat, plus one of my all time favourite foods, mercimek koftesi (lentil balls), for which, here's the recipe:
Mercimek Koftesi
You need:
1 cup (about 250 gr) red split lentils
1 cup (about 250 gr) fine bulgur wheat
water
salt
1 medium/large onion
2-3 spring onions
handful of flat leaf parsley
chilli paste
tomato puree
here we go...
wash lentils. place in pan with 3 - 4 cups water. boil until just cooked (the lentils fall to bits) - about 7 - 10 minutes. Add bulgur, boil briefly, then drop heat to lowest setting. Cook for 15 mins. Remove from heat, and give a stir with a wooden spoon after about 5 minutes - you should have a thick kind of paste mixture. n.b. keep the lid on the pan, otherwise the whole lot will dry out quickly. While leaving mixture to cool a bit, very finely dice the onion and the spring onion. separate the greens of the latter. Heat a few tablespoons of oil in a frying pan, then very gently cook the onion, taking care not to burn it. add spring onion, then the green parts about a minute before removing from heat. add onions to the mix, along with tomato puree and chili paste - you want enough of these two to make the whole take on a red colour: best to add the chili gradually. Also add chopped parsley. Mix thoroughly, then, using your hands, take the mix and make little sausage shaped patties and place on a plate to cool down. Once cool, stuff your face with as many as possible, because they won't last long once other people get their hands on them!
Afiyet Olsun!
edit
I forgot to say why next year's holiday was sorted. Our friends have a villa on Kinaliadasi, a small and v. exclusive island in the Marmara Sea - the ideal place to lounge on a hammock amidst the sea breezes, writing and sipping on raki.....

Music Lessons

Overheard in the corridor earlier on:
Prospective student to a tutor: So, with this music course, yeah, I can do any topic I like for the project?
Tutor: Yes.
Student: So can I do 'Disco Through The Ages'?
Tutor: What, disco as an,erm, movement? erm, well, I suppose so...

I can imagine it now....
1322. The Plague raged across Europe. Half the population were dying, while the other half were boogying to St. Vitus!

Hurrah!

My Malaysian Chum, Nat Oppenheim, has come back from a weekend jaunt in Istanbul, bringing RAKI in her wake - for me! I'll be feasting on stuffed vine leaves, karpuz and beyaz peynir tonight :)

Further to that article about Mrs. Bin Ladin I mentioned the other day (see below): It struck me how all zealots, whatever their faith may be, have several things in common. The first is their desire to be powerful; second, their overweening egos, that say they are utterly correct no matter what; and third they do not really believe in the righteousness of their respective gods, but rather believe in the righteousness of their faith in their gods. When such people pray, all they hear back are the whispers that eternally echo and circle round their closed, metallic minds.

my son on his sports day 

Later, much later...

..well, it's 3.35 to be precise. The Saudi visit went OK: A group of 10 trainee teachers at Reading Uni came along with their tutors. I showed them round the glories of the college, had tea and observed classes. They seemed v. happy with the whole thing. And I managed to squeeze money out of finanace for a couple of trips. And the potentially sub-normal stude wasn't, as it turned out - just a lazy bugger who'd studiously avoided studying any English at all before arriving here. So, this has been a bugger of a day, but it's turned out alright up till now.

the Saudis are coming!

A very quick post, which I shall edit later. I have a group of Saudi trainee teachers coming in, and have to show them round....I have also had dumped upon me some poor Chinese kid who seems to have extreme learning difficulties, with whose parents I would just LOVE to have serious words.....
Read an interesting article in The Grauniad yesterday, with the ex-wife of the brother of former black sabbath frontman and religious extremist Ozzie Bin Laden ("Sharon! There're fookin' infidels in the fookin' garden again!"). More on that later....

Not Happy. Not a bunny.

...I'm having one piss-of off a day so far......
Trying to organise this bloody summer school is turning into a far more serious headache than last year's. No one in finance or HR or the principal's office seems to know, understand or care whose responsibility it is to actually pay for trips for the students, even though the students have these damn excursions as part of their course; I can't book excursions until the last moment, as I don't know how many people I'm going to have in any given week, and consequently I have to wait till this time on a Monday (4.49 pm) before I can make a move. This little problem is compounded by Finance insisting on monies being raised at least 4 DAYS in advance, plus I need to get permission from various bosses (all of whom are on holiday) for the bloody trip to go ahead, said permission being granted a week in advance. OK, I could put the permission forms forward early, but they insist on having a list of the students (along with a risk assessment form so they can cover their miserable hides should their be some kind of litigation inducing accident) before they can give assent. And of course I don't know who'll be on it.....

Life - what Joy!

I have noticed that 'the joy of raki' is, when the word 'raki' is googled, the second site to appear on the list!

schadenfreude

the are times when the folly of our fellow humans warms the cockles of the heart....here's a story of texting and greed...

It's 4.39, and near the end of a very long day. I've been here since 8.00 this morning, organising the summer school, getting teachers to cover classes, arranging trips and posters and handbooks blah blah blah. So far, we have a grand total of six students for the class: this is six more than we were anticipating this time last week. I managed to extract from the International Ofiice Coordinator, at five o'clock last friday, the list of people expected to come, which meant I had to frantically prepare a load of junk after that. I was the last person left in the building, apart from the miserable porter, who goes round swinging his keys and rattling doors - something I'm sure is a typical behaviour of porters, janitors and doormen everywhere. Oh well, only 17 days to holiday time.
You know that most people grumble about teachers and holidays, thinking them lucky to have so much, to which the teachers riposte that they have to attend conferences, mark and prepare things etc? Well, let me tell you, we teachers are lying! Yes, we get 40 days' paid holiday each year, and we bugger off to exotic locations to get drunk off our asses! Ha ha ha!
I have, I must point out, made up one of the points above. We can never afford to go to exotic places: Instead, we just go to a different bar for the duration.

Nature.

While I was in my garden last night, a woodpecker landed by my hand! I don't know who was the more surprised. It took a look at me, then flew off to a safe distance.

The other day as well, I saw an enormous pike sunning itself in the shallows just downstream of Caversham weir. It was at least a metre long.

Of pyramids and Shakespeare

I was watching an interesting bit on BBC News earlier on, about a new exhibit at the British Museum . It's a 3D representation of a complete Egyptian mummy that underwent a CAT scan, so the archaeologists didn't have to undo the thing to peek inside. I have an abiding fascination with old things, so it'll be an exhibit I'll see next time I'm in the Smoke. One 'curious feature' discovered was a strange serpentine figure on the skull. As the newsreader chirpily put it, 'Stargate fans, take note!'
Another thing I love is science fiction, so you can imagine that I love Stargate. It is total rubbish, but it makes perfect sunday afternoon viewing, post lunch: Being slightly pissed on a decent bottle of red wine, whilst watching some guys running around pyramids. With spaceships and explosions. Bliss. (And you get Time Team afterwards as well). OK, OK, it is rather sad, butb there you go. We all need something to do on a sunday afternoon...
As I said, Stargate is enjoyable, but absolute tosh. The pyramids were not built with alien technology, the Egyptians did not have access to strange devices, forgotten Ancient Knowledge, or stargates. They did have access to rock, mud, primitive cranes, a decent knowledge of geometric principles and architecture, slaves and whips. That was enough to build the pyramids. But of course, many people don't want to believe that. And why?
For the same reason that some people don't want to believe that Shakespeare wrote his plays. Last week saw the 400th anniversary of the death of Edward de Vere, a nob who some say was the real author of such plays as Hamlet, King Lear, and Henry V. Oh, and The Tempest, which was written after 1604. Hmmm...Likewise, some say that Francis Bacon wrote them, or Ben Jonson. Anyone but Shakespeare.
And why?
Because it isn't romantic enough. According to these people, the Egyptians can't have built the pyramids because they're, well, the pyramids. Shakespeare can't have written the plays because they're, um, his plays. That someone can create something staggering, an artifice or a piece of literature in a way that has never been done before, seems incredulous to such people, and people who don't want to credit the evidence of their own eyes tend to be credulous, and grasp at any passing straw instead. So, in their opinion, the pyramids must have had alien intervention because of their size and alignment to certain stars. The plays must have been written by a nobleman, because lords and such were erudite and well-travelled, unlike lowly Stratford schoolmasters.
What they forget are two things: First, that even the most ordinary of us, by putting our minds to what we really want, are capable of achieving the apparently miraculous; and second, that others have what they have in abundance, namely an imagination.

Thwarted.

A great word, that. Try getting students to pronounce it, and get ready to run from the incoming phlegm tide...
...but it describes yesterday quite well. I had intended, it being sunday and having just been paid, to spend the afternoon and evening in the garden, doing nothing but languish in the sun, eat mezes and barbecued things, and drink glass after glass of milk white, ice-cold raki, while chatting and laughing with my wife, and not worrying about a thing for a few blissful hours.
Fat Fucking Chance.
It pissed down all afternoon; Nur got up, then went out for FOUR HOURS, leaving me stuck at home, then spent the rest of the day, first gardening, then watching a video! All whilst my son was becoming increasingly bored and restful and kicking up a stink. And then, just to wrap it up, she began going on about our money problems at 10 o'clock in the evening after I'd dosed myself up on raki! I couldn't take it; I just decided to go upstairs and curl up into a ball, and sleep the righteous sleep of the distilled-grape-and anise blessed.
...and was promptly disturbed by screeching, yelling and fighting from some arseholes on the street at about 2 in the morning. I drifted into a vague sleep afterwards, only to dream vividly about places in my own dream 'metaworld'. These are places that I frequently visit in the night, and to which I ascribe symbolic ideas, moods, worries etc. Last night, I was in the City of Antiquities, a dusty and morose place somewhere hot. I was walking up and down a marble paved street, looking up to a museum with a gaping roof and large windows, stuffed with busts and statues, and opposite was a small, rock cut tomb (empty), reminiscent of a Lycian grave. I was thinking of stealing one of the statues, though God knows why. Later, the dream faded, and I was in a busy city street, first going through a series of deserted underground shops, then upwards through narrow alleys. Then I realised I was dreaming, and decided to try to fly. I only got a couple of feet off the ground, and caught sight of myself in a mirror (arms outstretched, a small pair of white wings flapping lazily) before I woke up.

I can't hear a f*****g thing...

What can I say?
Alright, we were robbed of the goal at the end of full time, but I can just about accept that.
England looked increasingly tired and lacklustre, and seemed to lack focus after Rooney left. That too is understandable.
Portugal played a great game. Good for them.
What I do not understand is this...

Which idiot thought it would be a good idea to let David Bowie referee the game?

What next? Sting (with Rod Stewart and Bryan Adams on the sidelines) in the semis? Jarvis Cocker for the final?

The kind of day at work that I like - one where I don't have to teach anyone, but can indulge in creating wierd and wacky new materials to use in class. Who the bloody hell am I kidding? 'Wierd and wacky', indeed. By and large, Materials for ESL students are worthy, uncontroversial and dull. One of my profession's Prime Directives is, 'Don't Panic/Offend/In any way Enrage/Engage the interest of the Punter', so it means that sex, drugs and politics are off the menu. What the Hell else is there to talk about? I'd just love to do a vocabulary lesson based around a good ol' saturday night out in the UK. Let's see, which lexical items could we use?....
To drop a tab
Score some drugs/E's/Dope etc (well, you should cover all possible collocations)
Blingin' and Bling bling
To get arseholed
To get jiggy
and so forth, and so on.
What I have actually done is design a course for the summer school programme, for which I now have to book a series of outings, and design an interview protocol to follow up on students' research assignments.
What Fun.
The football - well, what can you say? Good, but it would have been better to have been down the pub watching it rather than stuck at home. More than made up for, however, by the presence of a bottle of raki, from which I had a few glasses accompanied by some beyaz peynir, haydari, salata, ekmek, kofte ve bulgur pilavi. Yum!

Another glorious monday morning - and now the days will slowly but surely start to draw in once more.....there, that's made you feel happy and optimistic, hasn't it?
I don't know particularly why, but I don't have the incentive at present to write on a computer; I feel more like scrawling in a notepad, chucking out demented cartoons of whatnot and thingummyjigs. Hence I must needs force myself to write something, anything in order to keep me going.
We had a delighful workshop with Bradley Lightbody of Quiet Associates last week, on the joys of keeping a Scheme of Work for our respective classes. Myself and other teachers from my department took delight into laying into his absolute, over-idealised guff. Balls to it all! I spent virtually all of last week doing fatuous paperwork or someone else's job, rather than what I'm paid to do.
Saturday, and in the college again, for the FCE and CAE speaking exams, which went pretty well. Came back home, and Wife and I decided to crack open the bottle of champagne that's been languishing in the fridge for months. Nice. Then we got quite merrily pissed up yesterday round at my mum's.

bored and tired.

I had a tedious, tiresome day yesterday, and it looks like being pretty much a rerun today. Bluhh.

yes i said yes.

Man gets up, has breakfast, has a dump, goes out, wanders round a bit, goes to a funeral, pops into work, has lunch, pootles round all afternoon, has a wank on a beach, gets pissed, staggers into a whorehouse, has the late night munchies, goes home, pisses in the garden, kisses his wife's arse.

HAPPY BLOOMSDAY!

I should be working...

...but I can't be arsed right now, so I'll do an entry instead. Despite it being exams week, I can't help but feel that this is a time to relax, as I don't have to fret and fume over making lesson plans for now. Instead, I have the joy of paperwork to deal with: Preparations for the summer school prog, a 22-page course review and targets overhaul, marking a load of largely plagiarised asignments from my academic English course and tying up any loose ends from the classes that finished last week. And it is bloody boiling in my staffroom.
I felt in a grim mood for most of the weekend, partly due to my hayfever, mostly because of my ongoing money problems - which found me without any money in the bank at all, and none until June 25th. Basically, it means we're going to starve next week.
I took out my despair, anger and aggression on a long, hard bike ride. I cycled down the Thames Path as far as Hambleden Lock, dragging my bike over stile and fence, thumping over root and pothole, then up towards Aston, onto a footpath at Remenham Hill, back down to Henley, then home via Harpsden, Binfield Heath, Dunsden and Emmer Green. Turning off from Hambleden Lock, I came into a meadow covered in wild poppies, a tide of red nodding in the breeze; On the footpath at Remenham Hill, I walked through a weird forest of pines, where fine, dead branches reached almost to the ground, and the light was a subdued sepia; Further on, I stood in a hilltop field, looking down onto a broad sweep of the Thames Valley towards the Chilterns, and saw a red kite circling lazily, and heard the cuck-cuck-cuck of a pheasant.
And having seen all this, it came to me that there are harder things and worse things than my current predicament, and that I live in a glorious, beautiful place.

of dogs and water coolers....

Last night was, er, the last night for the evening classes, and so a good excuse to skive off the lesson and head for the pub, the Fisherman's Cottage. A gaggle of students, two of my colleagues and I went there and sat out in the garden over beer. We were trying to have a civilised conversation; Unfortunately, the pub's dog put paid to that. It's a mangy, one-eyed pit-bull cross, and it had a friend come to visit - another pit bull cross. They were obviously happy to see each other, as they took turns to bugger each other all round the garden for half an hour. It was rather disconcerting to try and understand what a student was saying whilst being distracted by a humping dog.

We had a meeting, as usual, this morning. One of my fellow teachers, Kathryn, who's only just returned from maternity leave, had a bit of a cough, so left the room to get some water. Quite reasonably, being staff, she went to the nearest staffroom to get a cup. Quite normally, this being Reading College, the people in the staffroom wouldn't let her have any, because 'you work for a different department'. Kathryn insisted, and finally the woman guarding the watercooler opened a cupboard, got out a plastic cup and filled it halfway, then grudingly gave it to her. And then waited for her to give the cup back.
As Kath said later, 'I'm so glad to return and find some things never change...'

bloody arses.

...I tell my academic English class to bring in their country comparison assignments so I can check them before they are handed in, and what happens? 'Oh, it's stuck in computer'.'I've done it, it doesn't need checking'. 'I forgot'. 'The dog's eaten it'. Oh well, they'll be sorry when I start handing out big fat zeroes.
One guy brought his. The introduction is cetainly dramatic, and full of amazing news: 'Two days ago, Mussolini was captured and shot by Italian partisans...'

Blimey.

Egad, it's hot

It is far too warm to be teaching this afternoon. Instead, I shall show a video to my students, and whisper 'sleep...sleep' into their ears until they succumb. In all honesty, I have nothing else to do with them; They've taken their exams, and I just have today and tomorrow with this particular class. Likewise my evening group - 2 more classes, then exam time. At least with them, I can go to the pub.
Spent the early part of the morning fiddling with my telescope, trying to view the transit of Venus. Managed to get a decent view of what appeared to be a small mole on an arse cheek.

crikey!

Someone I was at university with was in the Guardian's weekend supplement!It was an article about up-and-coming poets, and it took me two read throughs of the article to remember Deryn Rees-Jones; She read English at the same time as me, and as far as I can recall, was quiet and highly industrious and ended up with a First. I don't think I could have talked to her more than a couple of times, busy as I was living a life of boozed-up, party-lovin' Bohemianism.

Bad news over at Marcus' blog: He's been sacked by his Nazi Employers. My thoughts go out to you and Dao, mate.

Despite drugging myself up, hayfever is still making life horrible. Everything inside my head is itching and I feel like I'm looking at the world through cotton wool.

TV

Just a couple of random thoughts on television.
First, breakfast telly, the weather forecast, and the eternal sunlight that is the mind of Carol Kirkwood, the Scots presenter.
'Goooooooooooood Morning!! And it's absoluutely GORGEOUS today!!!!!'
You can actually hear the exclamation marks. Just how on earth does she manage to sound so bloody upbeat so early in the morning? It doesn't matter if it's blowing a gale with added snow - she's always insanely happy. She's probably been injected with caffeine and ecstacy before the show goes out. Just for once, it'd be nice to hear her say something along the lines of, 'Morning. Isn't it fucking shit weather today? I'm off for a fag.'

Next, Big Brother. I have watched only a couple of episodes of this so far, but I don't feel particularly tempted to watch more. It's ghastly in the same way that an impending accident is. C4 have clearly rounded up the biggest bunch of morons they could find. So far, it's just a group of people shouting at each other. None of them would recognise a cogent argument even if it coshed them viciously over the head.
And which preening idiot's idea was it to let Kitten in there? I know that editing does distort a person's character on reality shows, but so far Kitten appears to be badly in need of counselling; everything she does seems to be screaming 'HELP!!!!' Just calling herself 'Kitten' is sad enough.

Now what would be good would be to let Kitten take over Carol's job, and Carol to be slung into the BB house.

.

I feel dreary and miserable, partly because of my hayfever, which has flared intensely this year, partly from a sense of ennui engendered by staring at the pile of work on my desk that's demanding to be done, and partly from my terrible financial situation. Having money would be a nice thing; I don't mean much, just enough not to get freaked out about bills and worrying if the phone's going to get cut off, or be able to buy something nice for my wife and son, or even go out to the cinema or a restaurant now and then. That's all.

I veer between an extreme interest in doing my job well, and not caring about it at all.
Oh sod it, I'm just in need of a good moan right now.

drunken creativity.

We�re off to mum�s in a bit, for (hopefully) a barbecue. The weather, typically for a bank holiday weekend, looks as though it�s going to piss down. My back is slightly sore, a result of bending over a breadboard for the last hour, making stuffed vine leaves.

Which idiot invented these bloody things?

Now, I absolutely love dolmas, but they are tiresome in the extreme to make. Just doing the rice properly takes over an hour. Then preparing the leaves, filling them, painstakingly rolling them and stacking all carefully in a pan before cooking for 45 minutes. Then they go in a flash.

The only person who could possibly have invented these was a bloke.

A very pissed bloke. Let�s face it, it�s the kind of food, like banana and marmite sandwiches, which only the terminally drunk could have invented. Picture the scene: Agamemnon, Menelaus and Odysseus get home (very late of course), tanked up on retsina and ouzo.
Agamemnon: Gods, I�m pissed!
Menelaus: What you got to eat, Odysseus mate? I�m starving!
Odysseus: Well, there�s some rice, few pine nuts, currants�that�s about it.
Agamemnon: what, no bread? What we gonna eat with that, then?
Menelaus: �ere, how about these, then eh? (waves a bunch of vine leaves at Odysseus)
Odysseus: you can�t eat them!
Agamemnon: Yes, you can � go on, I dare you!

And the rest was history.

Indeed, when you look at some of the stuff we eat � snails, oysters, sheep�s brain, Ginster�s pasties � they can only be the result of drunken bets long, long ago.

mapledurham house, still owned by the Blount family: as Mike put it, 'I wonder if they have a daughter?' 

more students: meng wen, judy (qiaodan hu),meng zhang: ke zhang, my Cambridge candidate, is taking the photo 

some of my ifp students: (l-r) roy, ming, zeng, edward 

from front, then l - r: simon, mary, chrissy and mike, colleagues 

bangor pier, 1989 

more exam shit.

Giving an exam tonight; the listening and speaking sections of the CAE. Let's see how badly they do. I am feeling severely stressed at the moment because of the sheer amount of work on my plate as well as all the money crap on the domestic front. Right now, I feel I could just walk out on everything & disappear. I am also organising a sodding outing for the students, for which I haven't had the time or, to be perfectly frank, the inclination to get really ready. Nevertheless, it shall go ahead tomorrow. whoopee.

wednesday once more..

..and halfway through. I'm wracking my brains for cunning ways to stretch the materials I've got for this afternoon's lesson. It's going to be bloody boring anyway; It's the joy of academic reading...
quote for today:
'The hail bounced off the pavement like maggots being fried in hot grease.' - from a selection of GCSE essays, sent to me by one of my students.

an old photo of mine, but a good one; this shows Glaslyn from the summit of Snowdon. 

a few things re work

I had my fortnightly programme leader meeting with the boss yesterday. I found out that, rather than being able to do the DELTA course I've been after for the past few years, I will have to do a certificate in Education, so that I comply with FENTO standards. A certificate in Education basically means that you have at least a vague idea of what a classroom is. It's just another piece of crappy bureaucracy and a waste of time, space and money. the upshot is that it probably means I won't be able to do DELTA for at least another year. Bollocks.
Student quotes for today:
'I am champion of glof.'
'As a result, it will be cause secondly to be mind unfortunately.'
If anyone can work out what the hell the last one's about, please feel free to mail/comment.

Now he's invading my dreams!

Horrible, horrible, horrible!
That's all I can say about the dream I had last night. It was all quite pleasant; I was in my garden, chilling out with a beer and relaxing with a book, when all of a sudden Mr.Chimpy fuckwit himself appeared - George W. Bush! The bastard was walking round my garden, smirking his monkey smirk. I started yelling at the twat - 'Fuck off, you wanker! Just fuck off!' - then woke up.
Now that is scary!

On a more pleasant note, I must say that I like the new photoblog option.

angus and his gran 

lets see of this photohosting works then.... 

monday yet again

...I'm not posting as often as I'd like here, but then I'm v. busy at work right now; Exams are coming, everyone's getting stressed out, and I'm on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The money situation is atrocious. If there's anyone out there that can help me, please do so! I've somehow managed to survive on �17 this week. I am also in the throes of hayfever, which has left me feeling stuffy headed and brainless.
And the handlebars on my bicycle decided to part company from the rest of the bike. While I was riding it.
I nearly went into the bloody river.
Oh well, another great start to the week.

just recovering from a hangover

....occasioned by sitting in the garden yesterday afternoon, eating sis kofte and mezes, listening to Turkish music, and drinking a shedload of raki. And wine and beer. It was an absolutely beautiful day yesterday - not bad today either. The hawthorns overhanging the garden are in full bloom: their, to put it mildly, heady perfume overarches all the other smells. Nur wrinkled her nose when she smelt it.
'Paul, it stinks of shit out here!'
'It's just the hawthorn.'
It doesn't smell of shit at all; If anything, it smells like sex, that combination of sweat and saliva and come. Whether this is incredibly erotic or nauseating is pretty much down to how you view it.

Hmmm....Friday....

The weather's far too nice for this teaching mularkey. I'm going to escape from here as soon as bloody possible.

A day by the sea.

On May Day, the family went down to Mudeford in Dorset, with the express purpose of getting on a boat, going out to sea and tossing my grandfather over the side � or rather, gently scattering him into the English Channel. It was a piss-miserable day leaving Reading; The rain belted down, the wind alternately whispered and howled, big black clouds swaggered and bowled through the sky. Mum, Nur, Angus and I headed south in the former�s car, travelling roads I haven�t been down since I was about twelve. Past Stratfield Saye and The Jekyll and Hyde, past the octagonal house at Chineham, then through Basingstoke rapidly, where the sun decided to join us in brief intervals. We hit the M3, going almost to Southampton before turning off onto the M27, then into the New Forest, where I saw the peculiar three-storey house that always announced to me, when I was a child, that we were nearly at the beach. Finally, we arrived at Mudeford at about 10.15, where we found the rest of my family already gathered. The cloud had gathered again, and gobbets of rain fell intermittently. A small boat was ferrying people to Hengistbury Head; The younger members of the family were fishing for crabs; The car park was full of dour-looking families, penned into their vehicles by the weather. Yachts filled the bay, scudding along on the wind, sails gleaming, a busy spin of colour. A fisherman was stacking some lobster creels, and a small caf�, the type that smells of egg sandwiches, milky coffee and hot vinegar, was packed. Despite the occasion, everyone in the family seemed to be in a happy, almost festive mood. We were making fun of Gary, my cousin Lisa�s husband, because he gets violent seasickness and wouldn�t be joining us on the boat; Their two children were busy hauling crabs out of the sea, while Angus looked on; The men chatted about golf.
We got on our boat, a twin hulled open deck aluminium ferry, at about 11.00, and headed towards the open sea. The sun was struggling to get through the clouds and briefly made the wave crests shine like old pewter. A jetski roared past, and a fishing boat heading towards shore. We made jokes about throwing up or falling in the water, while I busied myself with trying to write a poem (still writing it). I have written something each time one of my relatives has died � whether they�re any good or not, only time will tell. Finally, we got a mile offshore. Law dictates that human remains may not be disposed of further towards the shore than that, apparently. The skipper cut the engines and turned the boat so that it faced the land again. He opened a gangway door, so that dad, when he let the ashes go, could be nearer the surface of the water. We all went silent. Dad got the urn and knelt carefully by the lapping water. There were no prayers.
�Right, It�s time,� said dad. �This is where Dad wanted to be, and he�d be happy to see us all here. As I pour him into the water, just keep a favourite thought of him in your head.�
He took off the lid, upended the urn. A stream of ash, a flow of what had once been bone and teeth and hair and nails and viscera and heart and brains and a loving, happy smile and glittering eyes, poured straight into the sea and down. I had a sudden feeling of the great depth and volume of the water and the swirl of dust that had been Grandad glittering and curling through it, like cream on black coffee or the arm of a galaxy against the blackness, falling and gleaming until it reached the bed. A sudden, brief wail went up from the women, an intake of breath and the sound of crying and sniffing.
�Bye, Dad.�
My father had said it almost to himself; I just about caught him saying it, and saw a few tears.
We threw flowers over the side of the boat � roses, sprays of heather � then watched in silence as the boat gently turned on the current, before the engines were cranked up again.
As if to complete the sombre moment, a seagull appeared and wheeled over the spot, then it began to rain.
It rained bloody hard. We all got sodding soaked.

Jesus is coming - look busy!

One of my students wears a black wristband with the initials �WWJD� on it. I spotted this while we were doing some listening exercises.
�What�s that?� I asked.
�It�s a wristband�, said Edward.
�Yes, I can see that, I mean what are the initials for?�
Tony piped up, smiling.
�He�s a Christian. It�s for �What Would Jesus Do?��
What would Jesus do, indeed. I had images of Him wondering through the college canteen, picking over the various articles of what is laughingly called �food� there. What would He do? Go for the ploughman�s lunch, only �2.99. That and a slush puppy. Now he�s in a language exam: What will He do? That�s right, get every answer correct, seeing as He�s omniscient! My, but he�d be an annoyingly smug bugger to teach�.
Asking, in any given situation, what Jesus would do seems to me a bit of a no-brainer, in that He would either do nothing, as stuff would just happen around Him anyway, or, to be trite, be meek and mild. Or rather, Meek and Mild. Aggressively Meek.

stupid coincidence.

I've just found out that Carl, my work colleague who sits opposite me, was at the same Marillion gig at Milton Keynes Bowl as I was back in 1986. And now we are reduced to the same miserable circumstances, working in this college.

Holy Camels!

....I found out yesterday that one of my students is the niece of no less than that new frenna freedom, Colonel Gadaffi! I mentioned this to my evening class; One of them said, 'If she's his niece, why the Hell is she coming to Reading College?'
Why, indeed.
Now, it'd be extremely funny if he ever popped in for a visit....

Well, they would say that, wouldn't they?

....the army's 'robust denial', that is, of Brits torturing someone. This row will probably rumble on for a while, but I think I'll have to side with the army on this one. As a photographer myself, & in particular someone who's done shots for theatre productions, I have to say that the shots are just too sharp and seem too staged, in particular the one of the soldier 'kicking'. Also, the blood doesn't look convincing at all. That's not to say that it isn't a recreation of a real incident however; It's just that the photos don't convince me. And the timing was remarkably apt...

quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

....or should that be (in bad latin) quis spectatoriet ipsos spectatores? it seems that OFSTED inspectors just want us to feel their pain; Read this report by the beeb.

Abu Ghraib - under new management, but service as usual....

The scenes of torture of Iraqi prisoners by US troops in Abu Ghraib prison - well, just plain fucking disgusting. How do the Americans expect to control the country with shit like that going on? And what the Hell is this about 'Private Contractors' being used to 'interrogate' prisoners?
I understand that the soldiers who were acting as guards had received no training in their duties and that the chain of command was screwed up, with the 'contractors' having virtual carte blanche to do as they pleased. In other words, this was a consequence of the very Bushian maxim of 'by any means necessary'.
Please, please, let John Kerry win the presidential election this year - let's not have this regime of evil muppet chimps any longer.

Turkish Goodies!

A new shop has opened in Cemetery Junction - a Turkish one! Called Osman Bey; It sells RAKI. Means I don't have to traipse up to London or Istanbul to get some, then. Hurrah!