filling the blank

A few snippets to fill the void of dates where nothing has been written. While I’m here, I’m thinking of posting some snippets of previous essays too. If you want to read some, post a comment saying yes please and I’ll even hurry to get it done

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I’m almost two thirds of the way through my MA. By the end of next week, it will be two thirds.

I’m truly impressed with myself, how far I’ve come as a translator and how confident this course has made me feel. I can translate. Very well. Well, as long as some provisos are met, and the text isn’t a legal contract or a bloody patent.

Future career plans aside, my current shoe trading career has started along the downward, inevitable spiral that occurs when a large group of women work within the same environment. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the bitching has begun.

I figured it existed before, but that it was being done behind my back, or when I wasn’t at work. But I was kind of happy to revel in the nirvana of a 90% female environment without passive aggressiveness. Meh, sad as it is, it doesn’t involve or concern me, so I am more than happy to sit at the side and watch it all unravel. People’s jobs are on the line here folks, though they don’t know it. For those of you that don’t know, I am currently the ONLY male worker at the shop. Yes, I get all the heavy lifting and ladder climbing jobs. I like my stereotype. A customer called me “healthy” today as I clambered up and down the stairs with shoe boxes. She was about sixty though, so don’t get any ideas.

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I’m developing a taste for Belgian beer again. I thought that in Norwich it would be a one time thing, but man alive, Duvel is tasty. Stump up the cash and try it if you haven’t. It is wonderful.

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A daughter of my mother’s friend finished secondary school today. Seeing her facebook updates made me reminisce, first of all about how we didn’t have facebook back then, we didn’t even have colour screen phones. It is amazing, and somewhat daunting to imagine what life must be like as a teenager these days. There were far more excuses to be antisocial (in the not contacting your friends rather than the ASBO sense) when I was younger that’s for sure. Back to the reminiscing, I recalled how happy my final day was, the jubilation, the “freedom” (!) and of course the hi-jinks. The previous year group to us drew a gigantic penis with weed killer outside the staff room. We managed between us to lock the staff cars inside the gates, barricade some corridors and some other stuff of mischievous nature. Of course when I say we, I mean a minority did all this crazy stuff, while I watched with awe, in my teenage unconfidence.

Those were the days.

I see the teacher list now, and so much has changed. Obviously. Teachers have left, but some have stayed too. I remember Mr. McHenry’s history lessons like they were yesterday, and of course, as I’ve mentioned to every German speaker since, I remember the RWA German lessons that have since led to almost 14 years of studying, speaking and loving German. I find it amusing that because I tag BGS on this blog a fair bit, I seem to receive a lot of google traffic under the search “Boston Grammar School” and so on. I should hyperlink them and ask for a fiver ha.

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My wife and I went film crazy the other week. Friday eve, we go to the supermarket with the intention of purchasing a single, solitary digital versatile disc with some film content on it. We left with 12. TWELVE.

The lady at the till gave us the best look I have ever seen. It was kind of a cross between “Oh my God, I’m so impressed!” and “Oh my God! You sad people!” Definitely a grimace though. In fact best use for the word “grimace” I have ever had. I’ll even throw in an adjective, as it was a wincing grimace. POW. Don’t get grammar like that these days. Kids just aren’t into it.

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In one final piece of news, Liesl left Europe. And for that America cheers, and Europe cries. Cries “AND STAY OUT!”

Just kidding. Her inability to handle liquor will be sorely missed

On young dogs and basic physics

My mother recently acquired a small furry creature that goes by the name of “Rosie”:

Furry fiend

Small puppies are like little microcosms of extroverted emotion. They are intensely friendly all the time. To the point that they understand everything as an adventure. They scurry. They sprint. They dash, pace, canter and hurry about, always keen to explore something, whether it be the freshly fallen leaves or usually, the bit of excrement on the grass or your crotch (usually in that order, making it even more uncomfortable). Rosie is currently learning tricks. “Sit” she has a grasp of. “Stay” is getting better all the time. She even has this game learnt now, where my mother throws a pad on the floor, and Rosie has to then touch the pad before she receives her prize. Fairly straightforward.

But with Rosie it is slightly different. Modified if you will. She goes for the pad with her front paws, all guns a-blazing, leaping like she really, really needs this victory over the pad. She flies with all the poise and grace of a 10 week old puppy that hasn’t quite grasped the whole four leg thing. She misses. She leaps again. Misses. In fact, you’re left with this perpetual image of a little puppy going completely ballistic in her attempts to hit this little pad. Every now and then she’ll pause and look up, just in case of the slight possibility that in her anti-dexterous-ness she’s been lucky enough to slight the pad, but quickly the leaping dog recommences.

It’s quite possibly on of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen.

In a related note, physics is profoundly interesting.

Yes. It is related to a 10 week old puppy.

Both lectures and reading the Times magazine “Eureka” has given me a new found appreciation for the developments and discoveries that science has made, is making and will make in the future. It is immensely interesting that we know so much, yet the more we know the more it seems we know absolutely nothing at all. Scientists are throwing all kinds of theories about string, quantum and Big Bangs, but all of them are dependant on assumptions rather than actual fact. The Hadron Collider was built to investigate and hopefully give us some of these answers, were it working. It is quite amusing that we as a race have built something to replicate black hole formations on a minor scale, but somewhere along the line some guy got lazy and bodged some of his soldering. I bet the day it occurred was a Friday, probably at about 16:30.

We use our knowledge of “mass” to calculate weights, descents and densities, yet when you try and contemplate an actual explanation of what “mass” actually is, the word “stuff” is often used. Similarly is matter. What is matter? For that matter, what is the newly “discovered” (read: made up) dark matter? The fact that now we know that we only understand and know of 10% of the universe’s composition begs the question what is the 90% of it made of?!

It seems like being educated is simply being stupid with style. Knowing you’re stupid after achieving a Ba / BSc / MA / MSc / Phd etc. is a lot better than ritin all ur SAs lik dis.

Or is it? Sometimes you have to wonder how it must feel to be that ignorant and not care to improve on it. That takes some doing too. Doubting me?  Believe that it exists. I have seen it. Teenage girls wondering out loud where rain comes from momentarily, then settling for “it just does”. Upon being asked why they thought grass was green, retorting “Because.”

There is massive lamentation from the powers that be about the fact no-one chooses to follow up science at school. There is a campaign running currently where a voice explains to the teens that want to be vets that science and maths are kinda important. That to work with animals a grasp of where your own kidneys are is a prerequisite. The campaign has got the wrong tone. We need to present this situation like Hitler presented world domination. Well no, I’m sure an aggressive tone would be much less successful than that of the current advert. Advertising isn’t where the problem is. People won’t change their options because of an advert. They will if they are passionate about the subjects. Make the subjects as fascinating to teenagers as it is to a 24 year-old MA student and we’ll be swimming in scientists before long.

It seems such a classic statement of life that the time you are at your most rebellious, most willing to be free from the constraints of schools, is the exact time in which you need to focus and choose your destiny. Or at least a general direction for the destiny to start following.

In the words of the fantastically “intelligent” Fred Durst: “Life is a lesson, you learn it when you’re through.“

He forgets that in the end, you still don’t know the answers.

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*I’m not trying to belittle Theatre here people. Well. Maybe just a little.

Myths and yore 2: fishtoft.

Neighbourhoods have always been happy and active places throughout history.

Well my history certainly. At a young (primary school) age, my brothers and I would often be found playing various iterations of football on the streets outside our house. This usually meant the odd dive into people’s gardens to fetch balls, both with permission (“pleeeeease can we ‘ave our ball back?!”) and without permission (“you’re smallest, you go in through the hedge… go! SHE’S WATCHING! RUN!”). We were mischievous in the extent that we often preferred the latter in our ball fetching techniques, mainly because it seemed rather pointless to knock every single time (I might point out that at that age we were all very erratic kickers of the ball, leading to us entering gardens almost every 5 minutes).

So having a reputation for horrific ball kicking, we moved to a larger house on the outskirts of town. It sat in a tidy little cul-de-sac complete with green expanse just perfect for playing football. Which we did. As a result we gathered a motley crew of fellow football ragamuffins and we all played together in 3 on 3s, FA (every man for himself with one goal, score to “go through”, last man drops out, repeat to fade…) and, as we grew older (read: more stupid), we also played “Rosy” (a.k.a Doggy / Headers and Volleys) which was a game revolving around punishing poor ability. The idea is to score past each other, without missing or being caught, till their lives run out, which results in them having to stand on the goal line, bent over, whilst people take it in turns to boot the ball at them. There’s a much worse version too, which we played once but then decided to avoid. “Tunnel” was exactly the same except as a punishment you have to run through a tunnel of boys hell bent on kicking lumps out of you. It only takes one slightly erratic boy and you have what amounts to a gauntlet of death.

We were all in the teenage phase of life, the one where you do insanely stupid things because a) there’s alcohol involved b) it’s funny to do it c) there’s a camera involved or d) all of the above. I think we’re far enough in the future that I can openly talk about this without my mother climbing into her car, driving for 3 hours and banging on my door shouting “I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO IT!”, so, I’ll let the world into some of the antics we got up to.

We skated. We were all entranced by hopping about on shin destroying planks with wheels. We also had plans. We built 2 – 3 ramps for use to use. the first few were the simple wedge designs for the street, where we’d push to break-neck speeds then go over a ramp that inevitable sent us skyward… well, at least a foot higher than normal. We progressed. We constructed mini pipes. Initially, a friend constructed one in his garage. It was 2ft high, complete with ply and curves. We spent nights in there, listening to Sum 41 (…wow…) and skating. We’d put on Pain for Pleasure and then watching as Kemp then went spastic crazy all over the ramp – skating twice as frantically to the music. It was like 90 seconds of madness followed by minutes of laughter: inevitably he’d fall and hurt himself so bad that he’d just be foetal on the base of the ramp, rolling and repeating “AHHHHHH AHAHHAHAAA AAAH!” whilst the rest of us just.. laughed.

As we were doing this, a group of guys in America had just been handed a TV show to display their acts of stupidity. Jackass played the warnings. “Do not try this at home” it said. So we didn’t. We did it on the streets, in the park and in town. We had a camera, and a friend with video editing software. We made our own Jackass. Admittedly, though much inspiration was taken from the show, a lot of the things we did as past times already: the ramp and street skating, dares and suchlike were already part and parcel. So was bridge jumping. We had two bridges on the river near to us, both of which had a nice 18 to 20ft drop from their tops to the river below. So in summer, when it was warm, we jumped. This sounds madly dangerous, but we did check before we started – we swam out, and dove near the impact area to check for trolleys and the like, and whenever we were trying something new (front flips, back flips etc.) we’d have someone in the water on standby (we were safe idiots). By the end we’d had some true stories to tell – Kemp (again) had a “special” where he’d pump himself up to a frenetic scale, then scream “TEMPLE… BABY”, jump, and punch himself in the temple of his head. Why? I forget. I remember watching it for the first time though, and it was so funny we were on our knees with laughter. We’d jump in twos, having mid air punch ups, we’d run along the bridge then jump, if someone was stood on the bridge waiting too long sometimes they’d find themselves falling sooner than anticipated, seeing laughing faces rising above them…

There were many more stories that I haven’t space to put in. We built a lake ramp on the river. We held monster parties. We interacted with girls. We acted like most teenage boys, stupidly. However, I don’t think there were many regrets from that period in our lives. Yes, we all had an embarrassing moment that the rest of us held over us. Yes, I seem to have more than the others. But they remind me of a time spent with very few and very minor cares. There was no employment unless you wanted extra cash, no bills. It was a childhood well spent. People always say that they’d give anything to be young again. I think, teenage angst and moping aside, that my childhood is something I’m quite happy to keep. We all lived it up pretty well. Reliving it just wouldn’t be the same.

From left to right: Jab, # Marc (a.k.a Buddy 1), Pete (at the back), Bob, KEMP, Tat, # Nigel

# Note: Picture was taken during my Stag night, Marc and Nige were lucky / unlucky enough not to live in Fishtoft.

Myths and yore 1: School.

Today, I am recounting life and memories of days spent in or at school. Recollecting the good times and bad. I’m doing this for two reasons. One, a friend has requested I write more of my illustrious past and two, I was contacted with some shocking information about my previous school.

Boston teacher pleads guilty to possessing indecent images of children.

Admittedly, there is little connection in this for me other then the location, the teacher was new (well, new in that he wasn’t there in 2002) and I think I’d remember posing in my swimshorts. But it still surprised me enough to want to comment. It’s such a betrayal of trust. As a teacher, you are meant to be a base of integrity and resilience, a go-to or counsel for children. Taking advantage of that position in such a way is just nasty and very disturbing.

Anyway. My memory of school wasn’t flooded with bouts of child pornography. It was more of the everyday, day to day mundanity with the odd day of inspired mischief. Obviously, for the most part, what with me being your geeky, bespectacled type, much of these experiences were observational based. I would never do things like using chemicals to stain a massive penis on the school grass, or use a bike lock to lock all of the staff cars inside the school gates. I would never have run through the school with water pistols and shot at all the teachers either. That’s not my calibre of mischief.

I think I was caught out 3 times at school. Twice, they earned me punishments. Once, it earned a round of applause.

The first time, was when it snowed at school and we thought it wise to fight in the quad (my school was an historic grammar school) which just so happened to be located outside the headmaster’s office. No surprises for what happened next…

Although I love the moment before you get caught in these instances. For us, the shout came right after a launch, which coincidentally hit the window right where the headmaster was stood. One of those things I guess. That earned us the excitement of standing outside his office for the entirety of our lunch. I know, true Shawshank.

The second time was hilarious. Children (and adults alike) can have a penchant for collecting elastic bands. If you walk to school then after a while you can have collected a fair few of these postal treats. If you then bound them together in a sort of rotund shape, you create what can only be known as the world’s most erratic and lethal powerball. The shop bought manufactured bouncers are all well and good, but they have nothing on the elastic bands. It’s the gleeful combination of both an uneven surface and a really strong bounce that just make playing with the thing hilarious.

So we did. In a classroom. We closed the windows and the door, and tried to clear all the surfaces for maximum bounce impact opportunity and ten of us ducked, dipped dived and dodged as the tennis ball sized ball of elastic fury charged about the room.

Yet, this did not please enough. We decided to add a bit of “wow”. Some “razmatazz”. We located a staple gun. One lad took sentry in the corner of the room, shooting at people when they appeared from behind desks to continue the elastic crusade. Hearing someone cry “it shot me in the forehead!” whilst an elastic ball is bouncing by when I was 13 was very, very funny. Right up until the Deputy-Headmaster walks in on you. Brickwork really loses its appeal after the 45th minute of your lunch.

The third was just a awesome. I’ll never live one like it again. We had an aging, soon to retire history teacher during our first year. He was clearly ready for his retirement, and had taken to teaching the Romans by playing the film “Spartacus” rather than trudge through the text books. It was fantastic. I love that it was rated 15, we were all 11/12 and the way of getting or seeking permission was for him to say “no-one tell your parents”. I only wish I’d been there for parents evening . One day, the teacher had yet to arrive and thus we decided to set up a surprise. In a geeky effort to earn some brownie points from the R.E. teacher, I had coincidentally brought in a gift from my father, a Mosque clock which he had picked up after visiting Kuwait. The clock plays an Adhan as its alarm chime.

We’re sat in the history room, hidden underneath the desks (the really old-with-a-lid-and-bucket-for-stuff types) with the curtains closed and the lights off. The only thing visible is this clock. The teacher arrives, and my hand appears and switches the alarm on, whilst 7B all snigger under their desks. “Ennnnnnnyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnyenyeaaarrrrrrahahhhaaaa!” it cries. We peer over the edge, to find that the teacher has merely sat at his desk at the front of the room, and starting making bowing motions towards the clock, massive grin all over his face. Fantastic, although looking back possibly a little contentious…

There are plenty more myths and yore to come. Be excited. Or not. Up to you really.