Wednesday, 3 June 2015

...and another thing: South bloody Thanet

...and another thing, yes, as a Little Englander of a certain age  I have lived most of my life under the heel of right wing governments of various hues of dankest blue or swivel-eyed Blairlite baby blue....(and yes, I did vote for him in '97 when he was  the bright smileyish future). Fortunately, I have had the chance to be away from the country too and could put my hands in the air and cop out limply by saying 'nuffink to do with me.'  However, these spells overseas aside from some poorly paid development work have been spent prostituting myself in loony Islamic absolute monarchies with appalling labour practices, dismal (they say uber-respectful) attitudes towards women and non-believers, so I really shouldn't be too worried, angry and pissed off as I am at the election results...especially a month on.

...but I am.

Ah well, at least being in Britain means I won't have any students or colleagues accusing me personally for the crimes of whichever fools are in charge. Years back, and long after the events, it was as if I had to take personal responsibility for the abuse meted out to say striking miners; various acts of murderous thuggishness from English footy supporters, drunken vomitous, shagful tourists in footy shirts;  as well as supine behaviour towards whichever sociopath was in the White House especially B*sh. Iraq? Yes of course- that was my fault (both times) and it got a bit sticky  being an obvious Brit when our toadying involved pointless torture and deaths just downwind from brother or sister Muslims. It can't have been easy for some of my studes or co-workers having to be taught or deal with someone who was seen to be representing a form of  'the enemy.' Whatever they did think, they kept it to themselves in class anyway. There were a few iffy moments politically but they tended to be with gobshite Americans who, for teachers, were generally among the most illiberal I have worked.

And now, I work (when there is work!) in a college with a large EU intake smack in the middle of UKIP's only council. Our historically corrupt local body is now led by the ex-Tory father of 12, bankrupt - the estimable healthy looking Chris Wells. An opportuistic Tory defector to the rancid kippers after losing his seat a year or two back. This charming man defaulted on his already discounted school fees. His local Tory party, the story goes, bailed him out rather than have one of their brothers on the councils as a bankrupt, he paid them back by defecting to the kippers when he lost his council seat. Subsequently, he has had the bailiffs at the door helping themselves to make good the shortfall to the council tax he hadn't been paying. Just the sort of man you want in local power....(sighs)

Monday, 11 May 2015

The all new Muppet Show

Yes, life is good - a new swivel-eyed loony and rabid right Conservative government exemplified by Michael Gove at Justice. Our version of democracy is as ever a weird and odd thing. 76% of folk voted against all the oncoming bullshit and bollocks. Shy Tories eh (sighs). There were some tortured discussions at work where most were not shy about their politics - anyone but Farage obviously,  even if it meant holding your nose, closing your eyes voting for the slightly less swivel eyed former UKIP treasurer carpetbagging for the Blues. However, there are some old school lefties who, like me,  could not physically put an X next to a Tory least of all one who claimed his link to Thanet is that he has a yacht in Ramsgate harbour. The slimy toad possibly with small man syndrome did actually make me nearly spill my drink in Ramsgate by canvassing me for a vote. Needless to say I laughed.

Image result for thanet muppets
The new look Thanet District Council
Although little Enoch lost,  the council is the only one in the country to go Kipper. Not sure how sophisticated it makes the electorate - reject the UKIP candidate but vote in a Kipper council. Maybe it's me the unsophisticated one?  However, there maybe an unintended consequence from this vote. You are a prospective student / group leader planning to come over to one of the 700 odd language schools in the UK. Thanet has several in Ramsgate, Margate, Broadstairs bringing in millions to the local economy to host families, local cafes, restaurants, shops.  You do your research into the area - notice that  a racist Little Englander party similar to some of the nasties you have in your own country runs the local council. In fact it is the only one in Little England run by these objectionable fools. These fearful English nationalists/racists  have a strong voice in what is an economically  depressed area. Would you still be keen to take your trade to such a fearful, angry, unhappy place?  Where else could we take them / the money - hmm....Brighton looks nice...

Monday, 3 November 2014

Life outside the brothel

I always asked folk not to ask me what it's like being back - leave it til November I would tell them. It is as if I am expected to have some kind of breakdown and zoom off back to the over-paying, foolish and sleepy end of the world again. Reasonable supposition I suppose as it was known that I did quite enjoy the hot weather, warm water, great beaches, over-priced beer and bar-life and all the trimmings of being a semi-detached  expat. (Why not western migrant worker?) I enjoy the kind of expat theatre that is just not on offer in rain swept, intelligence empty, Mail friendly, UKIP voting Thanet. And, at more irrational times you get the unhealthy thought that there may be something to be said about living in a theocratic dictatorship when fucking Farage is due to become your MP. That's very worrying on two counts and then you brush it away as, at least, the Muppets of UKIP can be voted out. Though some brother expats have a cheery admiration for the rancid Kippers - they are those for whom Little England totems such Marks and Spencer (the Daily Mail of shops?), Marmite and a Sunday roast are the acme of advanced civilization.

Still, the work here, though poorly paid  which has always been the default setting outside the Gulf brothel,  is amusing. It a short and pleasant walk from home rather than a Mad Max life and death struggle with loony signal shy, speeding tailgaters in blacked out SUVs.  Now I am only teaching intelligent adults, all on the IELTS 7 and above scale aside from the Gulf men of course who seem destined never to get beyond the 3.5 they left Saudi with. Shame their more motivated and interesting sisters are not allowed out. Doubtless, they would be unable to control themselves and  morph into lust filled jezebels and feckless harlots were they to ever be allowed out by the fear inducing father or Big Brother. A dose of shame would be hoist upon their families and the dodgy daughter would unable to marry their already DNA shy first cousin. Possibly.

Nonetheless, I do feel for these uprooted guys with none of the bluster and arrogance and even charm they have back home.  The news reporting of all things Arab and Islam cannot make them comfortable especially since the actions of Brother Isis are nowt to shout too loudly about which is of course why it's much easier to talk about football so long as its only the brands which are Barcefuckinglona and Bloody Real and then filtered down to the star player of each side.  So talking about the celebration of devils, ghosts and women in sexy witch costumes is way beyond the comprehension of the Gulfies.  Though Guy Fawkes, or at least its, anti-catholic origins, do spark some recognition all of which makes me regret not learning Arabic if only to find out what they say about their time in Kent and its devil worshipping not always sober men and women, children dressed as demons and  a pagan fire lust. Cultural diversity and understanding across the nations - 'tis a wonderful thing

Friday, 5 September 2014

A dose of nostalgia - fat bloke and his birds

Meant to post this way back but forgot / got distracted / couldn't be bothered but now far away in England at the far arse-end of a squib summer not returning to warm places a small burst of nostalgie took hold...

....taking a stroll along the mightily long length of the beautiful white sands of the Corniche on a recovery walk one Friday afternoon, bordering the warm blue welcoming Arabian Sea my mind was moved to poetry but fortunately wisdom and good taste prevailed.  Yes, at such a time you get to see many fine and interesting multi-cultural sights. Tories and other smaller UKIP style minds - if they can indeed be credited as such -  would foamingly sneer and hate it.

Usually, when the heat has become bearable, usually by about 5.00, the smooth white beaches are taken over by serious groups of lithe young men playing footy. They take it seriously and play at quite a good level in their ubiquitous Real or Barcebloodylona tops, or daringly for this region, no top at all. Were this the local beach in Kent, there would be a profusion of grey, pale, fat, tattooed wobbly, hairy guts and a good look it would not be - not even for the men. Ho ho.

Before the football boys emerge for their frolics, other wildlife is also at play including large Indian families having a bustling fragrant barbecue. Not an overcooked quarter pounder in sight nor, thankfully, can you see a packet of bloody Pringles - a crime against food if ever there was. Nor do they sport any wobbly tattooed bellies nor any shiny footy tops advertising loan sharks, viscous multi-nationals or iffy nations with not many laws against slavery or shite work conditions....(Emirates and Qatar just in case you missed it).

Non-Gulf Arabs abound too having a feed in which, contrary to petty prejudice and sullen stupidity, the sexes do mix. The women may wear a fashionable head scarf (not an oxymoron) and definitely no signs of ninja clothing at all - very elegant really. No baggy tracky bottoms here nor lumpy pink flesh with cheesy tattoos on show that's for sure unless you're a tacky Brit with various tendrils, names and dates graffiting the purulent pink flesh. Ah well cultural diversity - tis an a good thing.


And if you are a Brit you are likely to be snaffling a cheeky poorly camouflaged drink, if only because you can...(blushes as he writes)

On my way for a sundowner
There are plenty of tattoo free, easy-on- the- eye, scantily dressed Euros unselfconsciously sunbathing in the most self-conscious of ways that the knowingly easy-on-the-eye so do, while being most unself-consciously letched at and photoed  by the myriad foreign workers on their half-day off from the slavery, serfdom or bonded labour at one of the scores of building sites where European standards of  health and safety sadly do not apply and a hi-vis jacket or a hard hard  are, well, quite possibly,  to die for. They will often openly take photos of these women, and they are not that picky about the 'model' -  even the tattoo infested ones, to fuel or indeed satiate whatever frustrations they doubtlessly have away from their own or being socially, physically and psychologically hemmed in by crap pre-Dickensian labour laws and pre-Medieval bollocky uptight controlling religious precepts. A pretty iffy combination you will agree which makes you wonder, but not too much because we know, how bad things are for them to feel moved to leave their own people, villages and towns for an over-populated labour camp to be contracted out to local and western contractors. But anyway, this is just a stopgap for them because as we know they are all trying to get into Mother England...

European women conforming to local sensibilities
Ah well - fat bloke and his birds are there. A fat Gulf Arab bloke, for the ones on show are always fat, a sign of wealth apparently, in his Barcabloodylona shirt and shorts with bulging gut surrounded by a coterie of women around him - wife / wives, children perhaps but...always unlike hubby beautifully and elegantly turned out. No theologian me but there is surely something wrong that allows a fat slob to show off his clan yet appear a total slob and there are many like this.

Ah well, who am I to comment or pass judgement? Me, just an itinerant teacher, EFL at that,  passing through on my way to the Intercon for a recovery refreshment. But it is a pleasant few kilometers to stroll with a cheeky camouflaged bottle of something and a world away from the Blue Flag beaches of home..

...and I wish I were there now (sighs) Updated Nov 14, 2014

Thursday, 14 August 2014

'I tell you it's herpes I have...'

Well...what can you say? The immaculate, gorgeous but unpouting young Swiss lady in the group came into class at 9.00 with what I thought was toothpaste on her top lip...foolish me for quietly and discretely  pointing it out...however, in her in  best comedy German accent she declaimed in very certain terms 'nein Prentice, it is not toothpaste it is to be treating mein herpes' which she pointed with a dramatic but matter-of-fact flourish...shaking my head and not wishing to make a big deal of it, I explained that though she might be medically correct to refer to it as cold sore. She mulled this over and asked for clarification and found it did not compute. How could you call something which is one thing something else? After a few seconds she decided that it was not to be a cold sore but that she would be proud and importantly accurate in referring to her sore a an STi. Her choice....