Portrait of a Father

PORTRAIT OF A FATHER
For my father- Michael John Thorpe

In the year of Nineteen Forty One
When Hitler’s bombs rained thick.
A small town country boy was born,
Who we came to know as Mick.

A tricky time he must have had,
When parents die or disappear;
For any wee, small, young lad,
Close ones you hold so dear.

But sister siblings nearby would foster,
With love strong as Cotswold Oak.
To head down south from Gloucester,
To the city, the great big smoke.

From Minchinhampton toTottenham.
From ‘Dilly dumps’ to concrete.
To picture palaces by tram,
Crockett enacted in backstreet.

He sailed the merchant seas afar
At tender aged sixteen.
From Portsmouth to Panama-
Places one could only dream.

And tales of a high adventure trip,
Relayed throughout the years.
Of endless days spent onboard ship,
Perceived through tiny ears.

A return to green and pleasant shores;
A shiny Morris Minor.
Somewhere a girl sewed Pinafores,
Who’d seal his fate, and find her.

Chance breezed in ‘The Prince Of Wales’-
A dusky, doe eyed Miss.
Job done, the Universe exhales.
Leaving him, with the hope, of a kiss.

Some years flew by a kiss he got,
And a whole lot more:
A plan between her knees, a cot.
Was it more than he bargained for?

Three kids, a house, a tasty wife,
And now a Ford Cortina.
To carve out a sweet suburban life,
With climbing Bougainvillea.

He took us all for Coke’s,
In country pubs when young.
He knew the name of every bird,
Though not the song it sung.

And that Cortina would give him jip-
Taste hell, and yell obscene.
A Haynes repair manual, an auto grip
To fix that blessed dammed machine.

He liked long and silent walks, along the River Lea;
Curries with some bite.
Would name all the different kinds of tree.
Tell you a star from satellite.

But least of all he liked,
Perhaps the same like you and me:
Unauthorised bank overdraft charges,
Sly politicians on TV.

And those celebrities he did not know,
The kind who whine and bicker.
On some piss poor reality show,
For your licence fee- what a kicker.

Lest not forget ‘Robin’ his little chum;
His fine and feathered friend.
Whose pleasant chink caressed eardrum,
To alight, take flight, ascend.

He would have liked to say good-bye,
Shake hands with many friends,
Before that peculiar time drew nigh,
To sup ‘Old Speckled Hens’.

And if one thing one could take from this,
In life’s great pantomime.
Make hay. Be kind to one another.
While there is still time.

Gums, expectant mums

"So why you Vegetarian?" she asks.

Jodie is my mother's carer and asked me recently this question- though Pescetarian would be more accurate. And so I began to explain, how one afternoon nine years ago a young woman thrust into my hand a leaflet whilst strolling down a high street somewhere in North London. Only to put said leaflet into pocket, and discover it weeks later whilst rifling for a bunch of keys.

'Meat.org' it had read in big, bold, red lettering. And with nothing pressing to do that particular afternoon- and quite bored out of my mind if I remember- I looked them up.

Jodie is listing intently.

"And what I saw" I ventured, "was just, horrific. Barbaric, inhumane." "Murder" I say.
An mpeg had played of a chicken being decapitated with a long bloody blade in an anonymous grey building. The camera capturing the blinking eyes of a life ebbing away; a thin shred of skin and tendon remaining linking head to neck.

Jodie is smiling.

"Your smiling" I say.

"Thing's like that don't bother me." she says.

"Right" is my only response.

Jodie is twenty one, from Enfield and a one time British Karate champion.

"I saw a pig being gutted the other night on TV" she says, in a breezy singsongy voice "they slit it from here to here". She is pressing a finger to her chest and sliding it down to her navel, as she wheels my mum into the bathroom "and all it's guts spilt out." "I was creasing up."

I am disturbed.

After seeing to my mum and bringing her back into the living room, my mother still in one piece, she tells me that she is dying for a fag.
"Your pregnant" I tell here, reminding her of a her condition.

"You don't believe everything the doctor tells you do you? My mum smoked all the time when she was pregnant, It will still land out on it's arse."

Jodie is chewing something. Perhaps 'Chewits'. Once during her 7.45 am call she offered me one. I declined. "Too early in the morning for me, thanks" I replied. "You like Chewits?" I said.

"Yeah love em." "But Wine Gums are better" she said.

Love in the time of Lody

So say, what shall I tell you?

Krakow took it's Christmas decorations down last week. I like this.
Christmas comes and goes all too soon back home I feel. We’ve doled out the presents, pockets are light and roomy, ‘Back to work!’ cry employers. A climax that loses it's fizz like cheap champange on new years day. Like a comedown when the fuzz raid your rave, and when pub landlord blinds us as he throws the lights that scrunch our eyes ‘TIME PLEASE.'
No they’ve got it right here, and it’s root’s are faithful. Festive cheer spills well over into January and February. A warm after glow.
My flatmate took her decorations down at the begining of Feb too, the fir branches in the bathroom were the first to go. I spied them under the bin liner.

I have just finished disposing of a cheesecake. A Polish one mind. Not the kind you might find on the shelve of a Sainsburys- a frozen or do it yourself job from a box- sugar, milk, gelatine. No. A genuine, authentic, bona fide, for real cheesecake. I can’t extol enough the pleasure of putting away a cake such as this.
I bought the cheesy treat from the deli counter at ‘Alma’- a supermarket located in the newly built Galeria Kazimierz- and a carrier bag strolling distance to where I now dwell- the Jewish quarter of Kazimierz.

For those of you that haven't been to Poland before, I can tell you that Capitalism is alive and well here- at least in these parts, with stores like Ikea, Tescos, and Zara to name a few, setting the trend. No, no potato fields here if anyone was wondering.

Alma is a relatively new shopping sensation for me since boycotting Tescos, where profits stay and workers aren't continually being fucked off, picking ridiculous amounts of crates up each day in Dublin warehouses.

A fairyland for foodies is what it is, where every visit is a joyus one and shopping days have become not a chore. Where Grycan Ice cream can be found- since 1884 as it say’s on the lid-long before Mr Ben and Mr Jerry were stirring chunky monkey’s in with.... chubby wotsits.

Krakovians seem to be aficionados of ice-cream as I've mentioned before. Cafeterias and parlors selling the stuff dot the main square, and can be seen enjoyed even in this weather.

To cap it all off, the Alma shopping experience can be relished to the sweet and soulful sounds of Phil Collins. 'Two Hearts' , the blistering chorus, where I’m find myself singing aloud. Enough to turn heads and wonder what I’m doing and with that leek in my hand (thwaking it down on a Tom Tom is what I am). To the sad and forelorn ‘Seperate lives’, where I’m left ruminating it’s lyrics amongst shelves of assorted dried pasta, my basket weighed heavy at my side as moroseness creeps in. Only to be bought back from the brink with the superb ‘Easy Lover’ giving rise to the full horn section. A personal favourite.
Actually, listening to these songs again- and thinking I would never say this since leaving my fifteen year old self. He weren't half bad.

It's no secret my love affair with food. Though you wouldn’t think of it to look at me: Six feet, ten stone. Elle ‘The Body’ Mcpherson's measurements funnily enough.
Giving directions reveal the inner workings of an epicurean mind. 'Straight on over the lights, do a left past Bagel Mama, then a right past the Donut shop, do another right somewhere before that little Pizza place on the corner, and you're there.'

Enough naive noodling.

80’s music is big. Heard on the radio, on buses, on trams. And joylessly for me, everywhere in bars and clubs. It’s something I’d like them to get over. I worry that my twenty three year old female student's favorite artist is Michael Jackson. But who am I to differ? I dig our baldy one with the drums.
Thankfully Kazimierz has seen the arrival of a new kid in town. A challenger to the alluringly dingy dive that is Kitch. Club ‘Bside’ is it’s name. And while it’s dance floor is titchy, and it’s toilet singular, serves up punters generous dollops of old school indie rock, with regular ‘Indie Riot’ nights. Sweet joy.

Kazimeirz is a tiny jewish district that nestles beside the Old Town. Synagogues abound and it's labyrinthine streets and low-standing houses feel like a different world to it's neighbour, and you may very well find yourself lost here. However, this wouldn't be the worst place to lose yourself.

It holds a sad past. Approximately one hundred Jewish people are left here today since Nazi occupation. A whole world swept away. It was also here that Steven Spielberg chose to film his Schindler's List.

As little as three years ago much of Kazimierz was still a crumbling shell of its former self. Apparently known as a dirty, not altogether safe place, inhabited by stray dogs and alcoholics. Today, it is undergoing a major renaissance and these days is home to hip bars and cafe culture, dark corners and jazz. And on the weekends, legions of Israeli school kids.


There has been a derth of jobs in Krakow, and for some time now. Some young Poles lucky enough to speak English find work as barmen or women, waiters or waitresses. The average hourly rate being 5zl. 85 British pence.
This summer will see many make the journey abroad for the holidays, to save money for college and improve their English.

School is out and the semester has come to end, students have finished exams and time once more for celebrating. What better way than Tlusty Czwartek, 'Fat Thursday'.
Fat Thursday came last week. A traditional Polish feast marking the last Thursday before Lent. A day of belly worship, where people meet in their homes and cafes, with friends and relatives and eat large quanties of Paczki- fist sized doughnuts filled with Rose Marmalade... Enough!


My Top Five Krakow Klassics:

1. When Smokey sings, ABC
2. How long (has this been goin on) Ace
3. Do it again (Go back, Jack) Steely Dan
4. Stepping out, Joe Jackson
5. Hold me now, Thompson Twins

'Tis the Season

'Tis the season to be jolly. Or merry, or goodwilly, or something.
Forgive me Cyber-sisters & Binary-brothers. Been feeling a smidge of.. guilt, I think it is, that I haven't been in touch with you for ages. Truth is, English 'teaching' ensures that any such time to write my wrote to you, is thwarted. I do hope to pull my socks up a bit in the new year.
Talking of our most beautiful language. Being home again and finding myself in Harlow town shopping centre the other day- scouring for a last minute Christmas pressie- I was reminded of our how we speak here in Herts and in the neighbouring county of Essex.
So, for those of you who do not know, and to aid my fellow Poles- some of whom may very well find themselves travelling soon to our green and pleasant shores, and even to Harlow town shopping centre- I offer here vernacular vocabulary, to navigate your way through the complexties of our language. Language that they do not teach you in your FCE or CAE Cambridge English text books, and that you might just hear a whisper of should you past a Greggs bakery or even a Poundland super savers store:


ASSBAND - Unable to leave the house because of illness, disability etc

AWSS - A four legged animal, on which money is won, or more likely lost ("That awss ya tipped cost me a fiver t'day")

BRANNA - More brown than on a previous occasion ("Ere, Trace, ya look branna today, ave you been on sunbed?")

DAN IN THE MAFF - Unhappy ("Wossmatta, Trace, ya look a bit dan in the maff")

FURROCK - The location of Lakeside Shopping Centre

GARRIJ - 1. A building where a car is kept or repaired (Trace: "Oi, Darren, I fink the motah needs ta go in the garrij cos it aint working proper")

IBEEFA - Balaeric holiday island

OI OI! - Traditional greeting. Often heard from the doorway of pubs or during banging dance tunes at clubs


...but wait, there's more:

REBAND - The period of recovery and emotional turmoil after rejection by a lover ("I couldn't elp it, I wuz on the reband from Craig")

TAN- The city of London, the big smoke

WEBBATS - Querying the location something or someone is. ("Webbats is me dole card? I've gotta sign on in arf hour")

WONNID - 1. Desired, needed. 2. Wanted by the police

ZAGGERATE - To suggest that something is bigger or better than it actually is. ("I told ya a fazzand times already")

LAFARJIK - Lacking in energy ("I feel all lafarjik")


Hope you are having a lovely time engulfed in good will to all. A very Merry Christmas to you all and to all a good year.

Promise to write something more substantial, and all things Polish soon. Scouts honor.


Peace and love Mx

The Italian job

School is out. And I'm left with a warm, fuzzy heart feeling, a few more bracelets added to my wrist, and a jar of Italian Nutella that sits on the kitchens work top. To butter my croissants. Oo er! And Im a chirpy, chipper Tefler for it all.
Toward the last few weeks I began to feel like I'd been delt a duff card. The last batch of Neopolitan teens were starting to drive me batty.
I figured we may have been in for a bit of a rough ride when reading their test papers. One lad whose hobbies aside from Martial arts and Sylvester Stallone wrote in his test paper "My prefered hobby is fight and white on walls." So much nicer than a girls "I hope that I will have the opportunity to meet English guys to improve pronunciation."
Like my fellow teacher in Bournemouth, if I tell you that I plan to apply for a teaching job next year with scores of rogue Neopolitans and live amongst them, please beat me repeatedly around the head with a soggy towel.
The girls were fine, they would just slink into the classroom, sunglasses on heads, on desks, on heads. But the boys... A most terrible ilk.
To be fair Italians are far from the only ones to parade designer wear. Kazakhstanis and Russians, some as young as fifteen arrive decked out in Dior ready for classes and their public.
Canteen food hasn't changed since I remember it, and takers were few. "Italian food is best" was the consensus.
Some days I wanted to stand up, sidle up beside them, link arms and cry in unity "I don't like English food too!' But, according to our Neopolitan counterparts we do a good chip.
One way to counteract the sad and sombre stuff would be to keep half a bottle of whiskey on the table, like the two Ukrainians and group leader, as they tucked heartily into their breakfasts one 8.45am morning.
Despite the Italians being food fascists they were always charming and entertaining. Sometimes at my expense. They made me smile and reminded me of what it is to be a teenager. Cynicism having not entered their young minds: infectious enthusiasm, boundless creativity, where everything is possible. Their love of Pink Floyd and Deep Purple. Their obsession with Marajuana. Pizza. And the obsession with their teachers age, 'Mark please tell us how old you are!' written on the whiteboard whenever I walked in.
It wasn't always a spring picnic for some concerned.
One young hooligan from Moscow single handedly demolished fridge frezzers on all floors, ripped out smoke alarms, entry phones, anything that was nailed down, was lifted. He went ballistic.
And the phone call to his parents. Who rather than being upset by his little tizz offered a couple of thousand quid to each of the managers to keep him there.
All of this, I'm left in no doubt has been caused by the replacement of the canteens fresh orange juice with orange squash. The poor kid, off his face on E numbers. Should come as no suprise. Who drinks it these days? The last time I remember knocking it back was out of a beaker with Jammy Dodgers and sitting cross-legged in front of Scooby Doo in long grey socks.
The halls were comfy, though some would differ. Like the student last year- a Russian girl who had made a telephone call home to her father mentioning that the halls weren't quite up to scratch. And so in a few short days whilst packing, announced that she "would still be coming to classes" but was leaving for Notting Hill, where here father had coughed up an apartment for her. Outright!
This year I learnt upon his leaving- the seventeen year old student who I'd struck up rapport with and became quite pally- was in fact a young Prince, and seventh in line to the throne. I should have known something was up when he told me he'd checked out of the halls and into the Regency Palace Hotel. Where him and his buddies were occupying five rooms. "It's great there Mark." He tells me.
He'd forever be on the Mile End road outside a kebab shop, slumming it and thoroughly enjoying himself, showing no signs of airs or graces. I liked him. I'll omit which country he resides, to protect the innocent, and before I find myself up to my arse in litigy, as it came as quite a suprise- and to the cleaner no doubt- who after tucking in the corners of his bedsheet one afternoon, discovered a blunt object under his matress and produced a gun.
After landing in Heathrow on a private jet, diplomatic immunity would have seen him whisked through.
It's all been kicking off.

Quotes from the classroom

"I don't live without pizza." Enough said.

"Can we say nigger bigamist?" On proper use of grammar while writing a short story in pairs, using vocabulary from the film 'Shaun of the dead'. Sixteen year old Luigi doesn't think the word 'nigger' is a racist word and argues that the word Negra is black in Latin. Beats the hell outta me Luigi.

"Cold water? yes. If water is too cold it can kill you" That too as well as Ecstasy according to Sergy, when drunk to rehydrate ones self when dancing silly. You have been warned. Next time you're in Bagleys and gurning like a chimpanzee. To be fair, perhaps in Siberia.

"I'm trying to say that I got totally munted last night" Student asking if her grammar is correct. Perfect grammar that left me wanting to chew my knuckles.

"I have a tendency to shit on my girlfriends" A class topic on relationships. This poor lad from Italy was searching for the word 'cheat.' At least we think so.

"He's a stronza." Italian student refering to the footie player Zidane. 'Stronza' of course translating to 'turd.'

"If this lesson won't finish now, I will die" said in a heavy female Russian accent and about my ever riveting and fascinating classes.


What I've learnt from here:
Girls seem to have the best pens. Vivid colours in many varieties, with fluffy bits on the ends.

And a worthy reminder: Never to take anything too seriously.

So as London draws to a close. At least for now. I reflect. It's been a wicked time. Grazing in the curry houses of Brick lane. Midnight fish and chip suppers. The 24 hour Bagel Bake. And now stocked up on the glorious stuff.
Have been a regular visitor to old haunts the Vibe bar and 333 which were convienently situated round the corner on a 25 bus. And various Camden watering holes where cool, new live music can be heard at the pint sized Barfly. Club Koko it ain't though still an intimate venue to get sweaty in.
And walks through the beautiful Regents Park, where maybe next year i'll finally catch that play at the small secret garden like place, that looks like something out of Lewis Caroll.

I've had a blast and always enjoy coming home. Spending time away I feel at times a bit like a stranger from the outside looking in. Where every visit is shiny new. Familiar landmarks and places take on new angles and meaning that were absent before. I like it. Small leafy public greens, high rise blocks, their satalite dishes pointing skyward like the beaks of expectant chicks awaiting food. Cash and carries and curry houses, a treasure trove of chintz- plastic Taj Mahals sat squat in clear perspex cubes, lurid luminous painted murals of yellows and greens above gaudy ruby carpets. Warm lemon infused refreshment towels. Wouldn't want it any other way. A Sainsburys! 'Back to school' adverts that still make by heart lurch into my mouth. Underground ads that are a novelty. Find myself trying to read each one. All become instantly familiar again. Though I still prefer a double decker than a bendy one. www.ihatebendybuses.org.uk
And a recuring theme: Skinny jeans and people that go sick for Magners.
"What's that?" I asked my friend Jennean "It's a cider that seems to have gripped everyone, proberbly because of the ad campaigns" she reckons.
She ain't wrong. It's like something out of 'Day of the Triffids' Where instead of returning to a town invaded by oversized carnivorous plants, they've taken five and left the large black bottles instead. I'm half expecting to see it's citizens after guzzling mysteriously from them, to morbidly stumble around blinded afterward. Though they proberbly do on a Friday :) ... At least that's what I think.
The skinny jean has caught on in Krakow though it's been a bit slow on the uptake, and generally reserved for the trendiest of the trendies. And despite what some people might think, I actually like them. It's proberbly because Krakow hasn't been awash with them yet. I'll stop at wearing them myself, even if I have got the legs for em.
As the capital slips by, a vision of London: boy's in pulled up collar polo shirts and girls in skinny jeans. Each with a Magners in their hand.

After hols in Morocco I'll return to my hometown of Cheshunt briefly- which I've recently found out, not amazingly- houses the head quarters of the BNP. Then it looks like another visit to Krakow where skinny jeans await, where I will find another new place, have another house warming party, buy my fifth spatula, wooden spoon and can opener, and hole up and await the snow of winter.
My moorings are here, and if London rents weren't so expensive, I'd proberbly stay a while. Saving anything for anything is out of the question. So. For now. I is off.

LONDON 06

Boys in pulled up collar polo shirts
Girls in skinnies pulled so tight it hurts
Begin to wish they were in skirts
Drink from big black bottles

Teens on bikes round council estates
Public greens that hide the spates
Of Skins that soothe them in mock tudor Yates
The women paint their nails

High-rise blocks, brown cussing kids
Sit on walls, point out 'the yids'
Gorged out on Blockbuster vids
Swap baseball caps for prayer ones

Mums and dads lounge by designer push chairs
And sip pound fifty smoothies made from pears
At free festivals, that wash away their cares
Discuss new cycle paths

And daddy bouncing baby Jed
The dance tent leaves Orbital in his head
Remind of bachelor times instead
Mummy reads The Guide

From Putney Bridge to Shoreditch
A dove in her head, gak makes nose itch
That one day she hopes to ditch
Colours bleed to one

And migrant workers may as well be from Mars
Dream a better life, look up and see the stars
On a night shift of closing bars
Clear away our rubbish

The darndest thing

I’d like to dispel an urban myth. Because it’s the truth. And life truly is stranger than fiction.
A news article featured in the rag ‘The Metro’ the other day, has caused me to post.
For those of you who don’t know, The Metro is a free newspaper and available at entrances of the London Underground.
My Brother in Law’s aunt who has a boy aged ten with Downs Syndrome- lets call him Johnny-though I instantly regret this choice of moniker as it will do nothing to serve the authenticity of this story.
His mother, not that long ago decided to treat him for a day out on his birthday. To a zoo. Which zoo is a loss on me, though I do know it’s the kind of zoo where monkeys and other long tailed primates have license to roam. And on your car. As you drive through their turf while the fierce little creatures get wild on your arse, ‘pimpin' your ride’ for free.
Come lunch time the happy family and friends are enjoying a lunch alfresco in the Zoo’s cafeteria.
Johnny understandably has had enough of idle adult chit chat, and like a bright young kid has decided enoughs enough and wants no more of it. He wants to go off and ‘explore’ with his new ruck sack he’s just been given for his birthday.

'Mummy, can I explore.'
'No sorry, we have to keep an eye on you.'
'Please I want to explore.'
'No sorry you can’t.'
'Please, please I want to explore.'
'You can’t I’m sorry we have to look after you.'

After much insistence met with objection back and forth like this, his mother finally relents and says he can go and explore, but not too far, and that he has to be back in an hour.
‘Ok!’ he says. And so off our intrepid little hero goes with said back pack and a keen spirit for adventure.

Imagine then the suprise of his mother and friends, when our young explorer arrives back to greet them one hour later and is completely drenched from head to toe. Soaked.
Understandably all are shocked and concerned.
'Where have you been?' his mother asks.
‘I don’t know’ he replies gazing vacantly into the middle distance.
‘What did you do?' She cries anxiously.
‘I don’t know’ he says blankly back.
‘We’ll have to get him home, he’s drenched!'
And so a lengthy drive home follows, along the motor way and with a very wet kid in the back.
Eventually home and with dripping wet clothes off they stick young Johnny into a warm bath. His mother meanwhile eyes his back pack in a corner and picks it up. Which, like himself is soused, if a bit heavy. ‘What’s he got in here?’ she asks herself. And so she picks up the wet and weighty backpack unzips it and peers in. What’s inside??......
A Penguin.
:))

Ducks, drugs and a whole lotta Russians

Day 14 in the Queen Mary Campus

Though we’ve had two fire alarms go off in the middle of the night and all 400 of us having to pile out of our halls- 6am this morning and 4 am on Friday- It’s been a pleasant time. I’ve recieved two parting gifts from Russian students: a Russian hand painted nesting doll or ‘Matryoshka’, the kind that open up to reveal more dolls inside. And an equally beautiful intricately painted laquered pot “For putting sugar in” she tells me. So I’m a happy and very grateful teacher indeed :)

With regards to the Hoax calls. Someone had been smoking in their room. The other- a smashed fire alarm. Gits.
The fire brigade are being called out literally everyday. A shocking 11 in total.
We’ve become so used to shenadigans and knavery like this, that as I was coming out of my room bleary eyed and blind- I wear contacts- the alarm sounding that would wake even the most deepest coma patient out of a coma. I saw what looked like a girl hesitating in the corridor outside the door of her room.

Her: I don’t want to go

Me: Yes you have to.

Her: I don’t want to, can I stay in my room?

Me: No you can’t come on

Her: But I want to stay

Me: No, come on

Her: But I want to

Burn then yer little fecker!
Aside from false alarms, teenagers who want to burn in their rooms and blind teachers feeling their way out of buildings, it’s been a thoroughly entertaining past week. Never a dull moment in the world of ESL. Here then are two little anecdotes from your’s truly:

An upper intermediate group consisting mostly of Russians, a couple of Greeks and a French kid have filed into the classroom like something out of Night of the Living Dead, after being up all hours playing cards, and occupying themselves with general, accepted, routine monkey business. The Russians it turns out, much to the suprise and discomfort of the Greeks have an impressive array of knowledge on drugs, which I distinctly remember from last year. And some were even new on me, as a lesson entitled ‘E for Ecstasy’ proved...

On white board:
Marijuana
Ecstasy
Cocaine
L.S.D
Heroin
Opium
Magic Mushrooms
Nicotine
Caffeine (last choice of drug for many, apparently)


Me: Any more drugs?

Marco: Yabba

Me: (Incredulous) Yabba? What’s yabba?

Marco: It’s a drug

Me: My god, your teaching me.

Yabba, for your information, if you didn’t know already, is a Meth amphetamine and hails from Thailand and when ingested can be a three day event. I’ve since remembered vivid images of Thai men on television running riot through streets hallucinating wildly with their demons not far behind.
Yabba, I’ve also found, is an all-female mixed cultural reggae band who want to celebrate togetherness, good humor and spiritual awakening, through their own compositions. As well as selected cover versions which many people know and can sing along to. Google them for booking info!

Russian girls are passing Hubba Bubba bubble gum to one another. One is scratching a picture of a monster in her note book in blue biro.

Me: So, does anybody know what some of the effects of Ecstasy might be?

Ana: You have energy

Me: Yes. You have energy

Normally very silent russian girl: About three hours you have

Me: Three hours?

Her: Yes

Me: Ok, maybe (I write 3 hours? with a question mark on blackboard) Ok

Her: 45 mins cocaine

Me: (I feel my eyebrows begin to rise) Really?... Any more effects?

Another russian girl, small and softly spoken, has stopped drawing a picture of a monster in her notebook . She looks up over it.

Her: You have big eyes

Me: (trying to stifle a laugh now) Yes, apparently you have big eyes. (I write ‘big eyes’ on white board)
Anything else?

Sergey: You dance silly


Couldn’t write it if you tried.


A fellow English teacher- Lloyd, whom I met last year at UCL doing this same lark- a Scottish guy from the highlands, an ex Elvis impersonator of about forty with dyed black hair cut to a Morrissey fashion, a lazy eye and penchant for suites, recounted a story to me about a lesson he gave a few days ago around the the theme of 'Ready Steady Cook'.
Here is the conversation between Lloyd and a student that went something along the lines of this:

Russian girl: Can we use a bottle?

Lloyd: (puzzled) A bottle?

RG: Yes

Lloyd: Errrm. If you like

(understandably confused a little, as bottles don't usually feature in the cooking proccess on Ready Steady Cook. He pries a little)

Lloyd: What kind of bottle? A milk bottle?

RG: A wine bottle

Lloyd: (thinks about this) Okay, you can use a wine bottle (bit non plussed)


About 10mins later the girl is giving her presentation and talking the class through the makings of her creation.


RG: You put water in halfway and you put in spice in  bottle, then you push the bottle in  duck

Lloyd: (raised eyes brows) In the duck?

RG: Yes. Into it’s (points to her behind) hole

Lloyd: (more raised eyebrows) Right.....ahh (smiling, nodding in acknowledgment) you put the bottle up the ducks bum?

RG: Er, what?

Lloyd: Ah, never mind

RG: And then you put it in oven.

Lloyd: Cool. (pauses and contemplates this most excellent effort) Did you make that up yourself because if you did it’s genius.

RG: No no, I didn’t it’s true.

Lloyd: Does anybody body else cook like this in Russia?

Russian students look at one another and shake their head. 'No'

Lloyd: And the name of the dish?

RG: Is Duck orange

Duck Orange gets my vote.