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.

Three cheers and a drink for Waggy

Arrived tanned, fit, bright eyed and bushy tailed in London after three months of Polish fare, and nights spent shaking meat to the beat at club Kitsch. A ‘gay’ friendly club, where Erazmus students and the odd sprinkling of English teachers get lo down and dirty.

The weather in Krakow was beautiful. The temperature fine, the square bustling, it’s people fleshy. And all seemed to feast faces on shed loads of Lody (Ice cream). A welcome respite from scorching spring days in Valencia previously. Where cooked at the end of a day, an ice cold bottle of Amstel would quench a throat, supped slowly and lovingly on my balcony.

Krakow’s charm can be seen everywhere in the spring and summer months. Couples walk hand in hand along the Planty, as hunched nuns in black habits pass young lovers entwined on benches. Riots of flowers have run into bloom.
The Planty, a green belt of public park ringed around the old town, has transformed into a giant block of green. A contrast to the harsh, stark, black and white of winter.

And now here. Mile End London. Writing from high speed internet access installed in my digs. A halls of residence room at The Queen Mary University, together with an ensuite bathroom and mini fridge freezer, that could, with ease, double up as a mini bar. Will have to stock the thing meself, as the school budget obviously doesn’t stretch as far as one might wish.
Met a lovely Australian lass, who while having a long chat in a ropey Wetherspoons in the company of equally ropey looking punters, talked about her travels. She has just come over from a stint teaching in Italy and writing. She has finished a creative writing course, and encouraged me to take up this thing called blogging.
Being ex pat and out of the country for the last three years, not quite technologically up to scratch and with it. I arrived back at my plush little room and before long looked her up. Was impressed. And thus now converted. Time to blog.

This last week upon arriving on campus, has seen me interview teens from all over: Russia, Ukraine, Spain, and Italy being some, then placing them in suitable levels for classes.

The first week has been entertaining. My Spanish students, all girls from Majorca and Ibiza in their late teens, are positively horizontal. So laid back and so nice. If a little jaded by lunch time. A couple of them mentioned wearily that they needed a siesta. Bless em. God knows how they ever got an Armada together :)



Saturday afternoon.

A meeting in Farringdon at the Sir John Oldcastle, an old drinking hole where charity fundraisers would meet circa 2000, have a drink or six, and chug a joint outside. The occasion was a drink for my dear old friend Chris Wagstaff whose life was cut far too short while piloting a micro-light off the wild coast of Africa, filming the annual sardine run for National Geographic. He had hit the water along with a French cameraman and hasn’t been found since. I couldn’t help but think that Waggy would have wanted to go out this way, and not with a box of office stationary falling on his head.

The occasion threw together faces and thoughts, that after five years seemed never to have receded. Time has been kind to us and most look just how I remembered them.

He was beautiful man Chris. A mad fucker at times. Intelligent, well informed, travelled, a bit of a dare devil, an environmentalist, a comedian.
I have fond memories living in a flat above a furniture shop in Acton town, where dark rainy evenings were spent rolling up, and making Tahini. And of a mescaline loaded night, his manic manc cackle filling rooms before embarking on a mind enlarging 4 am walk to the green.
I’ll remember an outrageously funny, grumpy, dry, witty, black humored guy that would never stop shouting obscenities at the televison whenever he’d disagree with some bod or another on the box. Honest. he was unbearable at times!
Above all he was an inspiration on how to live life.

Waggy where do we go? After that black trick that squats at the end of all our lives.
One minute we’re here the next we’re not, and where we go to, nobody knows.

Goodbye for now Wag wherever you are.