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
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
posted by mark t at 10:36 pm
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