Pig Sty Avenue

Someone’s loaded MS AutoRoute onto the PC in my classroom and, during a quiet moment, I entered my postcode and zoomed in on home. It was a big mistake. There was no detail on the map, but nevertheless I could picture the paths, the roads, the houses, the metro line, the shops, the trees… The Deneside and Murray’s, where luxury of luxuries, you can go and have a conversation, a read of the paper, watch the gee gees on telly, have a pint and a packet of pork scratchings. Outside the classroom window there’s some waste ground with a fallen tree trunk – eucalyptus I’d guess – about 80 feet long. There are the marks of a fire half way along its trunk where someone’s tried unsuccessfully to burn it. Beyond that there’s a bit of land containing a derelict bus, and an old car propped up on stones. There are some youngish date palms and technicoloured shrubs I can’t identify. Past them there are some tennis courts, and then dusty Zawiyah sprawls on for mile after mile of biggish houses,...

It’s usually the same student who wants to know every single rule of English grammar in the first ten minutes of the course; who quickly learns that ‘why?’ is an easy question to ask, and often impossible to answer, who will race ahead filling in answers in his work book whilst you’re trying to explain something difficult to the class, so that he is unaware of what’s happened and then slows everything down later in the lesson by needing to have it all explained to him. It’s the same shite who’ll demand to go through his exam scripts with a fine tooth comb, challenging every answer you’ve marked incorrect. He’ll see you not so much as a class teacher, more as a personal tutor, who has no need of breaks, but would much rather spend valuable coffee time answering the questions he’s spent the lessons, not to say entire preceeding evening, dreaming up. Another really irksome aspect of this little bollocks is that he'll always speak in the first person plural, as if talking for the wh...

Yesterday, we had chicken noodle soup, spaghetti, salad, some queer little pasties, and corned beef fritters (in Libya? I’m not kidding!). Oh yeah, and roast chicken legs, and nectarines and bananas… A sumptuous feast, only besmirched by the fact we’re obliged to wash it down with Pepsi and 7-fucking-Up. [big sigh] You see, one doesn’t miss booze per se. But at meal times, that cheerful wee glug sound as it issues from the bottle, the chink of glasses, the aid to the digestion and to the conversation… I miss that. A lot. [perks up] Apparently, I’m told, that, if one were so inclined (which I’m not), this particular delicious and beneficial commodity (which, for example, keeps the French free from heart attacks, even though they eat several ounces of butter with every meal), can be made quite easily. [perks up some more] They say. From products freely available almost anywhere: grape juice, fresh water, yeast and sugar. What I’m told is, if you mix all this up in the correct pr...

Now the hot water's gone off... Mohammed cooked a real, genuine 100% paella today. That was something, anyway.

A straggly beard and half-mast trousers are indications of piety here. Whereas, in Blighty, they indicate homelessness, and being Known To Social Services. Not that the two conditions are exclusive, mind. But the Libyan whose strides stop three inches short of his shoes anathematizes booze, whilst his British lookalike has super strength lager for breakfast. Funny old world, ain’t it?

This morning I was ready to head for the airport, after a sleepless, mosquito-blighted night. But it’s been a good day. Our domestic arrangements have been transformed by a wee man called Mohammed, our daily cook and cleaner, who started work today. We had a most excellent lunch of thick noodle soup, chicken and chips, and masses of salad. The kitchen’s shining like a new pin; the fridge and cupboards are stuffed full. Mohammed speaks fluent Spanish and French, so we can communicate our needs for food. He’s a marvel. Hopefully, at some point this evening, my air conditioning will be repaired. My big toes are beginning to win the Sandals War. The telly is functioning and we are able to follow events in Walford. Maybe the next eight weeks will pass. Eventually.

Last night, the little box which connects us to the satellite dish went apeshit, and was pouring smoke. Padraig was alone with it at the time, and is blaming it on a ‘power surge’, whatever that is, but he’s been buggering about with it every spare moment he has, and I reckon he’s fucked it. Padraig’s one of those people who just needs to look at something electronic for it to give up the ghost. Fair enough, some people are like that; but he, nevertheless, still grabs any remote control gadget he can get hold of and fucks about with the buttons, in complete ignorance of what he’s doing until, as in this case, something catches afire. There’ll be something of an atmosphere in the house tonight, I can tell you, if the landlord hasn’t been able to mend it, and we’re deprived of EastEnders. Maybe I’m being unfair to Pad, ‘cos it could have been a power surge: the air conditioning units have all gone on strike, too. This is great news for mosquitoes, who detest cool air, and come out i...

And so week two begins. My class is up to its full complement of 16, (although I won't be suprised if there's an attempt to squeeze in one more before this week's out). I've learnt all of their names. They are theoretically beginners, 'level 1' but our system here has a 'level 0', 'absolute beginners' you might say, and they've all done that before coming to me. Tom, (who arrived on thursday), was formerly their teacher, and clearly knew his onions and has done a canny job with them, because the students are all far above beginner level. Which means I have a big fat margin to do more than just plod through the set student book with them…

The good news is, I've found an internet cafe with a fast connexion - broadband, even. The bad news is, it's Arabic configured Windows, so everything is right to left, and the commands are in Arabic, which I can't read, and I'm getting a bit of a headache trying to work it all out...

No power this morning, which meant no water because we get that via an electric pump. It being The Day of Rest, I went into the garden with my latest shisha pipe, book, mug of tea and mp3 player. I’m breaking in this new pipe – it’s brass, (all my others have been chrome); and I’m trying out mint tobacco, which is cool, literally. All was well for two or three minutes. But my new sandals have skinned both of my big toe joints, and the local flies and ants were delighted with the prospect of unhealed wounds; soon several insects were stuck to the open flesh. Tried to ignore them, because the blue sky through the foliage was beautiful, and the acacia is budding with lovely red blossoms. Nobody in the house knows the Arabic for ‘sticking plaster’. So that’s me hobbling to the pharmacy for a humiliating mime session. God only knows what I’ll come out with. Libyan pharmacies have drugs costing a few pennies which would get you several years behind bars back in Blighty. I think that ...

Just realised I've sent an email to my mother with the blog address as a signature. So if you get here, Mam, sorry about the swear words and all the talk about beer, but I am 45, you know.

I heard rattling outside, looked out of the window and realised that palm fronds make a bit of a racket, as they stir around in the hot night breeze. It is hot, very, and only May. I have the air conditioning on the ‘economy’ setting, which is quiet enough to let me sleep, but keeps the room cool. I’ve had the window open, remembering that fresh air is good for a cold; but then, might not a scorpion like the idea of my nice cool bedroom? Padraig’s students – who are more advanced than mine – told him that last night, up the coast at a place called Zuwarah, the biggest minaret in Libya was blown down…

After a briefing in Cambridge, we were transported to the Sheraton Heathrow. The beer there being £3-odd a pint, and the atmos. non-existent, we went in search of a pub and found a wonderful real old place, called (I think) the White Horse – in a proper village, incongruously close to the horrors of Heathrow. I drank several pints of Bombardier. Then two or three more at the hotel, and then I stumbled off to bed, and though somewhat the worse for drink, had a bath. So God knows what time it was when I went to sleep but I had mis-set my alarm anyhow, slept in, and dashed unseemly to the Airport… Where all was well: these madly long check in times (two and a half hours for Libya), are not, one learns, set in stone. So there was a chance to browse WH Smiths, and have a couple of pints… It might seem a trifle decadent to have beer at 7.30am, but with ten sober weeks ahead, it feels appropriate. Also wine with the meal on the flight. And some after the meal to wash it down properly…...

What I do is, type up a post on my laptop, and then whap that onto a floppy as a txt file, and then saunter down to the internet cafe clutching the floppy to blog it... I don't know if it's a virus a what, but often when I try to open up the floppy it tells me it's not formatted, "do you want top format it now?" Which will of course wipe the disk. Ah well, the story of my journey here will have to wait. {adraig and I are off for a shisha pipe now...

Arrived yesterday - went to the training centre this morning for a shufty. I'm to teach beginners, which should be fun. We'll start work in earnest tomorrow. We've found an internet cafe, obviously, so I'll write up a fuller post at the house and blog it tomorrow or later this evening.

The last day at home for ten weeks. I haven't even started putting books and clothes in to the rucksack, so I must get on. I learned yesterday that I'm to stay and teach in a wee town called Zawiyah. I've only ever passed through it before now, en route to Tunisia. (It's quite handy for the border, actually; if my visa allows it, I might get the odd weekend on the drink). So the next post will be from an internet cafe in Zawiyah, inshallah. And I'll be hungover and spotty, because I've to consume much booze and bacon over the next few hours ;-/

The blogroll has been added to, subtracted from, and then reshuffled. Britblog (new button on the blogroll with the Union Jack), looks promising, and led to some potentially interesting places. We shall see. Blogs sometimes look ok at first blush, but after a bit one thinks “oh come off it,” and then possibly add, “you twat”. This is especially so with some of the Premier League blogs, the ones that get double figure comments every day: they become vehicles for the blogger’s self-regard, fuelled by a wee community of acolyte commentators. I’ve blogrolled and later deleted a few of these since I started. You know who you are. The Chronicle and South Tyneside Today links will get home news quickly. The South Tyneside one is related to the Shields Gazette, the local paper for Jarrow, Hebburn and South Shields. Years ago, I worked in Smith’s Dock, on the other side of the water (the Tyne, that is), and I’d get the ferry across to work, and back of course. Each evening, a man wo...

dancing Posted by Hello

Herself observed last night that the wares in Parisian cake shops "all sound like nuns' names". This morning I was listening to Tom Waits' 9th and Hennepin wherein he observes that "all the doughnuts have names that sound like prostitutes".

I’ve blogged it before and I’ll blog it again: MicroShite are a shower of bastards. Been having all kinds of annoyances with Wankows Media Player 10… ‘Nough said – Don’t Get Me Started! All of this because the laptop, the digital camera and now the mp3 player will tend to keep me sane during the approaching ten weeks in the Land of Colonel Mustard; so I’m trying to get all of my toys ready for the days ahead – kind of virtual packing.

Last night we went with Alexander to see Hitch Hikers' Guide to the Galaxy. There'd been a thunderstorm preceeded by hailstones like golf balls, so there was a bit of hassle getting a taxi, but we got there eventually. It's a splendid film, funny, engaging and all that. As someone said, it's managed to keep a British atmosphere. I could be a boring old twat and say that a lot of the wit of the original radio series has been missed out, (and I was there, back in 1978 when it first aired on R4), and so it has, but this IS a movie. The only really unforgivable flaw is the love interest with Arthur and Trillian and poor Martin Freeman having to make that cringeworthy, Hollywood I-love-her-but-I-blew-it speech just as the white mice are about to remove his brain... Even at that, there's a wonderful and presumably intentional bit of irony, because the mice are going on to him about their need for 'product'. And did anyone notice the Marvin from the TV serie...

Amen Corner, behind St Nick's cathedral. Wasn't there a group in the 60s called Amen Corner, or something?

I love the incongruity of this building... I MUST buy the Northumberland Pevsner.

We went into the Town (I'm refusing to call it "the Toon") yesterday to buy some net curtains for the bathroom. Shopping done, we walked down to the Quayside to the Wetherspoons there. Herself had a steak baguette and I a most excellent mixed grill. The chablis was bloody good. A bit too good, 'cos I got the dreaded second bottle, ignoring the fact that Herself is hardly drinking whilst pregnant, and so when we got home I was a bit too 'tired' to watch the election results. Speaking of which, thank God that's all done and dusted for another few years. We got the labour-with-a-reduced-majority most people seemed to want. And that's exactly what we got here .

... have that thing where you've been drinking red wine, and then you get some chilled white, and your face is a bit like Robert de Niro? No? What you fuckin' talking about?

128kbps, and do it as an mp3 – bollocks to wma. And that’s it. Ivie Anderson to Frank Zappa. Tell you what’s pissing me off, mind: trying to cut Windows Media the Fuck Player out of this process: it’s like an ex-girlfriend at school who just keeps popping her face into the situation and saying “What’s happening here, like?” Or like your mam, or something that’s very intrusive, anyhow. Well I’ll be Donald Ducked by Michael Howard! Speaking figuratively, of course. Oh yeah, by the fucking bye, no c***'s been knocking at this door, wanting this swine’s vote… And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow… Still can’t say where my X’ll go, but go it shall – my ancestors fought and died, and all that. Oh yeah! Forgot to mention! Departure’s been put back a week. Hurrah! I WILL plant the turnips!

...this wee device was well named Creative Zen - I'm goosed trying to Sync [burn? rip? what the fuck?!] onto it at a correct kbps. The clock's ticking like your ticker on speed and there's a stack of CDs I want on it - at the moment, they're taking two or three hours each to do.

We’ve had an email confirming that the visas have been issued, and so it looks likely that we’ll be flying out on Saturday. Ah well. Ten weeks work will put a pram in the hallway, I suppose. And so my mind turns to Libya. One route to mental reconciliation with the thought of being there is to tell myself that this is an interesting time in that country’s history. As things are shaping up, in a few years time it might be a popular tourist destination. The Austrians are interested in setting up a bank there , and there’s talk of Shell getting right in amongst all that lovely gas – and not a shot fired. Or westerner beheaded. But let’s not forget that it’s not all big profits and sunkissed beaches: it’s still a weird and somewhat dodgy place to be.

A big rock looms in Ayrshire!

Johnny Ho's

Back from Ayrshire. We went to Johnny Ho’s restaurant for dinner last night at the Harbour Inn – it has a good view of the sea and Arran, if not of the harbour. The staff were remarkably efficient and friendly. We had a chicken curry and a Harbour Inn Speciality Mixed Sizzler, which sizzled like buggery and had a lot of stuff with it: beef, chicken, huge prawns, cashews… The barbecue sauce was a trifle too sweet for my taste. We had a not-bad Spanish wine, whose name passed me by. The taxi driver who drove us from the restaurant gave the full SP on Johnny and Peter Ho: the latter had been the chef for Johnny, but had now set up his own restaurant, in which, he said the food was better; he didn’t know who Johnny’s chef is now. He or she has a sweet tooth, I would say. I’ll check out Peter Ho’s place next time we’re north of the border. So home and the clock’s ticking. An email from work says we’ll be meeting in Cambridge on Friday and flying out to Libya on Saturday, “all being ...

The new toy's playing up - Tom Waits sounds like he's gargling; Ivie Anderson with a 'playback error'. Will blog when this is sorted and I'm out of this foul imminent-departure-related temper. W****'s T**t!

The things you learn when you're 'ripping' music! (Horrible verb that, isn't it? What's wrong with 'transfer'?) Ever since I was a teenager, and that's going back somewhat, I've had a tune lodged in my mind, "I Want to Marry a Lighthouse Keeper". It's from the soundtrack to "A Clockwork Orange". Well, I bought the CD recently, and learned that the song is sung by Erika Eigen, and eventually I googled my way here , to a charming wee story of three young Americans in London in the late 60s. I wonder what happened to Erika? I love the way she sings the lyric "How 'bout you?" as if she was under water.