The plan was simple, hit the states and enjoy the hospitality of Gary and Katrina. They were, and still are the best hosts I’ve ever experienced. We set off for Charlotte, North Carolina on the 29th July from a rainy English summer and arrived to a sunny and sticky afternoon.
Gary and Katrina were family friends who lived in Colden Common about 8 years ago, Katrina is from Alabama and Gary from Swindon (someone has to be). It had been a long time since I’d seen either of them and it was heartening to see that neither of them had changed; Katrina was as gregarious as ever and Gary was still a big kid. The big difference between now and when I was 12 was that he could drink beer with me, which seemed to set the tone for the rest of the trip. Upon arrival, we were taken out to the local bar, which was about 20 minutes drive away. Gary explained, as he took on Charlotte’s rush-hour traffic, that people in America rarely walk anywhere and that most places are catered so much for drivers but not walkers. It seemed surreal being on a stretch of highway, yellow traffic lights suspended from wires, people driving on the right...little did I know just how strange things were going to become.
We ate out that evening, went back to the house where Rhiannon and Dad were clearly flagging. Mum and I stayed up until 12 midnight, in the interest of beating jetlag, and beating Gary at Wii Sports. I retired to bed a happy man.
We bumbled about for a few days, went to many bars and restaurants and ate and drank in U.S sized portions. It wasn’t so much the size of the main-meals that had you undoing yet another notch in your belt (I ran out of holes), as it was the free sides you got with them. We went to ‘Mert’s Soul Food’ one evening, lots of fried chicken, sticky rice, barbeque ribs and chilli. I honestly felt like asking for a bankers draft to afford to stay out here for the next year at least. The ribs were falling off the bone, extraordinarily tasty.
It was later in the week that we opted to go to Cherokee for an overnight stay. The main attraction there was the Native American reservation and re-enactment site, something I’ve longed to see since I was little. On the museum tour I found myself reading the plaques detailing the infamous ‘Trail of Tears’ in which numerous Cherokee tribe’s people, not having had to deal with foreign diseases before, perished on their slaves journey out west. Causes of death were typically smallpox, exhaustion and, some might say, despondency. Within me it stirred feelings of anger to the injustice this peace-loving tribe endured again and again. It appeared to be so undeserved too, it wasn’t as if the Cherokee were chasing Custer’s scalp; while the Sioux and the Plains Indians were fighting the settlers, the Cherokee would extend hospitality to anyone in need and were rewarded by the greed of a cruel, new age of globalisation. It reminded me of the Cree Prophecy:
‘Only when the last tree has died and the last river has been poisoned and the last fish has been caught we will realise that we cannot eat money.’
The reservation was much more uplifting, the tour leader was dressed in traditional tribal gear which belied his Carolina drawl. What became apparent after a while however was that his trousers stopped just short of his upper thighs. This was compensated for by a loincloth that flapped dangerously when he walked, I found my eyesight involuntarily and morbidly drawn towards it as the tour progressed. The finale of the day was a Native American dance, which naturally had me imagining the swirling feathers and fire that you might see in films such as ‘Dances With Wolves’. If anything, the dances were much more Polynesian in their style than I expected. The men mostly had bald heads save a pony-tail, very much a Maori or South American look and the dance was very economical and not grand or showy . It was certainly interesting, though a few of the participants looked like they’d been roped into it...
Stay tuned in for Part Two....
Thursday, 13 August 2009
Friday, 17 July 2009
Strictly Looking Like a Twat
On a whim, and to stop the sister figure from complaining, I went to a Ballroom and Latin class yesterday evening.
Now, being fairly game, I thought that the most I would be required to do would learn a few steps, embrace a leggy female dancer (preferably Eastern European and blonde), and whirl her roud the room, pausing only to wink at the astonished onlookers.
Astonished onlooker 1: "And this is only his FIRST lesson?"
Sister: "Yeah, he's annoyingly good isnt he?"
What followed was a tiny bit different to this delusion; I was assigned to the novices, to practice the Rumba. I picked up the basic steps fairly well, except for one endearingly called "the whisk", which was a lateral step with a tiny jink and a fast changover to the opposite foot.
Done well, it looked quite remarkable, requiring a blend of speed and grace that I quite obviously lacked. I looked something like a man who was discreetly trying to shift a troublesome house rodent from his trousers while keeping his hands free. I started to perspire from the sheer concentration of keeping my feet in the right position at the right time, as if a large male-part was stopping me from doing anything I might regret.
What was quite awe-inspiring though, was when the experienced dancers all took to the floor with some 1920's ballroom music playing over the tannoy. It seemed, just for a second, that I'd stepped back in time and was voyeuristically seeing something quite lost forever as a popular hobby. The older ladies moved with an economy of energy that was in itself quite exquisite, their wheeling steps following a groove in the floor that had clearly survived many years, the ballroom staying constant while outside all sorts of changes permeated.
Now, being fairly game, I thought that the most I would be required to do would learn a few steps, embrace a leggy female dancer (preferably Eastern European and blonde), and whirl her roud the room, pausing only to wink at the astonished onlookers.
Astonished onlooker 1: "And this is only his FIRST lesson?"
Sister: "Yeah, he's annoyingly good isnt he?"
What followed was a tiny bit different to this delusion; I was assigned to the novices, to practice the Rumba. I picked up the basic steps fairly well, except for one endearingly called "the whisk", which was a lateral step with a tiny jink and a fast changover to the opposite foot.
Done well, it looked quite remarkable, requiring a blend of speed and grace that I quite obviously lacked. I looked something like a man who was discreetly trying to shift a troublesome house rodent from his trousers while keeping his hands free. I started to perspire from the sheer concentration of keeping my feet in the right position at the right time, as if a large male-part was stopping me from doing anything I might regret.
What was quite awe-inspiring though, was when the experienced dancers all took to the floor with some 1920's ballroom music playing over the tannoy. It seemed, just for a second, that I'd stepped back in time and was voyeuristically seeing something quite lost forever as a popular hobby. The older ladies moved with an economy of energy that was in itself quite exquisite, their wheeling steps following a groove in the floor that had clearly survived many years, the ballroom staying constant while outside all sorts of changes permeated.
Saturday, 11 July 2009
New Suit
For a long time I've been a one-suit man. We met across a crowded charity shop (a fact that I've denied vehemently to my friends on numerous occasions, its like saying you vote BNP, or like Wales.) Someone, presumably deceased, had been cursed with the exact same measurements as me. The pigeon chest, the slightly awkward 31 inch inside leg and the 31 inch waist made the suit fit like a glove. I paid ten pounds for it back in 2005, it was an M&S charcoal suit, I felt like the luckiest man alive.
The suit and I were inseperable, we went to the Symonds Leaver's Ball in 2006. I had work the next day in Winchester and decided to be clever and pack an overnight bag and stay with one of my workmates who was also in for the morning shift. I forgot, after the combined effects of several tequilas, sambucas and pints of lager, to pick up my rucksack containing all my regular clothes from the cloakroom. The suit and I went to work in the morning, still reeking of booze. The manager didnt care, mainly because for the duration of my shift I was presumed to be the manager by various hormonal women screeching at me:
"I tried this size 18 on and its too fackin' small!"
"Thats because you have a fat arse, madam." I felt like saying. The closest I got to eloquence however, was being sick behind the till. It was a bad day for the suit.
What I hadnt noticed, being blinded by the bargain of it all, was that the suit was made out of very comfortable wool. Wool, being what it is, was hardly the choice for a hot July afternoon, especially as my hangover was taking on epic proportions while in a shop with no air conditioning.
Still, in the winter months, I reigned supreme if there was a formal situation. I, sadly, went to two funerals in as many years for people I knew well. I also went to three very joyous weddings.
Another grim day for the suit was my Rugby Xmas piss up where I got slated, nay, crucified for wearing something that was charcoal and woolen.
"Excuse me sir? What time does Geography start?" Was one of the various and hilarious comments slung my way. Olly preferred to keep it simple with: "Oi Riley, wheres your leather elbow patches? Ya cunt! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!" I, predictably, got fined and had to down a pint of Bailey's with lime cordial, I didnt go to the loo for days.
The days loomed where I knew the suit and I might have to part ways; neccesity for a dark suit at graduation and my expanding gut being the first harbingers of doom. And, naturally, I found a replacement in Debenhams today. The cut is good, it makes me look like someone from The Apprentice, and I can finally wear it without worrying about how much I'm going to perspire in the warmer months.
Still, all that being said, there will only ever be the one suit for me. I'll keep it in the wardrobe for emergencies, or give it to charity.
The suit and I were inseperable, we went to the Symonds Leaver's Ball in 2006. I had work the next day in Winchester and decided to be clever and pack an overnight bag and stay with one of my workmates who was also in for the morning shift. I forgot, after the combined effects of several tequilas, sambucas and pints of lager, to pick up my rucksack containing all my regular clothes from the cloakroom. The suit and I went to work in the morning, still reeking of booze. The manager didnt care, mainly because for the duration of my shift I was presumed to be the manager by various hormonal women screeching at me:
"I tried this size 18 on and its too fackin' small!"
"Thats because you have a fat arse, madam." I felt like saying. The closest I got to eloquence however, was being sick behind the till. It was a bad day for the suit.
What I hadnt noticed, being blinded by the bargain of it all, was that the suit was made out of very comfortable wool. Wool, being what it is, was hardly the choice for a hot July afternoon, especially as my hangover was taking on epic proportions while in a shop with no air conditioning.
Still, in the winter months, I reigned supreme if there was a formal situation. I, sadly, went to two funerals in as many years for people I knew well. I also went to three very joyous weddings.
Another grim day for the suit was my Rugby Xmas piss up where I got slated, nay, crucified for wearing something that was charcoal and woolen.
"Excuse me sir? What time does Geography start?" Was one of the various and hilarious comments slung my way. Olly preferred to keep it simple with: "Oi Riley, wheres your leather elbow patches? Ya cunt! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!" I, predictably, got fined and had to down a pint of Bailey's with lime cordial, I didnt go to the loo for days.
The days loomed where I knew the suit and I might have to part ways; neccesity for a dark suit at graduation and my expanding gut being the first harbingers of doom. And, naturally, I found a replacement in Debenhams today. The cut is good, it makes me look like someone from The Apprentice, and I can finally wear it without worrying about how much I'm going to perspire in the warmer months.
Still, all that being said, there will only ever be the one suit for me. I'll keep it in the wardrobe for emergencies, or give it to charity.
Friday, 10 July 2009
Starting to feel a little bit like I’m making the right choices, just at the wrong time. I feel drained everyday due to the Italians I’m teaching, and the sad part is that I’m only teaching them for 4 hours a day. How on Earth will I cope with a classroom full of rowdy Korean kids come New Year?
I’m seeing it as a learning curve, a challenge for me to overcome. There’s really no other way to approach it, in my opinion.
Still, every cloud: I’m getting paid £10.30 an hour which is bloody good, if only I could teach for longer...
Got my results back, 2.1 with Honours. I’m obviously really really happy. However, though I am happy to have achieved what I set out to do at the start of the year, the anti-climax of getting the result (it is, of course, just a grade) is compounded by guilt. This is probably normal, I made some big sacrifices in my personal life to be more focussed and selfish and to devote my time to me and nobody else. Even now, at the other end of the journey, I feel bad for having been so obtuse about getting the grade, it’s the kind of thing I sneer at in other people, and I wish I might have got it effortlessly and been able to pay as much attention to my personal life as I think it merits. Still, understandably, I have a big grin on my face because I know nobody is going to question my degree class, and that does make it partially worth it.
Had a brainwave yesterday, via the ever-expanding brain of Miss Mackenzie: after my travels, wherever they are and however long for, it would excite me greatly to get involved in a Journalism Course. The Institute of Journalism offer fast-track courses for graduates and often, if you aren’t totally hopeless, you can find yourself working in the industry after a year.
I will ruffle feathers by saying this: but I have heard from people who work in or with the industry and they all have the opinion that a Journalism degree is inadequate preparation. A wider course in English, History, Psychology, Classics etc combined with a Journalist’s Qualification, is considered to be much more wholesome as it means that the candidate has had other interests and disciplines other than just shorthand writing speed.
Still, all in good time.
Seriously tired and in need of a laugh, am beginning to feel a bit like Mort Raney in that Stephen King novel and am wondering at what point I'll wake up to a massacred family and me stood there in a Farmer's hat. I just want a big break, though I dont know when that will be.
I’m seeing it as a learning curve, a challenge for me to overcome. There’s really no other way to approach it, in my opinion.
Still, every cloud: I’m getting paid £10.30 an hour which is bloody good, if only I could teach for longer...
Got my results back, 2.1 with Honours. I’m obviously really really happy. However, though I am happy to have achieved what I set out to do at the start of the year, the anti-climax of getting the result (it is, of course, just a grade) is compounded by guilt. This is probably normal, I made some big sacrifices in my personal life to be more focussed and selfish and to devote my time to me and nobody else. Even now, at the other end of the journey, I feel bad for having been so obtuse about getting the grade, it’s the kind of thing I sneer at in other people, and I wish I might have got it effortlessly and been able to pay as much attention to my personal life as I think it merits. Still, understandably, I have a big grin on my face because I know nobody is going to question my degree class, and that does make it partially worth it.
Had a brainwave yesterday, via the ever-expanding brain of Miss Mackenzie: after my travels, wherever they are and however long for, it would excite me greatly to get involved in a Journalism Course. The Institute of Journalism offer fast-track courses for graduates and often, if you aren’t totally hopeless, you can find yourself working in the industry after a year.
I will ruffle feathers by saying this: but I have heard from people who work in or with the industry and they all have the opinion that a Journalism degree is inadequate preparation. A wider course in English, History, Psychology, Classics etc combined with a Journalist’s Qualification, is considered to be much more wholesome as it means that the candidate has had other interests and disciplines other than just shorthand writing speed.
Still, all in good time.
Seriously tired and in need of a laugh, am beginning to feel a bit like Mort Raney in that Stephen King novel and am wondering at what point I'll wake up to a massacred family and me stood there in a Farmer's hat. I just want a big break, though I dont know when that will be.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Poems
I've recently been published again in this years edition of 'Pandora's Box'. I thought, as it is only a small publication, to share with you some of the things that are in there by myself.
Cleared Out
Heaney's North, Pinter's Celebration
And a Lonely Planet guide to Korea
All for under a tenner.
Joyous though I am,
It's hard to not feel sad and sorry for
Gap-filled bookshelves dotted with stickers,
Venerable walls cheapened
With discount posters.
Loss
Losing a loved one is not a hole in the head,
A wound to the heart,
A cavern, A void.
It is the deep and certain knowledge that whoever knocks at your door
Wont be them.
Stripped
Hovering just below corrugated roofing,
Disfigured, odd strips of varied luminosity
Glare.
Like stretched incisors, one blacked out,
One full of dead flies, they make me wonder
Just how many saw them in their pure new smile.
And, wherever they are now, remember it?
Horror-Scope
Virgos never give it up,
Leo's too hard to tame.
Capricorns find me unsure footing.
I'm no pescetarian, so Pisceans are a no-go.
Saggitarians arrows miss me, Scorpions scare me,
Librans weigh me, find me wanting.
I'm a red rag to Taurans, and Arians find me
Woolley.
I'm no bigamist, sorry Gemini.
And it goes without saying that I dont want Cancer.
After all this, star signs are rubbish,
Which is a very Aquarian thing to think.
Cleared Out
Heaney's North, Pinter's Celebration
And a Lonely Planet guide to Korea
All for under a tenner.
Joyous though I am,
It's hard to not feel sad and sorry for
Gap-filled bookshelves dotted with stickers,
Venerable walls cheapened
With discount posters.
Loss
Losing a loved one is not a hole in the head,
A wound to the heart,
A cavern, A void.
It is the deep and certain knowledge that whoever knocks at your door
Wont be them.
Stripped
Hovering just below corrugated roofing,
Disfigured, odd strips of varied luminosity
Glare.
Like stretched incisors, one blacked out,
One full of dead flies, they make me wonder
Just how many saw them in their pure new smile.
And, wherever they are now, remember it?
Horror-Scope
Virgos never give it up,
Leo's too hard to tame.
Capricorns find me unsure footing.
I'm no pescetarian, so Pisceans are a no-go.
Saggitarians arrows miss me, Scorpions scare me,
Librans weigh me, find me wanting.
I'm a red rag to Taurans, and Arians find me
Woolley.
I'm no bigamist, sorry Gemini.
And it goes without saying that I dont want Cancer.
After all this, star signs are rubbish,
Which is a very Aquarian thing to think.
Friday, 3 July 2009
I tend to ponder about things that not many others do: why are white van men so angry? What is the point of GMTV? And, most importantly, why does asking for a polythene shopping bag make me evil?
I'm a humanitarian at heart, give me an energy efficient way to do something and I'm there. Getting hot and bothered about possible emissions, especially when all I want to do is put the said shopping in my car and drive off home to eat it cold while I read a book. I could understand if I had become notorious in the area for grabbing fistfuls of plastic bags, taking them to a field with a handy tyre-fire already blazing away, and setting alight to them, pausing only to hurl car batteries on the inferno. Its quite simply nuts.
Tescos have had my custom for a few years now, mainly through convenience (but then, what else would you use a convenience shop for?) They are also the main culprits for making a person asking for a shopping bag feel like a pariah.
Woman: Would you like a bag?
Me: Yes please.
Woman: (scowls) Do you not have any of your own?
Me: (Looks around, puzzled) Well, no. I presumed that your offer of a bag might morph seamlessly into me obtaining one.
Woman: Well here you go. (Hands me one, crumpled up.)
Of course, wrapping it round her head would be considered assault. I merely informed her that I intended to pay for my shopping in its entirety by way of my book of vouchers...
I'm a humanitarian at heart, give me an energy efficient way to do something and I'm there. Getting hot and bothered about possible emissions, especially when all I want to do is put the said shopping in my car and drive off home to eat it cold while I read a book. I could understand if I had become notorious in the area for grabbing fistfuls of plastic bags, taking them to a field with a handy tyre-fire already blazing away, and setting alight to them, pausing only to hurl car batteries on the inferno. Its quite simply nuts.
Tescos have had my custom for a few years now, mainly through convenience (but then, what else would you use a convenience shop for?) They are also the main culprits for making a person asking for a shopping bag feel like a pariah.
Woman: Would you like a bag?
Me: Yes please.
Woman: (scowls) Do you not have any of your own?
Me: (Looks around, puzzled) Well, no. I presumed that your offer of a bag might morph seamlessly into me obtaining one.
Woman: Well here you go. (Hands me one, crumpled up.)
Of course, wrapping it round her head would be considered assault. I merely informed her that I intended to pay for my shopping in its entirety by way of my book of vouchers...
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Too Damn Hot...
I had a cold shower in the early hours last night (and no, not for THAT reason!)
By going to bed completely freezing cold and naked I just about survived the night, though I woke up this morning in a haze of mist from the water pretty much evaporating off my bum.
For the next two weeks I am teaching two Italian 11 year olds called Gianluca and Lorenzo, and they are both bloody crap. The level of fun I might ordinarily have derived from the teaching was normally to do with its brevity, I could make the lesson fun but not burn out. Now, I arrive in Romsey at 9am and after the first hour I want to cry. Its not so much that I doubt my own ability as it is that I dont have a template for teaching EFL, I can cover grammar, superlatives, punctuation, connectives etc. But pretending to be 'Inspector Clueless', the textbook's moronic cartoon character, while I 'search for full stops' with two kids from Milan who looked like they'd rather be outside smoking, is a bit much.
Still, getting some nice moolah for it. And I dont have to serve a pint...
Went for an interview yesterday at Bendicks, made a quip about my interviewer's hairnet making her look like one of the martians from "Mars Attacks". It was recieved with a polite smile that soon turned into a glower, I s
hould learn to override my urge to talk total bollocks sometimes.
hould learn to override my urge to talk total bollocks sometimes.
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