I want to walk among them

Punching kids with knives

I was reading of Manuel’s terrible terrible fate here: http://welldonefillet.blogspot.com/2008/11/stop-fingering-my-forks.html on his sterling blog. His experience with the younglings (ala Star Wars) reminded me of my second teaching post. A post in which I started looking for a new job three hours after arriving.

There were many many reasons why this school was abhorrent. The area was one; I must post about Thamesmead at some point and its subterranean methane factories. The children were another; subhuman wretches. The staff another still; nauseating city-boys who couldn’t cut it in the finance sector and fled here to abuse Inspiration instead. But what finally drove me out of the place was my schoolyard experience.

I strode across the yard, swerving to avoid any contact with the young morlocks, expertly rolling a smoke in my coat pocket (one-handed I might add), when I saw one girl from my class race toward another.

I arrived too late to stop the first punch being landed and the first girl being thrown to the ground in retaliation. The girl on the ground quickly reached into her shirt and produced a short knife and tried to get to her feet; swiping at her opponent as she did so… I really didn’t know what else to do… so I tackled this 14 year old and pinned her shoulders with my legs.

I desperately hoped that would be the end of it but was immediately robbed of that illusion as I saw several quick booted kicks landed on her head. The other girl taking advantage of my pinning her adversary..

For a few short minutes, until more staff arrived to my rescue, I found myself in the thin moral ice of sitting on one 14 year old; applying all the pressure I could to her knife-brandishing arm, while punching another girl repeatedly in the chest with my one free arm to try and halt her assault.

All around us dozens of their peers gathered; shouting obscenities, screaming incoherently and, in some cases, tearing open their shirts and bras (I shit you not). “Ah”, I thought, “The future is in good hands”.

… What was truly dismaying about the whole incident was the lack of reaction. No suspension. No talk of the knife. The girls were back in my class the next day pulling their wily highjinks (some of these I, again, should relate at another time).

So, for youths’ future, I present the City Academy programme!

What should waxy post about next?

And then I get gout

What do you do with a night to yourself?

Me? I go to a market during the day (http://www.broadwaymarket.co.uk/) and buy a thick cut of rump steak as large as my head. 

I introduce this slab of succulence in passing to some heat on a griddle. “Hello Mr. Griddle”. “Hello, Mr.Steak” they say jovially as Mr.Steak takes centre stage. Then I serve a backing band of asparagus, pear and rocket salad with a sherry & balsamic vinegar dressing. I melt an exceptional gorgonzola over the meat and tuck in.

I follow this with a leisurely cigarette or two and, some time later, a cheese board with some apples. To finish the night I put the beer and wine away and round the repast off with a double whiskey on ice with some single-estate Peruvian chocolate.

All to the sounds and visions of Korean ultraviolent movies.

And then I get gout.

This is what my evening looks like:

Carmina Burana

Good night last night; I ticked off two little ambitions.

First off, I got to go to the Royal Albert Hall. Which I’ve wanted to do for about 9 years now. And very nice it was too.

 

Secondly I got to see / hear Carmina Burana being performed by a hundreds-strong ‘wall of sound’ choir. Sitting on my little swivelly seat I got to relive all my Old Spice and Excalibur thrills. “The King without a sword, the land without a king!!!”.

Wonderful.

So watch as manly men take on the might of the sea itself with little to protect save manly scent!

Watch as the confidence of royalty fertilizes Britain! Horrah!

.. and here watch some more Excalibur just for good measure! Go and see it.

Testicles and the Pre-Justinian Period in Mr.G’s

I found a proper East End Caf (“Mr. G’s”) near my workplace on Monday some weeks ago. I was delighted with the find as, disappointingly given that I work on the Mile End Rd, there isn’t much beside Chicken Village knock-offs (one, very amsusingly, called FCKC in a double-brand knock-off)

Mr G's Cafe. Image poached from Trustedplaces.com

and poor curry houses. When I first moved to London many moons ago I had a rich fantasy of Alfie’s in markets shouting about apples and pears and chimney sweeps dancing on their commute through the skies. Confronted with rotting bananas and market stalls selling nothing but cheap flimsy underwear I was sadly dissappointed.

So I was thrilled to find this proper (or ‘propAH’ to use the local argot) cafe. I ordered far far too much food; an Egg, Bacon, Beans and Chips (ala http://russelldavies.typepad.com/eggbaconchipsandbeans/) that nearly killed me. Then settled down to read and watch and listen.

Up front two pensioners argued. One remained quite austere as his companion put sugar upon sugar upon sugar into his tea, well past the saturation point so that the soupy mire spilled out across the counter and his chin… forming a thin crust on both.

He announced his political views to the world: “If you were mugged – there! – on THAT road – that road there! And they had stocks! It wouldn’t happen again! No! No – shut up now, I’m talking! It wouln’t happen again. Put him ‘in stocks, innit? And leave the tomatoes from the market there beside ‘im”… and so on. A good ten minutes of “stocks!”, “bloody holiday camps, that’s what the prisons are!” and “whip ‘em I say!” ensued. It as a lot of fun. The owner, catching my eye and winking his comraderie toward me, urged him on: “Now really, that’s far too much. I’m sure those, what did you call them, ‘oiks’? … those young oiks don’t mean any harm”. The irate gent near exploded with rage: “On TV last night I saw a documetary ’bout the Romans, right? They knew what it was all about, right?”.

At this the eyebrow of the sucrose-drinking man rose sharply.

“The Romans right? The Romans wouldn’t have stood for this! A Roman citizen could walk across the world (shades of the West Wing: http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/The_West_Wing) without fear of anything. Anything!”.

The the sucrose-drinking man put his tea down sternly.

“The Romans under, in this TV show this was before Justin, they should have stayed in Britain”.

The man stood quickly; knocking aside his chair: “TESTICLES!!! TESTICLES!!! THAT’S WHAT YOU KNOW ABOUT THE PRE-JUSTINIAN PERIOD!!!!! YOU KNOW FUCKING TESTICLES ABOUT PRE-JUSTINIAN ROME”.

What followed was a fascinating and genuinely eloquent discussion on Roman history between this enthralled amateur TV viewer and, it turned out, a retired professor of Roman history.

I love London. I really do.

…

So, onto the Billy and Me scores:

Billy: 8
Eoin: 9 (just for the floor-show)

Batman, Testicles or Death? What should I blog about

Weird gym dudes: Part 3

This is less weird than a bit sad. It makes me sad because I’m not heartless like all of you.

There’s a girl I’ve seen in my gym.  I say ‘girl’. I think she’s in her late ’30′s maybe? But she seems a bit childlike as she mopes around the rooms.

Running on the treadmill I spend most of my time people-watching (as you may have guessed from previous posts) and I’ve seen her in several areas. I’ve seen her stand, shivering and wiry, by the edge of the pool. Looking at any male that swims (or floats). She tries to make eye contact as soon as their heads pop up from under the water. When they stand to leave the pool, she follows them and tries to engage in conversation. I’ve seen her wait by cross-trainers and weight machines, slightly bored and nervous, looking eagerly at various males. I’ve seen her standing outside, in the cold, by the bike rack waiting to see who would come along and, if they’re male, engaging them in a strained conversation. Her face leaning toward them. Her eyes bright. Her tone higher and higher with each sentences. Theirs low and muddled as they make their escape.

Never have I seen her actually use the gym for its stated purpose.

It’s all a bit sad really.