21/01/2011

So, lots of 2s, 1s and 0s - the excitement is unbearable.

Another week has gone by without a huge amount changing - I discovered that if you're going to let other people borrow your clothes, make sure they smoke cannabis instead of tobacco, as the smoke doesn't linger. That was a pleasant surprise. There has also been a gradual realisation that people, mainly the younger kids, actually enjoy their lessons from me. Whether this is simply because it gives them an hour away from "real" work or because I'm a good teacher remains to be seen, but I'll take it for now.

What I really want to talk to you about today, however, is Michael Flatley. Yes, the chap who did "Lord of the Dance". As most of you will know, there was also a hymn (of sorts) written under the same name, and effectively involved Jesus being named thus. I think the idea was that Christianity was supposed to be fun, likening the process of religious indoctrination to a dance - in my mind a little bit like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, leading brainwashed rats into a river to drown. However, my question is this: if both Michael Flatley and Jesus are the "Lord of the Dance", does that make Michael Flatley Jesus? Indeed, if you go along with the idea of predestination, it could even be said that Sydney Carter (the chap who wrote the hymn) was given divine inspiration to write what he did, thereby predicting the advent of Mr. Flatley. The plot thickens...I think John could give us the answer:

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things danced with Him, and apart from Him nothing danced quite like he did. For He was Irish, and thus had life, and the life was the Light of men. The Light shines on stage, and the graceless did not comprehend it."*

Charlie x

*Ok, I might have changed it a little...

Reason? Who Needs That?

There was, as I recall, a striking similarity between the first few presidential and prime ministerial (respectively) speeches of Barack Obama and David Cameron. The nature of both of them was something along the lines of, "Times are hard. Voting in one chap and one government isn't going to suddenly make everything better; we all need to club together to make our country a better place." This attitude of realism is not new - JFK famously talked about not what the USA could do for its people, but what its people could do for it. My argument is this: everyone wants to be a popular leader, and people are (arguably rightly) angry with Nick Clegg for making promises he couldn't possibly keep. However, the problem is not with his actions, but the very fact that he made these promises in the first place. I'm not advocating the dramatic lowering of public expectations per se, but instead proposing that outlandish, principle-driven promises can often fail once power has been attained. Being the voice of reason and being realistic is a far more acceptable prospect to a public that has already braced itself for widespread changes. False hope is, as ever, unforgivable in such a situation.

While helping a colleague translate a work experience handbook, I was reminded of the stunning difference in lexicon size between French and English. I shall use the French word stage as my example. This word can mean, in no particular order, training course, internship, apprenticeship, work experience, and various other things which are of less importance here. You will notice that, while we distinguish between the subtleties of each respective enterprise, French does not, making their lives a lot easier. My colleague's suggestion of internship could not have possibly been right, as the work undertaken by these students has certainly nothing do with any form of cerebral training. They are, to put it bluntly, the drone bees who repair machinery in factories, and drone bees do not go on internships. I had to settle for practical work experience. Who'd learn English, eh?

Charlie x

Cash Machines and Umbrellas

First of all, to the bastard who stole my umbrella from my doorstep (within a locked building, no less) between the hours of 2200 last night and 1000 this morning, watch your back. There will come a time when I shall find you, corner you and set a pack of wild animals on you (think of that truly woeful scene in Hannibal with the pigs and the guy in the wheelchair). No joke. Run and hide.

I noticed something about the BNP Paribas cash machines today. No, they don't spout racial hatred (ho ho ho), but they do have a small cartoon figure on the display helping you make all your financial decisions. So far, so good. What is bizarre, however, is that this little chap refers to himself in the first person, saying things like "I'm currently preparing your banknotes", albeit in French. As much as a like the idea of large banks employing cartoon midgets to act as the friendly face of financial institutions, I do worry about their working conditions. I wonder whether Bob Crow would be willing to set up his own union specifically for them...

Charlie x

Whoa, January

So I'm back for a new year in France after what felt like an incredibly short holiday. Still, mustn't grumble etc...work began with aplomb on Tuesday and was met with general apathy by both teacher (me) and students. It was, however, requested of me this afternoon to conduct a different sort of lesson with one of my older classes, the majority of whom happen to have the attention span of a gnat with ADHD. The suggested lesson plan: "Beer and cars." So basically I'm going to have to turn myself into Jeremy Clarkson for an hour a week, just to satisfy their woeful attitude towards language learning. Ho hum, it could prove entertaining I suppose.

The only other thing I'll say in this edition is my consistent shock at the Ashes performance - I keep expecting to wake up and discover that this whole thing was a cruel joke perpetrated by the Australian press, and that Ricky Ponting in fact scored 800+ runs in a 2006/2007-style thrashing, leaving the entrails of the English bowling attack to be picked apart by Michaels Clarke and Hussey and then by messyrs Atherton, Haigh, Boycott and whoever else happens to be writing about this tussle at the time. Fortunately though, the reality of the situation appears to be as we are all perceiving it, so I rest a happy man for now. Roll on tomorrow morning, where I shall hopefully be reading, bleary-eyed, a suitably reasonable report by the BBC about England's 3-1 victory. Rest assured the Aussies will come back hard in 2013, but let's just enjoy this now while we can.

A very happy new year to you all,

Charlie x

Agnosticism Is A Nonsense Word

Ok, if you call yourself an agnostic, I reserve the right to call you a wimp; a big girl’s blouse, if you will. It’s a pretty simple conundrum – if I ask you, “Do you believe in any gods?” and you answer, “I don’t know”, you are only “agnostic” in a pedantically semantic sense, in as far as we cannot ever “know” for certain about such things. However, please for one minute consider the term “atheist.” The term simply means, “someone who does not believe in gods”, meaning that all agnostics are inherently atheists as well. If you answer, “I don’t know”, you’re still saying that you don’t believe, because you don’t live your life as if some celestial dictator exists – you’re just reserving judgement until further notice, which is exactly what atheists do, only we do it better. There doesn’t need to be a difference between atheists and agnostics – we essentially believe exactly the same things, but while the former are open about it, the latter hide behind political correctness and (sometimes) sanctimony to avoid having to present an opinion either way. In short, get off your fence.

A propos, this whole concept of “knowing” that there is or is not a divine or supernatural element in our lives is wholly ridiculous – of course we cannot know for certain – we simply have to analyse what we see in the world and come up with the best conclusions we possibly can given the evidence available. It is for this reason that I have a real problem with theists claiming that they “know” a god exists, when they in fact mean that they are certain that a god exists. Knowledge implies verification and actual proof – facts are known because the way the world works can be observed and independently ratified, ending up with a conclusion that constitutes what we consider “knowledge”. Blind speculation and evidence from experience simply cannot count when it comes to such claims, so the notion that a theist can posit that they know that such a being exists is risible – please demonstrate your “knowledge” before you try to make us all see the fairy as well. I’ll let you use the word “certain”, but that’s the limit I’m afraid, chaps. I also see an equal problem with atheists stating that there is categorically no such thing as a god, since that claim would, paradoxically, require omniscience. We are all, therefore, regardless of what we think, agnostic in one way or another - it's on the same level as saying you're a homo sapiens, obviousness-wise.

Charlie x

First Part Nearly Over

So it would appear that the first bit (not quite half) of my time in Angoulême is drawing to a close; all I can say about this is that time is sneakier than Mathew Bloch, and that’s certainly saying something. For my terminal (year abroad-related) post of 2010, therefore, I thought I’d bring a few miscellaneous items to your attention.

Firstly, French dogs are a strange combination of evil and completely insane. Those of you who know me at all well know that I’m not exactly a fan of our canine “friends” at the best of times, but these little blighters take the biscuit. Every single time I go for a run (it’s becoming a daily thing now), the same batshit dog runs alongside me, albeit on the other side of a garden wall, and attempts to eat me. No joke. If it weren’t for the wonders of modern construction technology, I’d be a carcass by now, my entrails being sifted through by a pack of ravenous hounds desperate for human blood. Hyperbolic, moi? The dog-owners also appear to let their beasts urinate and defecate merrily on the pavement without bothering to clean up after them. Ergo, French dogs are not my friends.

I thought I’d come prepared before I left for Angoulême back in late September, and decided to bring a large box of Yorkshire Tea with me, believing it to be superior to any tea I would be able to find in Frog. However, I was thinking about my reasons for doing so the other day, and realised that my rationale was completely bunk. It went something like this: I like strong tea; Yorkshire Tea must be strong because it’s gritty and northern, a bit like Geoffrey Boycott. Not fancy, pretty unattractive, but boy does it get the job done when you need it. It’s the kind of tea you’d drink before disappearing down a mine for 36 hours for £3.70 before returning to beat your children with a riding crop. It’s Yorkshire Tea, so it must be tough. “But”, I hear you say, “The tea itself is not from Yorkshire – it’s from Ceylon or Madras or Peking or somewhere wonderfully subcontinental” (yes, I’m using the Empire words intentionally) – “It’s just the merchants and packing folk who are from Yorkshire.” And you’d be right...maybe they just package it in a special way to make it tougher – don’t ruin the illusion for me, people!

Charlie x

Whoa, it's been over a week. How time flies etc...

Ok, exciting things would be useful to report at this point, such as my trip to Bordeaux, where they had a Christ(sic)mas Market and, somewhat peculiarly, a rather large antiques' market tacked on at the end of it. While Bordeaux was in itself a rather pleasant city from what I saw of it, the market itself was a tad disappointing. There were no individual-looking stalls, nothing palpably decorative or twee; it was all a little bland it must be said. That and I wanted to buy gloves, but there was not a single glove-selling place which catered for anyone with a Y chromosome. Bad times. However, the trip on the whole was an enjoyable one, and it certainly made a change from a weekend in Angoulême, despite the exciting food that was available there a couple of weekends ago. So yeah, Bordeaux 1 - 0 My Hands.

I have officially decided that many of my students are worse than useless when it comes to actually turning up to things/applying themselves. I discovered today that no fewer than 5 people in one of my classes had been suspended for not doing work or skipping lessons, and was quite frankly astonished that they didn't just get rid of the lot of them and start again. Special mention must go to one of my students today who turned up just to tell me that the others weren't going to, thus saving me 10 minutes' worth of sitting around like a lemon waiting for my non-existent students. He gets a gold star and a sweetie, but the others not so much.

Anecdote alert: I am running semi-regularly at the moment (about four or five times per week on average), and tend to have a pretty similar route every time. However, my regular "back straight", as it were, is a large sports' centre in Ma Campagne which was today being used for some sort of athletics meeting. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I turned the corner, cutting through a gap in the hedge, only to be greeted by 50 or so French cross-country runners hurtling their way around a course which vaguely resembled my regular running route. Cue confusion as this random British boy appears from nowhere into their midst with some momentum, pauses confusedly and scurries off to the side of the course, attracting bizarre glances all the while. At least there was no ice this time...

Charlie x