Holidays²

I spent four beautifully rain-soaked days in Mahabalipuram (or Mamallapuram, it doesn't matter; Although they need to make their mind up if you ask me) this weekend. Although we were visiting a historic temple site, culture didn't play a pivotal part in the holiday. Admittedly, I spent most of the trip scratching my head as to how i'd ended up in this bizarre situation: on holiday from my DAYJOB in the South of India with just 8 Swedish females for company.

I managed to catch most of the first Ashes test which completely bemused the Swedes. I think they were just jealous their climate isn't, and never will be, ready for cricket. Being a half-arsed cricket fan means i'm in a win-win situation anyway because I don't really care that much when England are crap but lap up the glory when we're good.

The rest of the trip was spent eating Western food because, after 5 weeks of nothing but the stuff, rice can piss off back to the rice farm as far as i'm concerned. How anyone can live without at least 3 potatoes a day is beyond me.

Reasons for being here.

1. Find self.
2. Get a tan.
3. Try to be a nice person for 6 months,
4. OK, pretend to be a nice person for 6 months. Acting Practice.
5. Save 2010-11 from being the Chinese Year of the Cock-up.
6. Work out what 1. means.
7. Oh no, it doesn't mean anything.
8. Make many, many lists.
9. Help others. (I died writing that).

My flat is in a place called Villivakkam, which is about as geared up for tourists as Batley or Penge. This makes the 10 minute walk to the shop a bit of a tiresome task because I would hazard an informed guess that i'm the only non-Indian within at least a miles radius and this means I get a lot of unwanted attention from people on the street. I no longer make the mistake of stopping for everyone anymore because answering the same three questions (Country? How long in India? Father's job?) is a bit repetitive. If i'm feeling generous i'll shout the answers to them as I walk past but most of the time my mind is so focused on the task in hand (buying instant pasta) that I ignore them completely.

The question that proves a bit of a poser is 'what are you doing here?'.

'pfft, I dunno' and 'shit happens' are popular answers.

Having said that, apparently there's snow in Britain and that's a headache best avoided. Oh, and enjoy hearing Shakin' Stevens for the 48th time by December 3rd.

p.s. I am actually having a fantastic time, it's just moaning fits me like a glove.

The Internet

Had a few people suggest i'm on the internet too much whilst i'm here. This is a fair assessment, i'm on here all the sodding time.But for, i'd argue, very good reason. I'm not, as some might expect, on here to check whether someone I met once is still in a complicated relationship with another person I had a brief exchange with at the same party. Nope, the number one reason for pissing hundreds and hundreds of rupees away in an Internet cafe is: Death. (Well, aside from mind-crippling boredom as well.) More specifically, the death of minor celebrities. All the time my attention is being diverted onto Indian things, I am scared of missing their deaths and being able to tick them off my checklist.

Let's say, for instance, that Patricia Routledge (of Keeping Up Appearances and Hetty Wainthropp Investigates fame) died tomorrow and i'm away from the internet for the next 2 days. Now, the poor old bird hasn't been in the limelight much for the last 10 years (Probably those ageist BBC scum at work again!) but that doesn't change the fact she's played a big part in my Sunday afternoon viewing habits whilst growing up. It also means that her death will probably only receive 24, maybe 36 hours of press coverage before it enters the news vaults forever. Then there's a good chance I won't have a conversation about the woman for anything up to 10 years. So, the year's 2020, i'm sitting in the pub and the conversation turns to classic sitcoms and suddenly i chime in with, 'oh my god, I can't believe that Pat Routledge is still alive'. To which another customer,Old Tommy, replies, "what planet are you living on mate? She died on November 28th 2010 peacefully at her home in Chichester, West Sussex." After this, there could be no recovery. I would have so much egg on my face that I would have to leave 3 quarters of a pint  for the drains and make a hasty exit. Also, the year will be 2020 so pints will probably cost about a tenner.

And this is why the internet is a force for the good.

Campaign for the Reinstatement of the Cane

I tend to be very tired every morning by about half ten. This is probably because I haven't had a routine for over 3 years and my sleeping patterns have become so nocturnal that at no point in the day will both a milkman and myself be awake. Anyway, for some reason today I was in a real stinker of a mood which meant that reading with 2nd Standard (Year 2 plus some older kids of lesser ability) wasn't high on my to-do list. In charge of a group of 6 boys and 1 girl, it almost definitely wasn't the best option to sit them next to a drum kit but there was a chair next to it and my seating options were limited. The girl was good as gold, but the majority of the other 6 had clearly decided amongst them to 'fuck things up' for good old AndrewUncle. I gave them some loud verbal warnings to button it but to no avail, so when John Rai decided to keep having his mother's meeting with Rahul it pushed me over the edge and I snapped.

In one pretty aggressive 'shut up' to a couple of little children, I think I may have seen inside the mind of a teacher. I now understand why Mr Johnson, our old music teacher at school, was a borderline psychopath. I understand why Ken Barlow punched that naughty lad in his English class in the face. More worryingly, I think I may be starting to understand that parental classic of, 'you'll thank me in years to come'.

Bollocks

Catholic Guilt

Bumped into Abraham The Puritanical Landlord on the way out to the shops this morning and he asked me something I didn't understand, so I shrugged my shoulders (the international sign for 'huh?'). He then indicated that he was asking if I was going to church because he put his hands together in a praying motion. It's funny that we have to resort to basic body language when we speak the same language day-to-day but worse still that they seem to have a harder time understanding my accent than I do the Indian accent.

Anyway, the church question could have been easily batted off with a couple of answers.

Option A: 'Yes'. Which would have been a lie. The upside is he would have been very happy and none-the-wiser as to my real plans:- Eat crisps and watch lots of goals on youtube. Also, I have form for lying so it would have been a piece of piss.

Option B: 'No'. A non-starter. He might not have cared, but I didn't want to take the chance. Better to play it safe and appear religious than him open a big can of whoop-ass on me. After all, the man has 6 of Christ's crosses on the gates of his house. That's more than 5 for heaven's sake.

Option C: 'Sod off you Nosy bastard.' My first preference but a bit rude.

Back in reality, I panicked and went for the worst possible answer of 'maybe'. I know this is bullshit, he knows this is bullshit, God knows this is bullshit, even little Tiger the dog can smell something a bit funny coming from my direction. It implies that either i'm a half-arsed Christian, a liar or 'not quite sure yet'.

Either way, i'm still not going to church. I have a very busy itinerary for the day. I have to guide Partick Thistle to promotion to the SPL whilst seeing off a multipack of kitkats and a pot noodle equivalent. It ain't easy being me.

I've decided to become a vegetarian.

Only kidding. Today rubber-stamped what i've suspected for quite a long time; I can quite happily watch the torture of defenceless little animals as long as they end up a tasty treat on a plate ready for my belly.

On the way to school today (about an hour late as normal, which i'm definitely not complaining about), Joel stopped off at the poultry shop to grab us a couple of chickens. The smell of rotting chicken was pretty enticing so I followed him in to see what all the fuss was about. They had a brief conversation in Tamil which of course I didn't understand but, as usual, it sounded like there was going to be a fight instead of a transaction. Then the butcher went out to 'the back' and came back with three live birds (we'll call them olly, dolly and molly). I must have looked interested because the butcher, who was an old man with a Captain Birdseye beard, invited me round to witness the brutality straight away. He didn't mess about, he put some water on their necks and went straight for the jugular with a knife. I at least thought he'd go for a neck-wringing but each to his own. He claimed to be a chicken zoologist, which I nodded vigorously to at the time because I didn't want to appear stupid. Looking back, he was probably spinning me a line. He then put the chicken in what must be called a chicken-plucking-spinning-thing, then chopped, bagged and double-bagged the Mother up. 3 chickens for less than 6 quid by the way. And fresh ones too. Very fresh.

Two hours later I was tucking into coriander rice and chicken curry. Finger licken'. By the way, the chickens looked pretty happy to me and they weren't all cooped up so I think they died happier than most.

If this is offensive to vegetarians, cluck off.

Spencer's Plaza

Went to the big shopping 'facility' in the centre of town today for the first time. It was pretty naff, although its' naffness had quite a lot to do with the Roman gimmick some genius had decided to launch it with.

Bought on trip:

Shorts
Jake 'The Snake' Roberts T-Shirt
Headphones
4 Postcards
Illegal Dee-Vee-Dee's

Lost Between Counter and Bag:

Headphones
4 Postcards

Doofus.

The DVD man Sathish convinced me his copies of The Simpsons were genuine by telling me that, 'I am having lots of English customers who are very happy with the quality. There's Craig, there's John. Very Happy'. His knowledge of bog-standard English names was incredibly reassuring and therefore good enough for me. Sold! to the pasty English boy in the shorts.

Also shunned the more traditional options for a Pizza Hut because ah'm English and ah do what ah fackin like.

Thought for the day.

Can you go blind if really, REALLY hard rain goes in your eyes?


Of course not. Although it did cross my mind in the midst of another feck-off downpour this morning. However, I was particularly fragile this morning after yesterday's 'Children's Day'. Now I am all for public holidays; in fact they're fantastic. But I really don't understand how the Indian economy isn't in absolute freefall with the amount of time they get off. Anyhow, my position for the day at the school was as Chief Sandwich Judge (caps emphasising importance) for the sarnie-making competition that each child got to have a crack at during the day. Now, they don't make a lot of sandwiches over here, (I spotted an Indian in a cinema with one once but I think he was a bit odd.) so making the sandwiches was a bit of a novelty for the kids and the teachers told them to bring in their own vegetables and we'd provide the bread. Of course, everyone knows that vegetables are disgusting but I let them off because, as teachers, they had to be seen to be promoting the 'right thing'. Having tasted around 50 sandwiches, I decided the winning sandwich had to be Vassant and Sonya's creation which was much the same as all the others but they'd had the ingenuity to chuck a fried egg on top.

Vassant and Sonya's Recipe:

1 Carrot (chopped)
1 Red Onion (chopped)
1 White Radish (chopped)
Mint Leaves (???)
1 Egg (fried)
Butter (spread evenly)
Bombay Mix (Obviously not called that here)
2 Slices White Bread
Ketchup (Spread evenly)

It was pretty nice, actually. Although the same cannot be said for a Carrot, onion and strawberry jam bap that I had to tuck into a bit later.

The rest of the day was a success save for having to dance in front of the school with the other volunteers at the end. I plumped for a mixture of riverdance and twostepping in order to avoid looking a total chump.

I have another day off for a Muslim fest called Bakrid tomorrow. Obviously i've no idea what that entails and to be perfectly honest, i'll probably choose to ignore the nitty gritty unless someone shouts an explanation directly into my ears.

Abraham

Sitting in my flat reading Jimmy Greaves's autobiography got very boring very quickly on Saturday, so I went to the internet cafe down the road to check everything and stream the very painful Palace match. There's no need for anyone to know that whatsoever but bear with me. I left the cafe at 10.40pm and arrived back to my flat at 11 to find the front gate padlocked. This isn't a massive problem in itself as the gate is only about 5 foot high. So I thought i'd climb it. My only problem was that the landlord of the building Abraham (who lives below me) has a little yappy dog called Tiger. (Abraham is a puritanical protestant, so the decision to name his dog after the world's greatest golfer and lover has backfired on him somewhat.). Anyhow, the little yappy dog starts yapping and yaps away for a good 10 minutes until Abraham wakes up and comes and finds me looking a little bit pissed off with his lot in life. 11pm seems to be very late in this part of the world. He's also the sort of bloke who just wears a loincloth when he's round the house. To cut an even longer story short, this half naked religious nut gives me a severe dressing down about my extreme lateness and warns me that I have to be back on the premises by a 9pm curfew.

So I've basically got an ASBO for going on facebook too much. Great.