Portrait of a Joel

And the winner of the inaugural 'Wonderful Indian of the Year' award is none other than.......

                                  Mr J.Joel Rajesh.

Anybody who has read more than 2 of these posts will have heard his name mentioned in passing and I felt I probably needed to devote a couple of sentences to my 'fixer' before I left.

I arrived in the country at very short notice and at a time when the regular volunteer flats were full. Step forward Joel, who provided me with a bed to sleep in. And when I say 'provided a bed', I mean he arranged for a bed to be built for me, moved out of his flat for two months and slept on his cousin's floor whilst I stayed there. Not only that, he also drove me everywhere on his bike for about 2 months and helped me negotiate the not-so-swift process of settling into Chennai by doing absolutely everything for me. Plus, he had to perform the unenviable tasks of a school administrator at the same time.

Recently, he has organised my trips away, welcomed me into his family for Christmas and bought me a bunch of roses for my birthday. Truly, a Chennai Super King amongst men. The sad thing is, he'll probably never read this and realise how appreciated all of his help was. So I suppose, in many ways, he is like Van Gogh. Apart from Van Gogh never did shit for me.

Joel - 1, Ginger Earless Prick - Zilch.

Landmark

I managed to finish a fiction book for the first time in god-knows-how-long. I did, however, need 24 hours stuck on a boat with no access to a television or the internet to accomplish the feat. We were on a houseboat cruise of the backwaters in Kerala and it might speak volumes, but I threw my toys out of the pram (expressed mild disappointment) when I first realised there was no television on the boat. I'd had my heart set on ignoring the second half of my holiday and taking in every single delivery of the World Cup quarter finals. I was under the impression that holidays were meant to be about relaxing and doing what you wanted, but it seems that the hotel industry insists on following some sort of barbaric regime which dictates that you must follow strict itineraries and punishes those who like to sleep late by not letting them have breakfast. Maybe it's a generational thing but I, Andrew Jameson, dream of a brighter future when I can wake up past mid-day and still tuck into pineapple slices and reheated bacon at my leisure.

Anyway, all this time alone without mind-frazzling contraptions forced me into hours of reading. The book in question was Simon Kernick's 'Relentless', a selection from Richard and Judy's Book Club. Peace of mind, i'm sure you'll agree. I personally can't pick up a novel that hasn't had the seal of approval from Britain's retired King and Queen of daytime TV. The quote from The Times on the cover said that the book was 'Unputdownable', which is the literary equivalent of a patronising pat on the back. In other words, the book was trashy shit for idiots. But I tend to be a bit of sucker for the opinions of critics, so whilst I enjoyed it, I was keen to make sure that I kept any enjoyment at an arms length and if asked to write a short review, I would probably say something like "pfft, just a holiday read, you know". And that is how to be a snooty bastard.

The houseboat itself was a bit of a strange experience as we had 4 staff working for a total of 3 guests but that is fairly par for the course out here. At 6.30PM, the boat anchored down in the middle of a huge lake and we were told that we'd be staying there for the night. We always knew about the arrangements concerning sleeping in the boat, but I think it caught us a bit off guard to be quite so stranded. It was a little too like the film 'Dead Calm' for our liking. In truth, I have no real recollection of what happens in that film but I know it's something to do with water and that it wasn't all plain sailing (1-0!).

Lap of Luxury

My parents flew out to India last week to have a quick look at how their self-professed 'special little boy' has spent the last 5 months. Of course, after staying in a nice hotel for a few days, they think that Chennai is a lovely city filled with Indian charm and character. To some extent it is, but then again, it is also the world's biggest khazi.

It doesn't really matter because the perk of their visit is that I've been whisked off to some wonderful destinations where I would less likely find ants in my towels and more likely find 'Welcome' chocolates on my pillows. This did initially pose a few moral questions as to whether it would be appropriate given all the do-goodery I've been practising recently. Then I told myself to stop being such a bitch and to tuck into my lobster. After all, I never claimed to be Mother Theresa.

This brings me nicely onto a conversation I had yesterday when, whilst watching the hotel's communal TV, a Frenchman actually did suggest that I was only here to be like the old bird from Calcutta and that I was searching for spiritual cleansing. I took a great deal of pleasure in pointing out to him that I'm only here to add to my glaringly empty CV, that I never do anything for anyone else and that it would be rather nice of him if he could just 'hop along'.

The last bit never happened. In fact, I surrendered the remote control to him and left quietly but with little dignity after pulling a 'push' door. Every bloody time.

We're currently in God's Own Country, or Kerala to everyone who doesn't work for the Keralan tourist board. The hotel is called Coconut Lagoon and it feels a bit like I've gatecrashed a honeymoon but it is an undeniably alright part of the world. We had a high-octane elephant ride yesterday which was very entertaining except for the third-degree burns I managed to obtain in a misguided attempt to 'stand on my own two feet'.

Mum: "Put some suncream on Andrew"
Andrew: "Nah, you're alright. I'M FINE. I'M AN ADULT NOW."
M: "But I can see your skin burning, it'll really hurt later."
A: "STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO."

Lots of egg on my face as well as some agonising burns which, naturally, formed around the wifebeater vest I had boldly chosen to wear for the day. British.

One Night in the Sun.

Finally, after 22 years in the wilderness, I fulfilled my destiny. Some doubters may have believed that destiny to have included a pot belly, £30k of student debt and a lifetime of 7p ASDA noodles; but I've proved them wrong. Because on Saturday night I had a pint, a massage and a poo in England cricketer James Anderson's hotel room.

I first noticed Ian Bell on the way into the club, which had me excited enough. Imagine my surprise when Graeme Swann then marched his way past and hi-fived the diminutive ginger batsmen. After it quickly became apparent that the whole team were there, we sniffed them out and managed to worm our way into an incomprehensibly surreal group situation with them.

The drinking continued into the wee hours and back in the rooms of Anderson and Bell but the unfortunate thing about the rest of this story is that most of it is x-rated and certainly not suitable for a family blog like this. All I can say is that if World Cup points were dished out on a basis of being able to drink, smoke and womanise; then we'd be laughing.

Incidentally, almost all of the players I spoke to believe Chennai to be a godawful shithole, apart from Matt Prior who commented that it was, "like fucking London compared to Chittagong". Cross Chittagong off my 'to-visit' list then.

The BBC

The temperature has risen considerably in the past week and in the heat, I tend to rant.

Consequently, I've been sitting in this sweatbox of a room tonight, mulling over all my angry thoughts relating to the treatment of the BBC. The level of disrespect that the organisation has been treated with in recent years is mind-boggling. I've been out here for almost 5 months now and when asked what I miss most about our wonderful home, the answer always has to be the BBC.

Brought up under the watchful eyes of Andi Peters, Moira Stuart, Ian Beale and Steve Ryder; my life wouldn't be the same without the BBC. Whilst ITV manages to plough on with its campaign of hate and mockery against the British public, the BBC has managed to maintain their standards and provide us with continually fantastic news, sport, comedy, music and entertainment (they also provide us with supposedly excellent history, science and nature content but I couldn't give a Jonathan Woss about those).

Some of the criticisms have included:-

License Fee - I think they should raise it because our money is safer in their hands anyway. And we might still have Adrian and Christine on The One Show if 'we' (firmly consider it like supporting a football team)had a bit more cash (in the Attic).

Ridiculous Salaries for Top Stars - Everyone would have been perfectly happy if some Murdoch-related media storm hadn't been concocted and made everyone realise that £2million a year is QUITE A LOT OF MONEY. I blame the expenses scandal as it kicked off all this public scrutiny about earnings. That was ridiculous anyway because it seemed fairly obvious to most that it had been going on for years, so the public outrage was a bit unnecessary. The whole thing was a bit like banning drinking on the tube. Nobody thought it was legal anyway, so why bother making such a big fuss about it?  

Controversial Plotlines - 
Dear Worried Mother from Beckenham,

please fuck off back to your cotton wool factory and let us watch some entertaining tv.

Love from Graham Norton.

Ageism - People like pretty people. That is the way of the world. Deal with it.

Outside of television, they oversee brilliant radio stations, internet coverage, a free iplayer and the shit darts at Lakeside. The BBC is most definitely a British institution to be proud of.

I realise I should have sent this to Points of View rather than put it on a travel blog, but that hasn't stopped me before.

 p.s. I will never understand the appeal of Strictly Come Dancing. It's just dancing.

Snooty Ooty

The final leg of my journey saw a quick trip into the mountains to the small town of Ooty. It was billed in the guidebooks as the British Madras government's mountain retreat; for when the South Indian kitchen got too hot for them at summertime. It was a fairly idyllic place (except for the extreme poverty) and the guidebook had mentioned a few 'must-see' tourist attractions, such as the botanical gardens. However, after spending five and half hours on a coach to reach my destination, I was a bit mutinous towards the shackles of sight-seeing and had also realised that, whilst travelling alone, I don't have to pretend to be interested in non-popular culture.

So I went Go-Karting. Alone.

After the Go-Karting, I was at a bit of a loose end so I found the town's only bar and watched the vital Cricket World Cup tie between Pakistan and Canada. I had a fun afternoon and made friends with some Sudanese chaps as well as a very friendly Indian couple who were away on a weekend fueled by forbidden love. He was a Christian and she was a strict Hindu. They said it could never work!

On my way back from the bar, I thought I'd have a little look at another relic of Britain's past dominance of the town, Ooty's famous racecourse. After walking round the track for what must have been at least ten furlongs, (not a clue as to what a furlong is, I thought he played for Chelsea) I came across some horses with very long faces. I deduced that they must have been a bit peckish, so I started to feed them some chocolate biscuits from my bag. The horses were very appreciative but their owner, who also doubled as an auto-rick driver, came up to me and ordered me to stop feeding them. I panicked and started to try and lie myself out of the situation, telling him that I was British, owned horses and knew how to treat them. He then sidestepped my lies brilliantly by telling me that, "these horses not British, these Indian horses". You can't argue with that sort of logic.

Mysore

I've gone travelling alone for the week just to give it a try. At the moment i'm in Mysore, the home of a historic palace that was the seat of Karnataka's royal Wodeyar family for centuries. Or some shit like that anyway.

It has such a stupid name that I had to resist the usual urges to make a pun in the title of this post. It would be like tabloid newspapers suggesting that the shadow chancellor had made a 'Balls up' every time he made a mistake. Far too easy.

Without playing my violin too loudly, it turns out that sightseeing alone is a bit dull. I know that the only reason I would normally pay to visit monuments or famous landmarks is so that I can take the mick out of it. Walking round the palace today, my exterior was silent but my insides were bursting; with both fresh comedy gold and piss. I am drinking a lot of water.

After giving the palace a once over just in case there was anything more stimulating than 'impressive architecture', I tried to make my exit. However, I took the wrong path and soon found myself face to moustachioed face with a dumpy little guard. He didn't seem to comprehend my enquiries about an exit and started pointing towards elephants. Uh-oh. This was the point where I knew I was about to make a fresh withdrawal from the Royal Bank of Mysore. He walked me towards the elephants, (who he assured me were Royal Indian elephants), and introduced me to their keeper whilst also having a quick check to see if there  were any officials watching. Next thing I knew, he'd taken my camera, whipped me on top of one of the surprisingly hairy monstrosities and become David Bailey. About a minute later I had my feet back on terra firma and there were four arms outstretched, expecting the easiest payday since Hans Segers forgot to make some saves for The Crazy Gang. I chucked some cash at them and walked for my life.

I suppose that after all my complaining, I'll forget about the rest of the day within months but should have some pictures of me atop an elephant 4 lyf. And for a lot less than I paid for a key ring from Cadbury World of myself and some friends posing with a massive model of a cocoa bean.

Beyond All Boundaries

The Indian subcontinent has gone cricket mad since the start of the World Cup and I'm no exception. I've been spending a great deal of my spare time in a despicably unhygienic fried rice shop down the road from my house; which is the location of my local tellybox. I have to answer a lot of questions and it is becoming more and more difficult to nurse my portion of rice for 5 hours an innings, but it's still worth it.

The fact that India have been handed the right to host both the Commonwealth Games and the Cricket World Cup within one year represents both a fantastic achievement for the country as well as completely mystifying decision-making on behalf of the organisers. Personally, I wouldn't let this country organise my breakfast. The amount of bureaucracy that exists even at the lowest level is ridiculous and, I'd imagine, makes it impossible to organise something of this scale properly.

It was, therefore, unsurprising when the Eden Gardens stadium in Kolkata wasn't declared ready in time. Even their pleas of 'just 5 more minutes' weren't good enough on this occasion. Luckily for me, the match was moved to Bangalore and I had booked some time off this week to do a bit of travelling. So, after popping to a quick arranged marriage on Friday, I set off to Bangalore with the intention of bagging myself a ticket to the India vs England game on Sunday. There I met an acquaintance from the University of Leeds, a guy called 'Nosebleed' from Norwich (he used to have Nosebleeds a lot. Nothing more to it) and his friend who shall only be known as 'The German Michael Owen'.

The atmosphere around the stadium was fairly toxic, with the Indian police seeming worryingly keen to start smacking us with their sticks. To cut a short story even shorter, we didn't manage to secure any tickets. We couldn't afford the 140 quid to see our heroes in action so we made our way to the local bar to watch the game. And what a match. The draw was a fair result and meant everyone went home happy, especially as the match should probably have no bearing on the tournament as a whole. Towards the end of the match, myself and Nosebleed were approached by some documentary makers from Mumbai to film an interview with us sitting and chatting "naturally at the bar". 'Beyond all Boundaries' should be released later this year and features us wearing Palace and Norwich shirts whilst talking a whole heap of shite about a sport we know very little about. Anyway, one to Googly in a couple of years time.

Crikey.

'You don't have to be mad to live here, BUT IT HELPS!'

When I first started this blog, just after i'd arrived in India, it basically wrote itself. It turns out that being the fish that somehow finds its way onto dry land is both fascinating and pissing annoying at the same time. Looking back, the stuff I wrote at the start was about absolutely nothing at all; brief exchanges, blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of minutiae. The culture shock of living in a suburb of Chennai was enough to surprise any Billy Big-Timer from England, which also made for easy writing.

Now i'm struggling with the posts slightly. I don't find the place as mad as I used to and there's only so many stories you can salvage from days spent reading with children before you start to go over old ground. I was initially trying to stick to a post every 2 days, but it has slipped to twice a week. It has slipped so far that I couldn't even muster the cynicism to write 2 paragraphs about a trip to see a puppet show today, despite the fact that we had crammed 126 kids onto a little yellow school bus with additional volunteers and teachers. Now may be a good time to mention that the school does always need donations and really would like a 2nd school bus. In the words of Sir Bob Geldof, "Give us the fucking money."

There have also a surprising number of controversial incidents that I can't bring up, even though I've been gagging to write about them. I will have to tell everyone back home over a pint of bitter.

Ok, Cider.

Alright, alright, a small glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

Warning: the words 'Sweden' and 'Swedish' feature a lot in this post

Famous in my mind largely for Ikea, Ace of Base and Thomas Brolin; I used to think of Sweden as 'just a small municipality in Denmark.' It is then perhaps a little odd that a 6 month sabbatical (I refuse to call this a gap year) in India has provided me with an education in all things Swedish. This has a great deal to do with the school being run by a Swedish expat named Maria and therefore attracting many volunteers from Gothenburg and various other small towns I haven't taken the trouble to remember the names of. That being said, approximately 2 out of 3 people I meet on my travels seem to be of the Swedish persuasion. Remarkable really for a country that has the same population as London.*

The fact is, Swedes get around.

The good thing is that their English is excellent and so is their company, which is lucky because i'm currently living with 4 of them. Living with so many people from one place, you begin to pick up a lot of juicy tidbits about the country that some people at Ryanair are calling "my favourite country in Europe". Not me, I like England.

Anyway, some of those tidbits:-

• Swedish children don't start school until they're 7 years old. I can't work out if that is mollycoddled or sensible. That wikileaks chap seems OK. Apart from all that unpleasant business, of course.

• They also don't believe in using formal names in education. So, instead of, "Please miss, may I have some more gruel" or "Thankyou Mr Erikson", you would be more likely to hear, "oi Frieda, chuck us the ketchup" or "Ta Sven". Frankly, I didn't even like teachers trying to be friends with kids at school, let alone this flagrant show of disrespect for the rules.

• Swedish delicacies include Salt Liquorice and Rotten Herring. Both sound disgusting. Yet they can't get their head around something as delicious as Marmite.

• The English language has taken 2 words from Swedish: Smorgasbord and Ombudsman. Smorgasbord is a buffet and an Ombudsman was something I never quite understood in A-Level politics because I never bothered to read about it. Things haven't changed.

• Don't worry Kevin Costner fans! Robin Hood is alive and well and living in Sweden as the Prime-Minister. As something of a social policy fan, it shocked me to the core that the highest earners in Sweden pay 60% tax on all their earnings. 60! Now I consider myself a bit of a lefty but that has got to hurt. Although nobody seems to mind as I am told it is one of the most balanced countries in the world with very few poor. Apparently, if anything, they want to raise taxes on the rich. It has to get to the point soon though where the capitalists just cannot be arsed anymore.

• They don't much like them Norwegian folk. There are a set of 'Norwegian' jokes that the Swedes use and apparently the Norwegians use exactly the same jokes about the Swedes in return. The relationship seems a bit like that between the English and the Scots. The young Swedes i've met readily admit that the jokes aren't particularly funny and i'd tend to agree. More 'ha' than 'haha' certainly.

*Yes, I do love to bring up that fact at the dinner table as much as possible in order to belittle their kingdom.

Tales from the Auto (part 2)

If the regular auto(rick) is India's answer to a taxi service, then the 'shared' auto is their equivalent to a strange loner picking up hitch-hikers and charging them money (a lot less than the regular auto) for lifts. It is a slightly bigger, two-tiered version of the normal auto and by two-tiered, I mean that they have stuck a plank in front of the original seat for people to sit on. There are no particular rules for the driver to adhere to and he is allowed to pick up as many fares as possible, which means that the tiny vehicle is usually a very crowded and sweaty mode of transport.

This tends to lead to a lot of sitting on laps and some aggressive elbow action. The other day, whilst sharing Ahmed the driver's seat, he told me to put my arm round his shoulders because it was "safer and more comfortable" for him. Whatever his story, me and Ahmed had a nice long chinwag about the merits of him buying his own auto as opposed to renting one. This is a slight twist on the conversation I have with almost every single cab driver in England. It is absolute gold dust in these situations because they open up to you straight away and means you can sit back, pretend to listen and keep nodding away like you've experienced exactly the dilemma he's facing. When in reality, the closest i've come is not having enough money for the bus.

There has been a lot of strange interaction in Autos with curious Chennai-folk since I've been here too. Once, a man on his way to work was giving me earache with all his questions, so I thought i'd ask a few of my own. He was delighted with my interest and immediately gave me his business card, which informed me that he imported and exported human hair. I almost threw up the breakfast that I hadn't eaten. Another auto-driver who spoke minimal English thrust a phone into my hand and demanded I spoke to his family. The conversation wasn't sparkling but I managed to deduce that the woman I was speaking to was either his mother, his girlfriend or his wife. Maybe all three, who knows?

Just yesterday, when I was returning from the cinema where I had seen the decent '127 Hours', I hopped in a shared auto that was bursting with what seemed to be just one large family. Anyway, whilst perched on the edge of the vehicle, a little fat baby started to hit me. I looked round and there were two identical looking babies both slapping me. Much to my horror, they were twins named Paul and Pearl. I've always been decidedly edgy around twins, but identical twins of a different sex to each other is a recipe for disaster. No thankyou very much. I lied to their mother about her offspring being 'nice babies' and got out of the auto immediately. Because it was my stop. Of course.

Oh, and 127 Hours was very enjoyable. The Indian crowd was in typically boisterous form and welcomed A.R. Rahman's name with a huge cheer in the opening credits. Although I felt the ending, whilst emotional, could have done with taking a page from ITV's book of emotional climaxes by playing Take That's 'Greatest Day' over the top. Gets me every time.

A to B

In London, the only possible explanation for taking a rickshaw anywhere would be if someone was feeling particularly down in the dumps and needed to have a good chuckle. The rickshaw is, after all, the human equivalent of a hamster's wheel. Yet it is the easiest way to travel over here; mainly because they thought it would be a nifty idea to stick a motorbike on the front and build millions of them.

The 'auto-rick' is both a convenient and nippy mode of transport as well as remaining very cheap when you convert back to beautiful Sterling. This is something I used to try and remind myself when haggling with the drivers over the fare because there can be a lot of fuss saved by realising that you're arguing over 20p.

However, all that changed the day an auto driver went too far by asking for more money than previously agreed once we'd arrived at the destination. On this occasion I just walked out of the auto without giving the driver his extra money, leaving him a little bit miffed. But nowadays I have to work myself up into 'fightnight' mode for negotiations because I became fed up of being treated like Richie bloody Rich. Now, normally I wouldn't say boo to a goose, so it has been difficult but I've finally developed a routine that is sufficiently stroppy and impolite.

Typical Negotiations.

Me: "Alright. I wanna go Reteri signal. How much?"
Auto-Prick*: "eh?"
M: "Re-TERI"
A: "you what son?"
M: (trying and failing to roll my R) "reeleleleRETERI."
A: (shake of the head indicating he hasn't got a clue, but could quite easily be interpreted as a head wobble and therefore an agreement)
M: "oh sod it, just take me to the big bridge and we'll see from there. How much?"
A: "200."
M: "HOW MUCH?! I'll give you 70 and we'll call it quits."
A: (laughing) "no, no, no. Very long mister. 180."
M: (lying to sound like I know what i'm talking about) "I paid 50 just the other day."

And so on and so forth. I still pay well over the odds for fares but the most I've ever paid was about 200 rupees for a 45 minute journey and that's still less than £3. Everyone's a winner really because I can wander off quite happy in the knowledge that it would cost a heck of a lot more in England and the driver can be delighted to have charged me double the going rate. Party time.

*Like what I've done there, eh? 

www.howonearthhasthishappened.in

Due to various unforeseen circumstances, the guy who teaches IT at the school had to leave recently, which meant that there was a vacancy going for a hip young gunslinger to fill. Now I may have passed my European Computer Driving License with flying colours when I was 15, but not in my wildest dreams did I expect to be number one on the school's shortlist to fill the vacancy. Anyway, I was 'formally' approached one afternoon (Teacher: "will you do it then?") and, after graciously accepting their offer, I am now able to add 'IT Teacher' to the previous work experience section of my CV.

This means that after 3 months of relentlessly being called 'Uncle', I have made the transition to 'Computer Master'. Although I think a more likely description of myself would be 'jack of some trades, master of none'. The good news is that it is one of the easier jobs in the school because the kids love computers and tend to focus on the task in hand. However, every single child I've taught so far must think I have 'MUG' written on my forehead because every time I ask them what they have been taught in the past, they respond with "Games unccccclle". After informing the kids politely that I wasn't born yesterday, I kick off the serious business of teaching them how to draw their own faces on Paint. Whilst most of the children tend to draw pictures of Christian crosses or just nice trees, one boy took me aback a little the other day when he painted a heart with a knife through it over the Indian flag. Deep.

The IT role is also useful practice for the methods I would almost certainly use if I ever became a parent; saying 'no' 97% of the time. It works in much the same way as being a Crystal Palace fan does. You see, although we have to endure a fair amount of misery, it makes the brief moments of glory a hundred times more joyous. So, to deny children what they want (as long as it's not food and water of course) on the majority of occasions, will only serve to make them all the more ecstatic as you succumb to their requests when they least expect it. The lovely folk at Guinness said it best.

Happy Long-Life To Me

I was serenaded with 'the birthday song' a record-breaking 5 times this weekend:-

• At school. 8/10. Second verse curveball of 'Happy Long Life To You' added a bit of spice to proceedings.
• In the children's hostel that I live below. 7/10. I had water in my ears so couldn't hear a great deal.
• At birthday dinner. 5/10. Most were giving a repeat performance so everyone seemed to be going through the motions a bit by that point. Fair enough.
• At a club. 9/10. I turned 22 whilst in the club and, in my memory at least, it seemed as if the whole room was singing it to me. The truth may be a little harsher but, as history has proved, everyone is much happier living a lie.
• With a stonking great hangover in bed. 1/10 for enjoyment. 10/10 for the gesture. The Swedish people I live with marched (that makes them sound like Germans) into the room at a very kind 2pm, performing (that makes them sound like ABBA) the Swedish version of the birthday song. I can't remember exactly, but it sounds a little like 'The Grand Old Duke of York'.

The story of my birthday itself is a pretty boring tale of recovery and celebration. Although I was almost a goner when, soon after exiting the shower, I slipped on the wet floor and had an almighty fall on the rock hard floor. Happily, I can report that no limbs were broken but that didn't stop me wishing myself an incredibly sarcastic "Happy Birthday AJ", whilst lying naked and prone on the floor.

My favourite gift of the day was a bunch of red roses from Joel. Probably the first and last time i'll ever receive flowers and I may well just be saying this to try and win the 'difficult' metrosexual vote, but I find it refreshing that we live in a day and age where a man can buy another man flowers and not be chased down the street by an angry Yorkshireman.

Also, my mum wanted to send me some sort of care package and asked me if there was anything in particular I wanted or needed. I panicked a bit and asked for a single pot of marmite but, in hindsight, I don't regret the decision. I know for sure that India isn't quite ready for Bovril yet.

Incidentally, the club we went to was bizarrely named Chipstead. Take your pick as to whether it was named after the Chipstead with a population of 6,000 in Surrey or the 'almost a hamlet' Chipstead in Kent.

Anti-Atkins

Just arrived back from a little trip out to Georgetown. Put a mental image of what you think India is in your head and that is Georgetown. In a nutshell, bloody loads of people bustling about and trying to sell you things. If I were back at school and doing a geography case study on the area, I would point to a ridiculous level of 'functional zoning'*. That is one of about three phrases I have to thank GCSE geography for, along with Oxbow Lake and Longshore Drift. Anyway, in Georgetown, all the streets will only have one type of shop on them. It may be convenient because at least you'll know where to go to buy something but, for instance, there is a street selling only stationary. Lots of shops selling exactly the same paper right on each other's doorsteps seems completely pointless to me.

I did also read on Trip Advisor that Georgetown was like "Brick Lane with less Indians", which made me chuckle a bit although I couldn't quite work out where that lay on the racism scale (starting at 1 and finishing at Very Racist), so I won't be claiming it as my own.

Afterwards I stopped for a spot of lunch with Ottilia and Ida, the two Swedes I was with, at a bakery that was also serving South Indian meals. With only one meal on the menu, there wasn't a choice, so we had the usual rice and poppadom combo served with various spicy things. The table service was wonderfully abrupt with the waiter asking us 'meal? eat? money?'. Actually, he only directed this to me because he expected the male to be arranging and paying for everything but, frankly, there was little chance of that given the economic climate and my tightfistedness. The girls, who have only been here for a couple of weeks, struggled with their mammoth plate of rice whilst I wolfed mine down in record time.

I can now put away large amounts of rice in the way only obese lads normally can. I've heard rumours that this is down to a phenomenon known as 'Rice Belly' which would also account for the slight belly i've been cultivating nicely for the past three months. This is fine because another whisper being passed round the volunteer's grapevine is that when you return home and stop eating so much rice, then the weight drops off you like a, erm, big weight dropping off you.

*and there we have it, I have now talked about every subject possible. Indian functional zoning has to be the last drop to be squeezed out of this experience. Blog over

Birds.

I've only recently realised through conversation with various Indians, that I talk like a complete berk and almost entirely in English idioms. Three things have contributed to this:

• Working in a pub where you pick up a load of old tosh from regulars. Tosh that, unfortunately, sticks with you.
• Watching a lot of football because it is a game which has developed an idiom for every single possible situation.
• Watching all the regional soap operas since I was 5.

This means that when I talk to Indians I have to tone it down dramatically otherwise the conversation is in trouble immediately. English may be one of the national languages in India, but it is normally a secondary language to a regional dialect such as Tamil. An Indian may have an impressive grasp of the English langauge and often have a good knowledge of American slang due to the influence of Hollywood and even the influx of dire R'n'B music in clubs but when I attempt to be witty with English slang, I tend to hit a brick wall. However, I intend on sticking to the passing greeting of "alright" to all children and teachers just in the vain hope that they might ask me what the hell I mean. At the moment, they must just think it a strange noise.

There are many words which don't have the same double meanings over here as they would back home, as evidenced by the 'Hot Puffs' signs on every street corner. Leela, a teacher at the school, was very confused as to why the book she was reading had a character calling a young woman a word meaning 'a baked dish consisting of a filling over a pastry base with an open top not covered with pastry.' I awkwardly informed her that this definition of 'tart' actually meant that she was what the Oxford Dictionary termed as 'an easily-beddable loose woman, grrrrr'.


Whilst discussing these differences with Leela and some other female teachers, they said they'd heard Canadians talk about 'chicks' when referring to girls and asked me if that was what 'us Brits' call them. I couldn't let them think that so I mistakenly told them that some Englismen call women 'birds'. Of course we don't actually (in reality, it's only really Richards Keys, Andy Gray, Neil Morrissey and Martin Clunes), but I didn't want the Canadians having one-up on us. The problem is that these teachers have somehow got it into their heads that the word 'birds' is some sort of code amongst males for when girls are around. So, every time I am talking to a female volunteer, they shout to me "oh, there are a lot of birds in the sky today Andrew!" (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). Cue my face turning a shade of beetroot. I suppose it's more subtle than, "go on my son".

School Doze

My role at the school is still undefinable. 3 months into this gig and i'm yet to find my niche. I tend to lurk in the shadows and correct people's use of the English language when I feel it appropriate. I'm not sure anyone else knows what I do either. In many ways, I could be considered the Alastair Campbell of the volunteering community. Except more of a bastard.

Although i'm not sure if Alastair was allowed naptime if he was a bit tired. I didn't get my full 8 hours last night and had to bed down in the library for a 'quick' 2 hour siesta. One of the perks of not getting paid.

Guests at Chez Finbar.

I've got head-lice.

Which is actually fine because it draws my hand's attention away from my mosquito bites. Luckily, times have changed since they invented the comb and it isn't necessary to shave all your hair off anymore. It's also my only ailment so far and was always inevitable because they're as popular as Pogs amongst the kids at school. Certainly better than contracting Japanese Encephalitis which i'm reliably informed causes your brain to expand so much in your head that it explodes. Or something like that anyway.

Movie Magic

This post involves me rewinding all the way back to my first week in Chennai, when I was taken to see 'Endhiran (The Robot)'.

It stars 61 year old 'Superstar Rajinikanth' as the dual male lead (The Professor and Robot) and Aishwarya Rai as his love interest/dance partner. Not the most believable pairing given his advancing years and her 'Miss World 1994'-winning beauty.

But he seems happy enough with the arrangement.

Warned prior to entering the cinema (which, with a typical Indian inability to queue, was like forcing 300 camels through the eye of a particularly awkward needle) that the movie was in Tamil, I was a bit apprehensive as to what i'd signed up for on my first Friday night. Luckily, the plot was paper thin and for the majority, seemed to be a remake of Bicentennial Man with some singing and dancing thrown in for good measure. Oh, and I don't recall Robin Williams' robot being set to evil halfway through the movie and trying to take over India either.

Best Moment of the movie: After deciding that the robot 'Chitty' is just an accident waiting to happen, one of the final scenes sees Chitty dismantling himself until he has no arms and legs with which to do so anymore. A ridiculous end to a ridiculous film.

Worst Moment: The film not ending after two hours like it should have. My heart sank when I was told that the lights had only come on for an interlude.

Most Controversial moment: The robot (who doubles as a superhero) is saving people from a burning block of flats by flying in and out of the building when suddenly he sees (with his superzoomvision) a young woman in the bath screaming amongst the flames. So Chitty flies into the building, grabs the girl and brings her to safety. When she arrives outside, everyone realises the girls is completely in the nip and the girl is so ashamed that she runs in front of the first oncoming lorry to her horrible death. Subsequently, everyone criticises Chitty for not having any human emotions. In other words, it would have been better to leave her burning in the bath than let the public see her naked. All in all, a very strange and ultra-Conservative message from the film makers, which unsurprisingly got slated in the Indian press.

Favourite Stereotype: German Terrorists.

Best Singing/Dancing Segment: The robot realises he is in love with his Professor's missus and can therefore feel human emotion. The film then cuts to Mount Kilimanjaro for a 5 minute song and a dance with all the major players.

I would probably recommend the movie to anyone who has a spare 3 and a half hours just because it's a very silly film. A very silly film that is, to date, the highest-grossing film in Indian history.

The Mighty Lambs.

This time last week I was trying to fall asleep early in preparation for my managerial bow; attempting to lead the Little Lambs school team to glory in an Under-13 competition at the 40,000 capacity Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium.



OK, so admittedly I was just the team babysitter, having been given the strict brief of safely navigating our way across town by the real manager Aldroy. However, after finding out that they needed a generous benefactor to pay the 200 rupees entry fee, I bought my way in and became majority shareholder, chairman and self-appointed Director of Football.

When we arrived, it soon became clear that the tournament had been unceremoniously shunted out of the stadium for a regional athletics competition and that we would be plying our no-frills brand of 'kick-pass-shoot' on some gravel in the car park.

Before the match, I prepared the young lads with the ever so subtle piece of advice that they should 'let them know you're in the game early doors'. When they clearly had no idea what I was on about, I just told the 2 bruisers at the back to kick everyone in sight. As far as teamtalks go, the only motivation the boys needed was to remind them that it was a knockout competition and that the longer they kept winning, the longer they didn't have to be in school.

Unfortunately, we hadn't counted on the strength of the considerably older and richer opponents. Omega International School had too much for us on the day and questions will have to be raised as to the age of their midfield powerhouse who may well have been as old as 18. But that's just sour grapes.  Our lads froze. And in some style.

Some might say that the important thing is that the boys had a nice outing and enjoyed taking part. They'd be wrong. As the sign above Crystal Palace Football Club's Beckenham training ground reads, 'Winning is Everything'.

Ayurvedic Massage

It recently became clear to me that, apart from coming here in the first place, I haven't actually tried many 'new things' since I've been in India. This is, admittedly, largely down to a fear of new things and not wanting to be accused of 'finding myself' in the extremely harsh Andrewland media A.K.A Facebook. So on yet another predictably sunny weekend down in Mahabilipuram, I cast all my self-awareness aside and went for an hour-long massage.

Before anyone starts getting suspicious that I was paying for a 'sexy' massage, I can assure them that there was nothing sexy about it because:-

a) It was from a bloke.
b) It was from a bloke that looked a lot like an Indian Ian Rush. Not even Ian Rush's wife would pay for that.



The massage was apparently 'Ayurvedic'. I've just spent 2 fruitless minutes looking at the article for this on wikipedia but am none-the-wiser because it wasn't about something easily digestible like Eastenders. All I know is that the massage was very thorough.


I'd love to report that the experience was an incredibly relaxing one but for a couple of minor/major concerns. For no reason, they will be listed in reverse chronological order:-

1. He finished the massage by telling me to shut my eyes. Obviously, when you're lying prone, almost naked and a man orders you to shut your eyes, you tend to just shut one and have the other eye firmly locked on the potential nutcase. I was worried further still by him saying a prayer above my head followed by covering my face with his hands for a minute or so. If i'm not mistaken it was the same method people use to close a dead person's eyes, so I wasn't entirely relaxed by this development. The end result was that he didn't attack me but you could tell he was weighing up the pros and the cons.

2. My arse was out. Not fully on display but certainly there for everyone (the masseur) to see. My understanding of the whole masseur/massagee contract was that my arse would be covered by a towel at ALL times. I tried to comfort myself with an "oh well, you know, that's India!", but I think that is just a very clever marketing ploy by the Indian Tourist Board that serves as an excuse for every bad thing that happens over here.

That's the last time I try anything new for a while.

A prayer and a pint.

Just arrived home from my first Christian Rock gig. It's a pretty curious genre so I actually had quite a good time nodding along to the two bands involved in 'Worship At Full Volume'. There were probably over 500 people there, so this was no small-time church hall affair and the band 'Parra' had travelled all the way from Kerala for their first performance in Chennai since 1998. I know that because the compère asked for a show of hands for who remembered that last gig; to which 3 people responded.

This didn't matter, for tonight was a chance for Parra to win over a whole new generation of fans with their unique sound of Spinal-Tap-meets-Deep-Purple, with a big dose of God thrown in the middle for good measure. Billed by the compère rather unflatteringly as "one of the oldest Christian rock bands in India", I have to admit that the Parra boys won me over. Their message was simple (God), their music varied, their fake American accents accomplished. They even had a frontman who was a cross between Stevie Wonder and Ian Curtis. Steve Wonder just because he was blind and Ian Curtis because of his flailing-armed onstage dancing. Plus, they managed to fit a 6 minute drum solo into their version of 'When the Saints Go Marching In', as well as having the balls to start and finish with the same song. The only band i've ever seen perform such an audacious stunt was U2 with 'Vertigo' and it was bloody awful. But Parra pulled it off. Just.


The support act, Billy Yesudian, wasn't quite so entertaining however as he managed to combine two of my least favourite things in Mass and Rap. 'Our God is an Awesome God' was a particular lowlight but I did enjoy the song named 'Breaking Da Code' where he lays into Dan Brown for writing The Da Vinci Code for 3 minutes. Seriously.


Italics just started and, for the life of me, I've no idea how to remove them. It's not for any dramatic purpose, honest.

Negative

A quick word to say I know many of these posts are focused on the negative and that I make no apology for it. I could write about all the lovely things that are happening to me but it would be like an episode of Holiday with Craig Doyle.

The negative is far more interesting. Nobody would watch the news if it was full of stories about babies being born and grannies living.

This quote sums it up aptly:

"People write negative things, cause they feel that's what sells. Good news to them, doesn't sell."

And who wrote that pearl of wisdom, you ask? None other than Michael Jackson, King of Pop. RIP

Who'd have 'em?

I've mentioned before that i'm a great believer in playing favourites with children. This is mainly because, whether they liked me or not (normally the negative, I was a smartarse), every teacher I've ever had has done so and it never did me any harm. If a teacher only pays attention to the nice or funny kids, then it should force the others into taking a good, hard look at themselves until they sort out their flaws and become less irritating. Of course, many would say this is bullshit and that the kids who are lacking attention will become alienated and end up rebelling (with a cause). Luckily, I have no long term plans to become a teacher so it doesn't really matter if i'm right or wrong.

An ongoing problem i'm facing is that I really can't find it within myself to like children between the ages of 8 and 14. Before 8, they're very funny because they don't know how to do anything so there's a lot of laughs to be had watching their incompetence unfold and maybe even stepping in occasionally to tell them how it should be done. After the age of 8 comes a certain undeserved confidence which allows them to be 'cheeky chappies' and then comes the day they discover sarcasm. Of course, sarcasm is highly regarded in many circles as the highest form of wit but when children first get their hands on it, they even make Lee Evans look funny.

Maybe not.

A very late defence of Sir David Beckham.

Becks has been the recipient of a lot praise in recent months. Deservedly so, he is clearly (and I never, ever, ever exaggerate) one of the greatest Britons to ever live. He has also taken a heck of a lot of flak over the years. Again, deservedly so because he is without doubt one of the worst men to ever live.*

However, from my brief stay in India so far, it has become clear to me that the criticism he received over the 'Sarong (So Wrong)' debacle was misguided. Whilst the British press went mad over this supposedly fruity lifestyle choice, Our Dave was in fact just asserting his masculinity. In Chennai, he would just be your average working class male hanging round and drinking tea with his mates in the extended lunch hour(s).

The 'lungi' is the most popular choice of garment for the bottom half of your typical Chennai man, closely followed by flares. It is a big sheet of material that is wrapped around the waist to become something like a loincloth. Like a kilt almost, but with the difference that underwear is an absolute must.

Essentials for any Chennai Geezer:

Slight Mullet
Coconut Oil
Moustache
Motorbike
Lungi
Belly.

I was actually given a rather fetching Lungi for Christmas as part of the school's Secret Santa game and have tried it out around my room a few times. A very liberating experience indeed.


*I read a lot of tabloids so am susceptible to fickleness.

A bit of a do.

If you're organising a bash (which there are a bloody lot of) over here, whether it be a wedding or a 'puberty function' (bad luck kids); you can either provide the food yourself or, more likely, get a caterer in. Whatever you decide, there is only ever going to be one thing on the menu: Biryani.

It is an item on an English curry house menu that I would certainly treat with respect, maybe even a little bit of admiration, but I am unlikely to order it. Bear in mind I am as indecisive as Eddie Howe (bitter football fan alert) so my selection technique is basically lucky dip. In the south of India, Biryani is revered as the king of rice dishes. Placed on a pedestal high above rice dishes with a mere 1 or 2 vegetables in it, Biryani is the stock favourite food of almost every Indian i've asked.

e.g. (anonymous conversation)
AJ: "What's your favourite food?"
Indian Child: "Ah, Biryani!!!"

In England, when we're talking about having spent a figure of money, some people may try to work out how many pints they could have got for that price. When I was bellyaching to Joel about how the lovely people at Halifax are taking away 400 rupees (almost £6) every time I get cash out, he quipped "oh my, you could buy Biryani for a week with that!". And he was right. With enough spare change left in your back pocket to buy a second Biryani on the 7th day. Thank you very much Howard Brown.

p.s. It is, it has to be said, a far nicer dish over here than when served in England.

Discipline

I've never been great with children, so the decision to volunteer in a primary school for 5 months was a bit of a snap one to say the least. My only prior experience was during a brief spell as a babysitter 5 or 6 years ago but even that wasn't a huge success after the daughter of a next-door neighbour came down complaining of a monster under her bed and I just said "no, there's not", packed her off to bed and continued eating snacks. I never got called again.

So, on my first day at the school back in October, I walked through the gates wearing my biggest beaming smile and the kids mobbed me. That was my first mistake. Kids can smell weakness a mile off (or in India, probably a kilometre off) and i've been playing catch-up in the discipline stakes ever since.

The laws on physical punishment are more relaxed in this country, so technically if I wanted to engage in a bit of mild hitting, then I probably could. But i'm fairly confident that volunteers are only expected to bring a cheery disposition and a different perspective to the school with them so any brutality may be slightly outside of my job description.

Anyway, there is a long list of problems which are preventing me from stumbling across anything even approaching authority. I think 90% of appearing scary to children is in the eyes and mine are just too damn squinty for the role of authoritarian taskmaster. They also have a considerable upper hand because they can organise their mischief or just trade insults about me, in Tamil. Other contributing factors are that I'm unbelievably inconsistent with my punishments, that I believe in playing favourites with the children and that, fundamentally, I just don't care that much.

The job is, however, made considerably easier by the willingness of Indian children to shop fellow pupils to the teachers in order to, wait for it, CURRY favour with them. There are even assemblies in which children are rewarded and given prizes for telling on their best friends and sometimes siblings. It is amazing how many times a day children come up to me pointing at another child and saying something like 'this boy is hitting me', which instinctively just makes me think they deserve it. Nobody likes a grass.

Begging.

Kolathur, the area I recently moved to, isn't exactly upmarket but it's certainly not one of Chennai's worst. So I don't come across beggars that regularly but they are still a part of everyday life. Of course, there is some unwritten rule that it is your responsibility as a tourist not to give them any money because it'll just mean they keep begging. At first, even with a heart of darkness, it is quite difficult to walk past a blind child with no legs and not give them anything. However, after a little time it's amazing how quickly that "oh look, a poor blind child with no legs" becomes "oh fuck, another blind child with no legs". Although I have to make clear that that is just instinctive and I am still sympathetic to their cause, to make sure that i'm not arrested for crimes against humanity.

My training for how to deal with beggars came from my friend and fellow tourist Mark Allen (from Mottingham!) who had somehow picked up on his travels the phrase 'Cello'. I think this works in much the same way as 'shoo' or 'gedoutofhere you muggy little si' and it certainly does send them away immediately. Unfortunately, I've had to cut down on it on the advice of others who are pretty sure it's something grossly offensive. Mark also told me my favourite beggar-related story so far about a woman who had successfully wangled some money out of him by chasing him down the street shouting 'I love Prince Charles, I love Camilla Parker-Bowles' repeatedly.

For the record, I would have given her some rupees for that too.

Staring at the ceiling.

Through a lack of motivation, i've failed to organise anything for my weekend except a trip to see The Rock's new movie tomorrow (Ex-con sets out to avenge brother's death. Expect it to clean up at the award ceremonies) and have therefore had a wonderful day lying in bed looking at my ceiling fan. Not to keep cool because the temperatures are still bearable but rather assessing just how dangerous a bit of kit it is.

In conclusion: Very dangerous. That doesn't mean I don't want to put my hand in between it. I haven't been quite so tempted by anything since the KFC Doubledown. However, much like the Colonel's oh-so-meaty 'chicken burger without bread', there are certain things restricting me. With the Doubledown only being sold in the US it was a combination of the 16 hour round trip and more importantly the resultant (yet i'm sure satisfying) heartburn. But the fan, which is still provocatively spinning above me as we speak, would probably break various limbs and itself if I attacked it so i've yet to summon up the courage. Although in a country where the sun is like a bad smell, there's never one far away so we'll see if our relationship stays amicable.

List of Things I'll Always Want to Do, No Matter How Old I Am.

1. Fan Conundrum, see above.
2. Open car door on motorway. If anything, now made more possible since the child-lock has been taken off.
3. Throw phone into water. Achieved in dramatic fashion into the Thames in 2006 and then repeated the following year in less impressive style and also to less public celebration into a swimming pool. The moment is great, the morning after is shit.
4. Talking to someone, wanting to tell them a really big secret that would crush them, just because you know. Don't tell me secrets.

some brief football news

A football match lasts approximately 90 minutes. Today I played half a match. 45 minutes. I scored 9 goals. That's a goal every 5 minutes. A triple hat-trick. I think it was Kenny Dalglish who once said, "it doesn't matter what level you're playing at, a triple hat-trick makes you a serious player." The school's U-11s were left reeling from my contribution.

A Brief Confession.

I killed Princess Diana. As good as killed her anyway.

This is a story that is often brought up when the subject of the People's Princess is breached in family conversation. It is not something i'm particularly proud of although I do have to admit my foresight as an 8 year old boy was astounding.

Sitting round the table at a summer barbecue on approximately the 24th August 1997, an even rosier cheeked version of myself announced to a table full of adults and children that "it's about time one of the royal family died" to stunned silence, before continuing on with the day's death forecast by saying "how about Princess Diana?". I got a lot of "OH ANDREW"'s and that is the last of that particular memory. I know I didn't lose sleep over being told off because i had achieved my shock value for the day and because I was, well, 8.

Anyhow, we all know what happened next. After that, I was expressly forbidden from wishing death upon any celebrities. Apart from a few notable exceptions like when Neil Morrissey stole Amanda Holden from poor old Les Dennis. Bastard home-wrecker.

The incident still comes back to haunt me though, which is why I was inspired to write this after receiving a text from my mum the other day saying:

I don't believe you, Pete Postlethwaite died. Love mum.

Luckily she had just misconstrued my moving tribute to the great man on The Social Network as me wanting him dead. It is, however, reassuring to know that she would still love me even if I was a fundamentally rotten person. Thank Christ for that.

PT

In the emails I sent to the school whilst organising my trip out to India, I was asked if I had any special skills or talents. Now instead of writing the real answer to this (the capacity to remember an abundance of facts about football, wrestling and soaps), I chose to say that I love sport and would love to help teaching it.

The result of these emails were that I am in charge of the PT lessons 4 days a week. I haven't yet found out or indeed asked what PT stands for but for most of the children it's probably Physical Torture. My role is to largely serve as a mediator in proceedings and to make sure they don't take everything out of the cupboard, kick all the balls over the low fences or have great big brawls.

But it is made difficult because the boys and the girls, for various cultural reasons, won't play with each other at all. So when the boys say they only want to play football, I give them a football and then fob the girls off with a tennis ball or a game of snakes and ladders. This is because if I give the girls anything interesting like tennis rackets or a basketball, then the boys suddenly decide they want to become the next Yevgeny Kafelnikov or a member of the London Towers. Of course, the boys then win the scrap over who gets what and the girls then have the hump with PT and retire to the swings.

So, slightly fed up with trying to keep a balance between the two feuding camps, PT has turned into what I initially suspected it would; me vs them. This may involve playing cricket and only letting myself bat for 'health and safety reasons' or bouncing a basketball too high for these plucky seven year olds to reach. The only thing that matters is that I win...a lot.

2 Things about India that I cannot believe aren't in the news every day

1. The Head Wobble.

It took me about a week to notice they were doing it but a simple wobble of the head from side to side accounts for about 20% of all communication amongst Indians. Not only did it initially look very funny, but it soon became clear that it was an incredibly versatile way of giving an answer. At first, I took it to just mean 'ok', but since I have found out it can also be used for 'yes', 'no', 'maybe', 'please',' thankyou' and 'hahahaha, very funny'. Although the motion is exactly the same for all of these, so it's basically pot luck as to which one they mean.

Being an English tourist and a great believer in the maxim that 'words are cheap', I tend to go a little overboard with my manners in foreign countries, especially in shops. However, i've recently stopped communicating with people in shops because of the head wobble. After buying something in a supermarket I would probably say something along the lines of 'well, thankyou kind sir' and all i'd get back in response is a blank expression and a quick wobble.

I suppose maybe their culture has got the upper hand on ours. Whilst we're walking around like mugs, saying please and thankyou till we've got sore throats, they've made up a system that completely bypasses all the effort involved with manners.

2. Wipe with your left, eat with your right.

I'd heard rumours and, horrifyingly, they all turned out to be true.

EDIT: By 'words are cheap', I don't mean anything like 'actions speak louder than words'. I mean they're cheap so use them as much as possible to make yourself seem nicer than you really are.