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.