The ingredients in a nutshell (or, how do I even begin to describe what goes on?)
Well, to start, eight weeks or so of being virtually cut-off from the world around you, stuck in a cocoon-like atmosphere of misbehaving 12 year olds and mischief-seeking teachers. You emerge from the shell at the end of your sentence with a glassy look and the unenviable task of having to adjust to the real world again. It’s one of those proverbial ‘the most fun you never want to have again’ experiences, where you always vow that this will be it, only to get sucked back in many months later when you reminisce about the hilarity of it all. It’s draining, exasperating and surreal, and all very dream-like. At various points, everyone says to himself, ‘I’m way too old for this shit.’
If any of the following appeals to you, then sign right up!
Spending three hours every morning trying to prevent 9 and 10 year old French, Spanish and Italian kids from murdering each other in the classroom, all the while chuckling to yourself that, deep down, these little monsters are actually quite cute…in between their attempts to clobber one another and amidst the screams and shouts, one little girl yelling at someone else to ‘shut your gob!’…whilst wondering where on earth she heard such rich vocabulary, realising it’s from her trusty electronic translator…a little French girl who always called me ‘bird shit’ after a bird shat on her head one day (‘Hello Bird Shit!’ – always a lovely way to be greeted)…being way too ambitious and attempting to put together a comedy sketch for the kids to perform at the talent show, despite them barely a knowing more than a handful of words in English between them…casting as the lead the most adorable little pudgy-faced, chubby Spanish boy with an amazing goalkeeping prowess (earning the soubriquet, ‘Casillas’) and praying that he’ll put in a halfway decent performance…the talent show arriving, and half the cast begging not to perform…convincing everyone to perform, except Casillas gets last minute stage fright and won’t go on…on my knees begging and pleading with this 9 year old to salvage my reputation and restore meaning to my sad excuse of an existence at summer school…finally agreeing with this demanding little turd that I would humiliate myself in a matter of his choosing in front of the audience at the end of the show in return for him going on stage (I did and got raucous applause)…the show then being a disaster as no one could tell what the hell was going on (it was the classic scene, with minimal dialogue, where an everyday shop scenario turns into a film shoot, with the director, Casillas, interrupting proceedings to declare that it wasn’t good enough, and had to be faster/slower/more comedic/more musical/more Mafia-style/etc only for the cast to dramatically exaggerate every scene)…and then the end of the show, as the bemused audience applauds, and just me and a forlorn, slumped-in-his-chair Casillas remain on stage, me trying to usher him off, him just sitting there, shaking his head, slowly ripping the script into pieces, telling me ‘it is shit, Danny, this is shit, it is shit’, crumpling up the remnants, tossing them onto the floor, and storming off the stage in a huff, the vast majority of the crowd thinking this was part of the performance…and then me, wondering just how my life had come to this.
And yet loving every minute of it. I can’t recreate this episode in my head without having a chuckle and the cockles of my heart warming. It might have been cringe-worthy at the time, but in reflection…chalk it up to job satisfaction.
(though there were some awfully dicey, risqué moments that were barely watchable, like the poor little podgy 12 year old Italian girl putting on a Superfreak-like Little Miss Sunshine dance that had people gasping and the scantily-clad 14 year old French girls doing things on stage that are illegal in some countries.)
And for the aspiring celebrities amongst us (not me, of course), this could be the closest one will ever come to being in the spotlight, if you’re into that kind of thing. I’m not. I’m embarrassed by the swarms of kids throwing themselves at your feet, trying to mob and hug you all the time, having 14 and 15 year olds professing their undying love for you, flash bulbs constantly going off in your face…it does get a bit wearisome.
Though for every ‘I love you!’ thrown your way, there are the more sobering, even disheartening comments, as I discovered during the Murder Mystery evening, where I was one of the suspects (add ‘chance to practise acting talent’ to job description) and had earlier got to put on a heartrendingly melodramatic performance upon discovering my ‘girlfriend’ had been ‘killed’. Part of the plot saw me being involved with two different women. The Chinese girls found this hilarious, and the following exchange thus ensued.
Girl: ‘So, you are like Casanova?’
DP: ‘Yep, I suppose so.’
Girl: ‘But how can you be like Casanova? You so ugly!’
DP: ‘Uh…thank you?’
The following days in class, this became a running theme, with slight variations.
Girl: ‘Teacher, you think you are handsome?’
DP: ‘No, actually, I don’t.’
Girl: ‘Really?’ (my refusal to play along clearly annoyed her)
DP: ‘Yes, really. I’m not handsome.’
Girl: ‘Yes, I agree. You not handsome, you really ugly!’
Cue lots of giggling amongst the Chinese contingent.
Thankfully some of the Russians and French came to my defence. Is there anything more surreal than a gaggle of 13-15 year old girls arguing about my looks?
The Summer School Theory of Sporting Prowess
Here we go again. Just when you thought the football chat was gone forever, I’m about to blindside you with more drivel about the beautiful game.
But this time is different.
Back in early June, I unleashed my rant on football and politics to mixed reviews. After spending the summer not only teaching whippersnappers, but doing lots of sport with them, I’m ready to rip that original treatise up and instead focus on what summer school can tell us about the future direction of football.
Here’s the premise: to what extent is the ability and interest level of the world’s youth (in this case, specifically males) in football an accurate reflection of their country’s ranking in the global tables?
Prima facie, it holds up well. Based on three summers of experience, I feel like I can make a fairly decent assessment.
For instance, Spain. In the first of various estimations, I’d have to say that about 95% of Spanish boys love football. Of those, about 90% play it very well. Spain of course won the World Cup. Next up is Italy, where about 85% of the boys love the game, and of those, 85% play it very well. Historically, this holds up, though Italy had a poor World Cup.
Contrast this with France, who have shined in the past but are suffering through a dismal spell. In years past, quite a few French boys were into football. This summer, only a smattering were (30-35%), and only 1 or 2 had any decent ability. I’d have to say that this hardly augurs well for the future of French football.
Based on this very rudimentary analysis, the biggest surprise would have to be Thailand, obviously not a country known for its football. This summer featured some of the more talented footballers I’ve ever seen, and they play barefoot, which is worth something in its own right. In fact, in a mini international tournament, Thailand came out on top, narrowly ahead of Spain.
And have I mentioned how much I love acting as referee, even dishing out yellow and red cards? It’s amazing how seriously the kids take it. My favourite antic is suddenly joining the match on one team’s side, taking the ball off some unsuspecting kid and into the penalty area while bemused kids wonder what the hell is going on, then diving in the box under the faintest of challenges, awarding myself a penalty, and then sending the kid off. I should also add that I cavort and roll around on the ground in ‘agony’, then get up to ‘celebrate’ the awarding of a penalty. If I were really cruel, I would also take it, but I usually defer to someone who will actually be able to score. Trust me when I say that this is far more thrilling than it sounds.
Anyway, before I alienate any more of my dear and loyal readers, I’ll end this by putting together my informal, unofficial ranking of nations, based on a minimum of at least 5 students, with heavier weighting given to this summer being as it’s fresher in my mind.
1. Spain
2. Italy
3. Thailand
4. Nigeria (stamina is their weakness, they faded as matches wore on)
5. Former Soviet Union (Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan)
6. Turkey (narrowly edging out Greece)
7. Greece
8. France
9. Austria
10. Lithuania
11. China
12. Korea
(I should also point out that I recently watched a group of fairly talented English kids playing in the park, and that certainly doesn’t bode well for the future: lots of long passes over the top, mistimed 1-2s, and shaky, uncertain defending.)
And now, for the next stop on my globe-trotting jaunt
The beauty of my line of work is that I can pretty much go anywhere I like. Which has its pros and cons. When you’re both indecisive and curious, and with the small matter of a ‘career’ nagging at the back of your mind, it’s not exactly a case of throwing all caution to the wind and going where the whim takes you. But it is nice to have choices when so few do.
I’m very reliant on my friends (and sister) for advice, and for just generally bouncing ideas off people’s heads. In years past, I might have sought the opinions of a far greater group of friends, but I approached things a bit differently this time round. This was partially because of circumstances: a summer generally without much internet access, a challenge any time you’re trying to find a job. But philosophically, I mainly wanted to work out the next step on my own, in my head. I did torture a few of my fellow teachers with my ruminations, but that’s the nature of the game for Tefl teachers – we all do it, it’s almost like a rite of late summer for all of us.
As far as friends go, I’m probably most reliant on my dear pal the G-Man. When it comes to nuggets of wisdom and bon-mots, he’s almost second-to-none: only time and a few more sobering reflections will tell whether his insight will prove to be correct, or whether his judgments were ill-thought out and hasty in their formulation, mere shibboleths to be cast aside as the future takes shape.
In homage to one of our favourite publications, that excessive modal-verb, fence-sitting, bets-hedging rag The Economist, the G-Man, who always loves to heap faintly damning praise upon it, offered up this leader in response to one of my messages regarding the next potential destination:
Mr P[ed]zo is at a cross-roads. His administration has been criticized in the past, not least by Mr Pedzo himself, for placing short-term adventurism ahead of enduring fiscal responsibility. If his government opts for the latter course in this case, then a joint venture [in the Middle East] is the most sound prospect. There are, however, more salubrious options, most notably a strategy based in the Mediterranean. Analysts point to its delicious cuisine, pleasing climate and dark-eyed hotties. But many Pedzologists hold that the regime has had its toes scalded in those waters before (see article: "Pedzo Stunned by Basque Illiteracy and Haircuts"). This magazine for one struggles to believe that Pedzo's camp will find the vita any more dolce in Palermo than it did in San Sebastian. And while France hosts a greater cultural bounty than Spain or Italy, it hardly offers scope for mystery and intrigue. This publication's commitment to free market principles is well known, as is its proclivity to visiting Mr Pedzo at each of his foreign assignations. That's why in this case it's recommending a policy of revisiting old haunts. Sometimes it really is better to stick with the devil you know -- and, as in Mikhail Bulgakov's satire "The Master and Margarita," the right devil for Mr Pedzo resides in St. Petersburg (or one of its neighbours). The former Soviet Union affords the greatest opportunities for linguistic enrichment, literary inspiration, and - in the words of one noted Pedzo confrere - "making a drunken clown of himself." While Pedzo's decision where to go next isn't guaranteed to be a dead-cert success, one thing is for sure: the destination will as much choose Pedzo as he chooses the destination.
A decision has just about been made and I’m soon to depart. Watch this space to get the G-Man’s analysis on where I’ve opted for, which is coming soon.
In another sign of what sad cases teachers are, we took such excitement in gossiping about the drama in these kids’ lives, like who was snogging and cheating on who, and what kind of histrionics we could expect at the next disco. We had this web map hanging on the wall of the teachers’ room.
