Another one of my anti-tech rants, plus a frightful deluge of nostalgia

Amongst all the words I use to describe myself – not that I describe myself on a daily basis to myself or to others – ‘luddite’ must come in near the top.

One of the pitfalls of working for a good school is that it’s far better equipped technologically than any place I’ve ever worked before, including in the US and Britain. Hell, when teaching in America last spring, I had to use the standard green chalkboard that I grew up with, and occasionally I had access to an overhead projector with a temperamental bulb. I once joked with my Kyrgyz students about whether they still used chalkboards and they looked at me like I was nuts. No, they coolly replied, we have whiteboards in our schools.

Just less than 2 months into my tenure here, I’m having my difficulties with technology – and that’s a whopping understatement. It befuddles me at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times. I’m lucky I have a remarkable capacity for remaining calm and collected in public (as cool as a cucumber, if you like) on the outside, except around my sister, whilst inside I’m a raging torrent of foul language and pent-up rage if something isn’t working to my satisfaction. When I’m alone…steer well clear.

Though I’m struggling with a great variety of technology, at the moment the primary culprit is the dreaded, ghastly interactive whiteboard (IWB). I’d never used one until now, and each day is a tumultuous process of trying to get the blasted thing to work properly. There are plenty of other issues besides the IWB, but that’s my current bête noire.

In the interests of clarity and fairness, I should point out that although the school is well-equipped technologically, not all of the technology works. Certain rooms have faulty DVD players, others have mal-functioning monitors, while the rest all have some particular quirk that isn’t meant to be. So, there’s an issue with the damn stuff working in the first place – the fact that it’s not makes life infinitely trickier.

But here’s the point I really want to hammer home: EVERYONE STRUGGLES WITH THIS CRAP!!! Every day, multiple times a day, another victim of the IWB bug comes storming into the teachers’ room, throws down their books and lets forth a hail of foul-mouthed bile in no particular direction. No one is immune to the disease. Nothing ever works right. My general problem with technology is its inconsistency. Inexplicably, one day the IWB just won’t work. The next, a computer or the CD/DVD drive isn’t working and the textbooks we use are all digital and so if the application isn’t working, then we’re pretty much screwed for the lesson because there is no back-up. Of course, you can’t write on the IWBs either, and half the time the sun streams in so brightly, rendering the IWB completely useless since it’s impossible to see. Honestly, I could catalogue a whole host of problems that plague us all one day to the next. It’s so utterly unpredictable and there’s hardly anything funny about it. At least I’ve got my students on my side, for they actually find it funny. Lucky for me.

Every day there’s something new. Just when you think you’ve seen it all…

[This blog itself is another case in point: you may have noticed different formattings in different posts, whether font, font size, spacing, picture captions, etc. Every time I post, I do the exact same thing. Sometimes blogspot cooperates, other times it doesn’t. Sometimes I spend ages on the formatting and then give up on the process, starting afresh on a new day. But it’s generally frustrating and rarely goes smoothly.]

Back to the fairness doctrine…when it is working, it is damn nice to have. It’s great to be able to use the internet in my lessons and although it means I’m now spending so much more of my time planning, I actually enjoy the planning when it means I can design some snazzy stuff. One word of warning though: always, always, always screen a video before showing it to a class. I had one group the other day, the same lovely group who bought me gifts for my birthday and still regularly bring in cake and champagne for no apparent reason, who were clamouring for something funny on Youtube to watch. The only thing that sprang to mind was the farting televangelist, which was [debatably] hilarious about 7 years ago, but certainly isn’t anymore. I had recalled a colleague telling me earlier in the day about ‘Drunk History’ and so I thus chose a random – yes, random in the proper sense – episode, the one with Jack Black as Benjamin Franklin. Though we all found it funny, I was mortified by its effing and blinding, as well as another somewhat disturbing scene that probably put some of the students off their dinners. Probably not the most professional approach in the world, but then I am rather unorthodox in my methods, to put it mildly.

From the last paragraph, dear readers, you will have noticed that far from constantly whingeing about my lack of technological know-how, I’ve decided to stop lamenting the fact that I’m technologically inept and am instead doing something about it. Instead of running and hiding, I’m doing my damndest to tackle it head-on and defeat the monster before it defeats me. You see, I am mature after all.

Before this degenerates into my most boring post ever, I’ll nip my anti-technology vitriol in the bud and move onto somewhat more interesting things.

I’d like to share a variety of links. Some I’ve discovered recently, others I’ve been saving for a couple of months for an occasion like this where I can deluge you with various bits of nonsense I’ve been divulging in.

Starting with, yet another anti-technology rant!

Cassette tapes: when music was hard work, but fun (and much more rewarding)

At the risk of getting excessively hyperbolic, I can’t remember a time in my life where I’ve come across an article that has come so close to echoing my thoughts or experiences verbatim. It’s short, but I will share one particularly apt paragraph here. How should I put it? It’s just, so, me:

Cassettes are a reminder of a lost age, when you had to work a bit harder to be a music fan. You couldn't make a compilation by disinterestedly dragging and burning in iTunes. You actually had to sit and listen to the music you were recording, noting down track titles on an inlay card as you went – which meant you really had to like what you were taping. Stealing music didn't involve clicking a mouse, but recording off the radio, finger hovering over "pause" to get as much of the song's dying seconds in, while still cutting the DJ's voice off the end. The judicious use of the pause button is one of the great forgotten folk arts.

When I read that over the summer it took me back quite a few years. I’m a bit of a past master in the forgotten art of mix tapes. Starting when I was about 14 I was constantly on the rampage making mixes for myself, my friends, girls…my sister and I would sit and listen to the UK top 40 on Sunday afternoons taping our favourite songs, trying so desperately hard to cut out the DJ's voice whilst getting as much as the song as possible. I got my first CD player when I was 15 (Christ, am I that old?) and then I could finally record songs onto tapes so much more easily. Back then, there was no greater gesture of showing your feelings to a special someone than giving them a mix tape (sorry, but mix CDs aren’t quite the same, and CDs from mp3s have hardly any romantic value) and I remember making at least 20 different mixes for various friends just before graduation from high school (I wonder if any still have theirs). I would spend hours deliberating which songs to put on, thinking of the right order, then writing them down in my neatest penmanship on the inlay card. And then there was the all important title of course, which was sometimes the most difficult part of all.

Listening to mix tapes that others made me was equally joyous, and another long lost art was having to fast forward and rewind to find a particular song you just had to listen to at that particular moment. To truly love music in those days you had to be patient and devoted. These days it just isn’t the same. The album’s importance has declined to the point of irrelevancy in this age of clicking and downloading tracks.

Whenever I’m at home I still rummage through my boxes of cassettes, checking out all the amusing titles that I came up with. There were various Britpop concoctions, there were alternative 80s ‘manic depressive’ mixes, there were dance mixes, there were soppy mellifluous ballad collections…there were definitely some very eclectic mixes. But perhaps no other series of tapes captures the nostalgia of that era like the ‘Swell Trip Tapes’ (no further elaboration necessary) that Andrew and I used to put together. There must have been at least 4 or 5 editions of these epic collections and we whiled away many a long summer afternoon and evening listening to these endlessly.

It goes without saying that I still listen to my tapes from time to time, poor sound quality and wear and tear notwithstanding.

I held out from buying an mp3 player for as long as possible, resistant to part with my massive tape and CD collection, and lamenting the fact that technology was rendering cassettes obsolete. But among other things, the sheer impracticality of lugging CDs round the world put paid to this and I finally caved in and got an Ipod a few years ago.

But what is this? More trips down memory lane as news of the demise of the Walkman hits the wire. This takes me fondly back many years, and…ach, never mind. Enough of this wallowing in the past. It was great while it lasted.

The rise of the e-book: say it ain’t so!

I might have given into popular pressure and relented in buying an mp3 player, but books…that’s another story. I may look back in a few years on what I’m writing now and laugh, but I can’t imagine I’ll ever go down that route. No way.

Half the pleasure of reading is the feel of the book. Then there’s the cover (you can’t judge a book by its cover? Bullshit), making notes in the margins, exchanging books with your friends, sneaking a peek at what some stranger is reading on public transport, checking out someone’s collection when visiting their houses (this is the first thing I go for), carefully deciding which books to take on holiday (here, thinking about space and weight limitations is part of the fun/challenge), cracking the spine, the range of different fonts, the smell of a new book (!), picking up a gem of a second-hand book and reading previous readers’ inscribed notes to loved ones (probably the most tragic thing that would be lost if books vanished forever), not to mention giving books as gifts with that oh-so special inscription, and so much else besides. (Honestly, does an e-book gift have anywhere near the same value as an actual book?

[Here’s a real gem from a collection of William Hazlitt’s essays that I found about this time 1 year ago in a second-hand book sale: “For Mary R Drury, as a token for her last birth-day, for sundry ‘bets’ about exams, and a small amt. of personal regard. from her brother, S. S. Drury. June 19, 1898”.]

One of the best covers around

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine a time will ever come when we can look at a coffee stain on our e-book and reminisce about that special café in Siena...or even a beer stain, taking you straight back to a bar in Prague…or having sand falling out of the pages, taking you back to a certain beach in Sicily…or countless other mementoes and reminders that come only with a book in proper book form.

Let’s face it: e-books are hardly a conversation starter. There’s hardly any romance in leaning in at the right angle to see what someone’s reading on their Kindle or whatever and then commenting upon their choice of material.

It was my ever-so-astute pal Jeff who told me to calm down when I panicked that books would eventually go the way of the cassette tape. After all, he pointed out, books have been around for centuries. Cassettes and CDs for decades at most. And I’d like to think that diehards like me will continue to prop up the old-fashioned way of reading. Not that I’m an expert on this, but my bet is that e-books will appeal to a lot of people, but predominantly to the Da Vinci Coders amongst us. In other words, those who read mainstream fare casually, and not literary snobs such as myself. There will continue to be suckers like me weighing ourselves down as we traipse about the globe acquiring massive tomes, moaning about the fact that there’s nowhere to put them all. But then dreaming of a day when we might finally have a place of our own to display the books for the benefit of our viewing public.

‘No matter who busy you may think you are, you must find time for reading, or surrender yourself to self-chosen ignorance.’ (Confucius)

I don’t think he had e-books in mind.

The Sheltering Sky: another classic cover

A quick-fire round-up of various nostalgish links

* An ode to Twin Peaks, in my humble opinion one of the greatest series of all time, even if for only 1 season. At the time, I think I was one of the only kids at school watching this, though these days it seems like everyone watched it ‘back in the day.’ Yeah, I’m cool.

* And here, paying homage to another great 80s masterpiece, Back to the Future. Although for me this fell a bit behind the brilliance and majesty of Top Gun and the Karate Kid, it was still a splendid classic of my childhood, one watched over and over and over.

* This is merely nostalgia dating back to spring and summer 2009, but it’s nostalgia all the same. You will do doubt recall my fetish for amusing t-shirt slogans, and Bishkek was home to some of the greatest in history, with a firm favourite being ‘No Romance without Finance’. Is Jane Austen popularly read in Kyrgyzstan?

* Is there a greater exchange in 80s cinematic history than the one between Goose and Slider?

Slider: Goose, whose butt did you kiss to get in here anyway?

Goose: The list is long but distinguished.

Slider: Yeah, well so’s my Johnson.

Here's a slightly more ‘scholarly’ look at Johnson.

* Definite nostalgia here: I have many fond, hair-raising memories of zooming around town (Port Harcourt, mainly) on okadas, Nigerian motorbike taxis. The first few times you’d hang on for dear life as the blasted things zipped in and out of traffic. It wasn’t an uncommon sight to witness people hurtling off their bikes. But it was one of the only ways of getting around and one soon got used to it. There’s an image of a family of four with live goat crammed onto one that’s indelibly planted in my mind. Just in case you missed out on the hoopla and are wondering what all the fuss is about.

* And lastly, if you want to read about the plight of the poor English teacher abroad, then this is for you. However, I must say that it’s a woefully inadequate, unfair and misleading account. Most of it anyway. Bits of ring painfully true, but keep one very important thing in mind: by nature, English teachers are some of the biggest whingers around. We complain about everything and anything. It’s almost a prerequisite for the job. If I can be bothered, I may spend the time to Fisk it at a later date, since there are parts of I vehemently disagree with. It is a bit long and rambling, and most certainly dated. Which also pretty much describes your typical Tefler.  

Let’s end on some sappy, epically cockles-of-your-heart-warming nostalgia.

For my money, one of the most moving, inspiring, yet ultimately cheesy moments in cinematic history, featuring some of the more underrated film villains to ever grace the silver screen. Does it really get any better than this?

And one last cover for the road

The best laid plans

I came to Kyiv with all sorts of grand ambitions: I’d really get my Russian up to scratch, further develop my career, broaden my range of reading, exercise regularly, be a bit more adventurous with my cooking, keep in better touch with friends, and update my blog more regularly, even 2-3 times a week. So much for all that. I’ve instead become drowned in work with barely enough time to breathe. In that sense, I suppose I am ‘furthering’ my career. And though I have started Russian lessons, I’ve been unable to dedicate myself much to this pursuit. Instead, I’ve gone and done silly things like watch way too much crap Ukrainian football and joined an amateur theatre group, with rehearsals for a Christmas pantomime now taking up 3 of my precious hours every Sunday. At least I’ve managed to get away to Lviv for a weekend already.

In the meantime, I plug away at work, which despite one or two hiccups (mainly due to my ongoing technophobia, to be discussed in an upcoming post) is going rather well. But fret not kids: uncle Danny isn’t about to bore you with details of work!

Ignore the following paragraph.

[Current inner monologue revealed: I must eliminate the posturing, the waffling and just get down to it. In other words, stop trying to deliver a well thought-out, polished piece every time, and just concentrate more on throwing a few thoughts together on a more regular basis.]

Tennis, anyone?

I thoroughly enjoy playing tennis and deeply regret that I’m unable to play more of it. It’s one of the few sports I take seriously, too seriously, in fact, when I play. I’ve never been great at it, but I think I can hold my own against the odd semi-decent player.

One of my students has been on at me to play tennis with her, which would be tempting for various other reasons, though in this case the task is awfully daunting: she’s a former junior Olympic champion! Like hell I’d stand a chance against her without humiliating myself.

This calls to mind many years back when I worked in Boston, when of one of my colleagues Christine and I discussed playing some tennis after work. We had agreed on a date when my colleague Jim so kindly called me over to his computer and showed me a few news stories he’d gathered discussing Christine’s tennis prowess at university: she’d been the #1 player on her team and had won all sorts of titles. Sod that, I thought, there was no way I was going to stand a chance there and I promptly made my excuses and we never did play.

One of the great faults of taking any sport seriously is that tempers often get in the way of my performance. Playing tennis my first year at university with Dr Wasabi Islam was a great treat for me, probably not so much for him. One evening, there were 4 of us on court playing under the lights and I was losing my cool when the shots weren’t going my way. At one point, I let loose with a torrent of foul language and whacked the ball baseball style out of the courts and onto the street.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ asked Dr Islam. ‘Go get the ball, come back, and sit down over there. You’ll watch us play.’

I duly obliged, and went off in a sulk while the rest of them played. After about 20 minutes of this punishment, I was invited back into the game.

‘Are you going to behave yourself now?’

‘Yes,’ I muttered sheepishly.

At the extreme level, I broke my fair share of racquets, which is fine if you’re Marat Safin and can afford this type of luxury. In one of my darker moments, whilst on holiday in Grenada with my girlfriend, I smashed a racquet after only a few minutes of playing. My girlfriend was by no means a good player, and this was meant to be nothing more than a bit of light-hearted pitter-patter, so she was no doubt taken aback by my antics and refused to take any further part in my petulant charade. So it was back to the pool and the swim-up cocktail bar for the duration of that trip.

Besides tennis, I’ve been known to lose my cool at other sporting pursuits: baseball, where my crowning moment of glory was being tossed from a game for hurling my bat at the umpire’s legs after being called out on strikes (in my defence, it was an atrocious call); miniature golf, where I’ve been known to whack balls in rage when they don’t roll the right way, regular golf, where I’ve launched the odd club or two off into the distance and even snapped an iron; and bowling, not a sport I’d want to profess to taking too seriously if I want to maintain any street-cred, but one in which I definitely stropped and huffed around way too often. Another favourite tactic used to be slinging my hat down onto the lane after an errant ball.

Though I’m not terribly good at regular golf, I tend to lose my cool only at sports I’m at least halfway decent at. So rest assured, my dears, that when it comes time to play a bit of football, basketball or skiing, I generally maintain my composure no matter what minor tragedy befalls me.

Back to the story at hand, and this pesky student

I’ve tried to explain that I’m not on her level but she doesn’t seem to care. Now, and I’m not sure whether this has any relevance at all, but she’s a very attractive young woman. And very attractive women who play tennis very well are even more attractive (see Caroline Wozniacki, for example, who would be merely just ‘attractive’ if she didn’t play tennis, but is infinitely more so because she’s so good). This is, thus, a huge distraction and even more of an imposing task. I don’t want to embarrass myself, especially when I have to face her a couple of times a week in the classroom. She wipes me all over the court, and suddenly she’s got all the leverage.

On the other hand, I really want to get back into playing, and I am sorely tempted – time permitting, of course – to take some lessons in the interests of getting back into form. It would be a tremendously great feeling if I could break her serve a few times and take a game or two off her, at the very least.

I should also point out that I’m good at dealing with adversity on the tennis court. One of my proudest moments came a few summers ago, when I was playing with my sister against the doctor’s orders. It was back when my foot was in pretty foul shape and I had no business being on a tennis court. My stubbornness won out in the end, and I played against my sister virtually on one foot. This has to be one of the proudest achievements of my life, the more so considering I beat her 7-6, 6-0. She will no doubt claim her ‘tennis elbow’ was acting up. What’s truly disturbing is that I still remember this in so much detail. I think it’s time to move on.

Back to the women playing tennis thing: I’ll confess that this is not my theory, but that of my high school pals Ravi and John, but they used to claim that there was nothing more unattractive than an attractive woman who can’t play tennis. In fact, it’s one of the most awkward sights one will ever witness the fairer sex performing and is a massive turn-off, along with the chicken dance and the Macarena. Conversely, of course, is that an attractive woman is that much more attractive if she plays tennis well. We’ve covered this route already.

Let me apply a corollary to Eastern European fashion: high heels. I’m no great lover of high heels (I go more for the high boots), but women who can’t walk well in high heels is equally as unattractive as lousy tennis players. The trouble is, high heels are absolutely de rigueur in these parts, yet I’d say roughly 70% of women can’t walk properly in them. When you factor in the ubiquitous cobbled streets, that number soars to 90%. And the further east in Europe you go, the higher the heels seem to go. That means that only a tiny minority can pull this treacherous feat off with any aplomb. For the rest, it’s the daily awkward sight of women stumbling around uncomfortably simply for the benefit of mankind. But surely men can’t be attracted to such clumsy women? I’m probably the wrong person to ask, for even that 10% at the upper echelon fails to really do it for me. I’m a big fan of a woman being comfortable – that is far more attractive to me than anything else. 

The moral here? Stick to what you’re good at. And keep your cool.

One excuse out of the way

That of the quest for a comfortable computer chair. Though it wasn’t nearly as easy as it should have been.

To save myself the bother of putting a chair together at home, I bought one ready-assembled from the furniture store. But this involved lugging it onto the metro and trying to get through the throngs of people without whacking anyone in the process. Passers-by were generally amused at the sight of me carrying this chair, and even more so when I plopped myself down into it whilst on the train. Eventually, after a bit of huffing and puffing, I got it home, and sat down, eager to start working away at my computer.

Barely a couple hours later, as I leaned over for my coffee, the whole bloody chair gave way and I went tumbling over onto the floor, thankfully unhurt, and with coffee unspilt. So much for that.

A few days later I returned to the shop, determined to get a refund. I knew this would be a daunting endeavour, what with the standards of customer service and the general public’s impatience to queue for anything. After a lot of jostling and bickering, I managed to at least exchange the damn thing – they refused to give me a refund, claiming I must have rocked back and forth in it. Anyway, it was onto act 2 with me and the chair and the metro and the same bemused passengers smirking at me in my chair. This one has held up – for now.

By the way, incidents like these are a textbook example of what my sister calls The World Against Darnell Syndrome, or TWADS. In a nutshell, the deck hasn’t been stacked in my favour, and I generally have it more unfair than most in this world. It really is difficult being me in this world when so many forces are conspiring against me. I can’t reveal the origins of this condition, for it stems from the most absurdly politically-incorrect origins, and I’d lose most of my readership and a third of my friends if I revealed the reasons behind it. I’ll have to leave it there for now.

As for this amateur theatre group malarkey I’ve got myself wrapped up in: never make a drunken promise, one. Two, don’t keep a drunken promise. Three, don’t go to an ‘audition’ of something you aren’t sure you want to be a part of and then put in a stellar performance to get a plum part or two.

This is the position I’ve become embroiled in. I’ve dabbled in a bit of theatre before with the kids, usually at summer schools but also in San Sebastian where I directed a ‘Theatre Club’ performance with a group of whippersnappers and put on a spectacle called The Day of the Robots in front of a packed theatre of friends and fellow teachers. And I’ve done a bit of acting here and there, but nothing too serious. Until now.

I thought it would be a bit of a laugh: do a couple of rehearsals over a fortnight, have a few drinks, a bit of banter, and then a small show, mainly improve-style, in front of a select audience of my peers. But no: this is some serious shit! Over 2 months of rehearsals, 3 hours a week for the first month or so, then 5-6 for the 2^nd month; original, full-blown costumes and everything; a production crew with light and sound ‘experts’; and to be performed in a proper theatre with ticket sales and advertising and an expected decent-sized audience consisting of much of Kyiv’s expat community. And there’s a fair range of people acting – a few teachers, but mainly some older teenagers, younger brats and people from the local community. This isn’t childs’ play at all! I’ve got to memorise lines and everything!

Damn it.

As for the play, if you’re familiar with the Reduced Shakespeare Company’s repertoire, where all of the bard’s works are performed in a comedy-packed 2 hours (there’s also an American History version), then you’ll recognise this effort: it’s titled The Brothers Grimm Spectaculathon, and your dear author, after putting in a stellar audition, has been ‘rewarded’ with 3 roles: Rumpelstiltskin, the main [unnamed] dwarf from Snow White, and the host of a ‘This is Your Life’-type show. A lot of responsibility has been thrust upon my shoulders, and I can’t be letting them down now. With my sieve-like memory, this is going to be one hell of a challenge.

If anyone happens to be in Kyiv on 12 December, by all means come along. On second thought, you’d better not. By then I may have humiliated myself as a sportsman and a thespian. As well as a teacher, for good measure.

You know what they say about excuses?

I don’t care – I’m the king of them. As my closest friends know, I’m forever making the flimsiest of excuses for one thing or another.

Moving in and settling into life in Ukraine, Vol II, has been a prolonged, laborious process. I’ve wrapped up my third week of teaching, yet I’m still finding my feet, and despite having moved into my flat over three weeks ago, I still haven’t properly ‘moved in’, as my living room is strewn with papers, folders and other bits of flotsam, and my bedroom and kitchen are in equally unkempt states.

But more than anything, I haven’t settled in in my head. I still trudge to work each day, or around town on my time off, with a glazed look on my face, wondering whether I really am here. It still hasn’t hit me yet – and yes, I do realise what an overcooked, hackneyed phrase that is. It’s just that things happened so quickly and unexpectedly, and I’m still coming to terms with it. Sounds a bit like a prison sentence – no, it’s not that bad at all.

I’ve got lots of niggling little computer, personal things to take care of – finances to sort out, friends to email (lots of them!) and various other tidbits to catch up on.

And here’s where I make my big excuse (and this is just the perfect segue to talk about my marvellous new flat): I’ve got many things in my swish new pad, but what I haven’t got is a nice desk and chair. The desk is rickety and squeaks, and the chair is horrendous. And when I don’t have a nice desk and chair, I’m out of my writing comfort zone and instead have to sit with the damn laptop on my lap, where after a matter of minutes my thighs start to burn up. It’s probably rendering me sterile in the process as well (not a bad thing, mind).

I do enjoy the start of a new place, where you have to buy all the sundry personal effects to sustain you through your stay, though there are the inevitable frustrations of not being able to find one or two vital things. In years past, with only a 9 month stay on the horizon, I was a bit more thrifty. This time round, I’ve been more extravagant, and I am certainly in the market for a nicely designed, ergonomic computer chair. Once I get that, at least, then there are no more excuses as far as this blog is unconcerned.

The nicest place I’ve lived?

The school here certainly takes care of its teachers, at least so far. In the past I’ve usually had no say in where I’ve lived, as I was taken to my new flat by the school upon my arrival into the country. This time, I was assigned to a lovely young estate agent of Romanian descent, whose job it was to take me and the only other new teacher (low turnover here, always a good sign) around some flats. For some teachers, this is a lengthy, frustrating process (as poor Kerry is experiencing right now in Cairo). The other guy took over a week to find a place, about average. I found one my very first day of looking, and it was the third and final place I looked at.

No prizes for guessing which building I'm in

Though it lacks the dusty, murky charm of the museum in which I lived in Lviv (sans heat, hot water and with 20+ year old jars of pickled vegetables in the cupboards), it’s still a pleasant enough place. Spotlessly clean, with hardwood floors, high ceilings, spacious, big airy kitchen, balcony, two bathrooms, comfortable furniture, A/C (like I need that now) three televisions (including a massive plasma TV in the bedroom) and even a concierge. Most important, it’s extremely modern in a city where 95+% of the apartment buildings (all the British teachers here say apartments instead of flats) are decrepit, crumbling edifices with temperamental hot water supplies. I lucked out. Except for the desk and chair. Oh, and very slow internet.

My landlord is a bit of a shady character, he can’t be older than 25. First time I met him to discuss the lease he was sweating more profusely than anyone I’ve ever seen in real life, a bit like Ted Stryker in Airplane! I wonder where the hell a guy that young got the money to own a place like this. There’s probably something I don’t know and I could be in for an unwelcome surprise one of these days. 

 

A pity about the view, though

The layman’s guide to celebrating birthdays

Just after I’d arrived in Lviv 5 years ago at the beginning of September, I was taken aside by the director for a chat. As my birthday was fast approaching, she politely informed me that the local custom was that the birthday boy/girl was responsible for putting on a spread for the other teachers. And though I had nothing to go on, not having any other birthday celebrations to compare it to, I was told not to scrimp. The previous year, the foreign teacher had bought cake and champagne, a wholly inadequate contribution that didn’t go down too well.

So, wanting to err on the side of extravagance, I put on as lavish a spread as I could afford, blowing well over a third of my monthly salary. Indeed, I set the bar pretty high for that year, as the teachers were blown away by my efforts. A nice way for the new guy to endear himself to the local staff. It seemed like we had almost weekly get-togethers, with an embarrassment of riches on offer, lots of food and plenty of vodka and champagne. That meant that at least once a week I would go into a class tipsy, while some of the local teachers were much further gone. Great times, though not a habit I want to repeat any time soon.

Luckily for me this time round, there was no repeat of that experience. No one knew when my birthday was, which was just perfect – I like to keep it quiet, and being as it’s in September, it’s easy to get away with. By the time you’ve settled in and shared birthday dates with others, my birthday has come and gone and I’m off scot-free. This year was like that, an ordinary day just like any other.

However, after my very first lesson with one group, one of the students emphatically declared that I had to be a virgo. Never one to believe in horoscopes and personality types, I shrugged the accusation off, though she wouldn’t relent and persistently tried to get a confirmation out of me. I mumbled something or other and that seemed to be the end of the matter, but I was terrified that the rest of the class would conspire to find out the truth and punish me for it.

Thankfully, nothing happened on my birthday and we had class as usual. Except that after class, one student waited around for the others to leave, determined to find out my age. He then bet me a bottle of whisky that he was older than me. After altering the wager to ‘a few beers’ (I couldn’t get him any lower), I won the bet, and then of course had to reveal that it was actually my birthday that very day. I then felt guilty – this is already a terrific class, a high level group of university-age students who wanted to go out on a bender after the first lesson and are determined to drag me out for a night on the town. The following class, I sprung for a nice bottle of champagne (they were impressed) and cake. There, my duty done.

But the sweethearts (classes here are around 80% female – result!) wouldn’t let it go at that, and the following class (they were disappointed that I’d neglected to tell them my birthday) gave me some lovely gifts and a very touching card. Amongst the gifts, and this is getting to be a recurring theme with me and my students, were a couple of pairs of elaborately striped socks. My socks have become a running gag with my students (see my posts from 27 April and 4 May) – every class now, they ask to lift my trouser legs so they can see them and have a snicker. What’s so funny about striped socks? Okay, so some of them are multi-coloured and have penguins on them, but so what? It probably doesn’t help that I’ve had on odd socks a couple of times already. Whatever the case, the latest additions to my wardrobe are absolutely splendid and well appreciated.

Some inspirational parting words

Well, I’m slowly adjusting to life in a new home, but is it ‘home’? I’m never really sure what to say when people ask me where home is these days.

The recently departed historian Tony Judt had this to say about growing up in Hackney:

‘Home, they say, is where the heart is. I’m not so sure. I’ve had lots of homes and I don’t consider my heart to be attached very firmly to any of them. What is meant, of course, is that home is wherever you choose to place it – in which case I suppose I’ve always been homeless.’

  

Derby time in Kyiv!

In what is sure to be the first of many matches, I’ve got Dynamo v Arsenal on tap for the weekend. I suffered through the purgatory of watching Karpaty Lviv in the 2nd division five years ago (they’re currently 3rd in the top flight). Let’s hope I’m in for a better ride this season. Dynamo are 2nd in the table to Shakhtar. And yes, Ukrainian football is generally pish.

How did it come to this?

Can you believe the crap this rag comes out with?

Leader, 25 Aug 2010:

Stepping to Odessa: an army-in-exile saddles up for war

In 1940, Charles de Gaulle's "Free French" took up temporary residence in London before entering the fray against their Nazi-held homeland. Seventy years on, the P[ed]zo caravanserai is ready to pack up its own sojourn here and attack a different foreign city. Mr Pedzo's departure may be as speedy as the decision-making process was protracted, with sources close to the commandante hinting he may pitch up at Kyiv's great gates as early as next week. But it's the destination, rather than the timing, of the attack that was always the favoured theme of Pedzologists. Some had pointed to Egypt, with the bountiful supplies of raw materials - namely shisha coals - that heretofore have bled the coffers of Pedzo's partisans. It's a salutary lesson for The Economist that he has instead followed its recommendations, and plumped for a Baltic (sic) invasion. Admittedly, this magazine's track record on proposing military action isn't entirely unblemished (anyone remember Iraq?), and in this case it may again prove that the road to Ukraine isn't wholly devoid of stumbling blocks. It was the unforgiving climate of the Russian steppe that checked the armies of both Napoleon and Adolf Hitler. While Mr Pedzo has proven his ability to withstand such sub-zero temperatures, it's anyone's guess what havoc it will wreak on his Scottish allies.

Tis true, and I’ve now been pitched at Kyiv’s gates for about a fortnight now. I just can’t stay away from this place and had to come back for more.

It was a chaotic, hectic summer with things rumbling along at a frenetic pace. I had no internet access, little time and a fuzzy head that made the decision making process a greater challenge than usual. It all happened so quickly. At summer school, there was constant speculation about where I might end up, and Matt, my director of studies, even posted the odds up on the whiteboard in the teachers’ room in hopes of attracting a few wagers. They started out something like this:

Baku 7-1
Cairo 5-1
Kyiv 8-11 (fav)
Belarus 200-1
Bosnia 125-1
Nothing 18-1

The smart money was always on Kyiv, but I flirted heavily with the idea of Cairo. One of my fellow summer school teachers (and now dear friend) Kerry and I joked about going somewhere together. When she accepted a position in Cairo, the pressure was thrust squarely upon my shoulders to hold up my end of the bargain. You have no idea how tempted I was, honestly and truly. And I hope a visit instead will be of some small consolation. (I fear she’s still upset/angry/annoyed with me )

This is the beauty of teaching abroad: you pretty much have all the choice in the world. What a ridiculously spoilt lifestyle to lead, where you can almost (dare I say, literally?) spin a globe, point to a place, and then go there. I wouldn’t do something that drastic and adventurous, but with so many places to choose from, one can get easily overwhelmed when you are as indecisive as I am. The paradox of choice, innit.

As it was, my heart has always been in Ukraine. The nine months I spent in Lviv some five years ago were amongst the most magical of my life. And though one is always tempting fate by going back to the same place – and yes, I did hear Lviv calling again – I felt that Kyiv would be a sufficiently different enough change. And besides, in the interests of my profession and ‘career’, I’ve got myself a job at an excellent school with very high standards, arguably the pinnacle in the Tefl world, and so at least in that regards it’s something of a step up.

As far as history teaching is concerned…were I well and truly serious about that, I might have considered a year or two in the US to get some experience, though I did have a job in Tbilisi that fell through, as well as a potential opportunity in Abu Dhabi. But I consider it a very healthy sign that neither of those worked out, and I’m back to a place I truly love – I’ve always tended to put the appurtenance of location over job. Once it gets cold, bleak and miserable in a couple of months’ time, I’ll be right back here on these very same pages whingeing and moaning about the greyness of it all.

But what about this for a commitment-phobe like me: I’ve signed a 2-year contract! ‘Massive’ would be a dramatic understatement to say how big a thing that is for me. I haven’t spent longer than 9 months anywhere since 2002, and considering I’ve just signed a 2-year lease on a flat, unless I decide to move out, this will be the first time I’ve lived for more than a year in the same flat/house since I was 15. Seeing as I’ve recently turned a robust 34, that’s 19 years ago. From a philosophical – what else? - point of view, this has to be a very healthy, positive step. And besides, this means I’ll be around for Euro 2012, assuming of course that Ukraine doesn’t have the tournament wrenched away at the last minute. Only one of the four host cities is apparently on schedule to be ready in time, though people here remain overly optimistic. We shall see.

The Warwick v Edinburgh parallel

In 2002, I was faced with an agonising decision. I’d been accepted to both Warwick and Edinburgh for an MSc in International Politics. I knew Warwick had the much better reputation as a programme, but the splendour and delights of Edinburgh were pulling me in that direction. When I got to Edinburgh and told a few other people of this dilemma, including some professors, most people expressed bemusement that I had plumped for Edinburgh. I can’t say I have any regrets.

A similar thing has been happening here in my early days. When I tell people, locals or other teachers, that I used to live in Lviv and was not-so-seriously mulling over the prospect of going back, they usually start gushing about how charming and splendid Lviv is, and how much lovelier it is than Kyiv, and why didn’t I go back there, etc, etc, blah blah…

All I shall say is that I’m glad I opted for Kyiv, but I fully intend on making as many trips back to Lviv as possible. The city has changed a great deal, and I’ve got lots to share from what turned out to be an epic journey back.

How fitting then, that I still have yet to recap the highlights of that June trip to this lovely land. I’ve already regaled/bored my readers with my round-up of Romania, Moldova and my summer school experience on these pages, with all that World Cup malarkey splattered in between. Now that I’m back, I’ll be working on unveiling all of the as-yet-untold tales and other choice tidbits in the upcoming weeks. I still haven’t even got round to posting photos of my travels, though in the grand scheme of things, that’s normal for me. I once left a roll of holiday snaps undeveloped for 3 years before my then girlfriend went and got them developed, only to find that they were holiday photos with a previous girlfriend. I honestly had no idea, though I wasn’t at all believed. My point is simply that when it comes to posting or sharing holiday photos, I’m never in any great rush (that’s a euphemism for ‘I’m a lazy swine’). While I’m on the topic, one of my biggest bugbears these days? People who immediately have to rush over to see the results of any pictures taken on a digital camera. Barely has the picture been captured when the subjects all zip over to see what it looks like. I used to love going on holiday and then taking my sweet time to get the photos back, even posting them off to save a bit of money.

At least now I can use the excuse, a very valid one I think, that only now do I have my very own internet service for the first time in over 4 months. Though it is painstakingly slow: I was having fits the other day trying to watch the US Open on live streaming when it kept freezing. Eventually I just gave up and went to bed.

So there you have it, this is where I am. I still can hardly believe it, and it’s been fun to surprise my old friends here by sending cryptic texts announcing my return.
Along with some older tales and photos from the past months, I hope to create some new, lasting memories of my various escapades and general tomfoolery.

And now, for a bit of ‘Where were you when..?’

I wouldn’t say I’m addicted to news, but I do get somewhat antsy and irritable if I’m unable to follow current events in, at the very least, a cursory manner. Working at a summer school means you’re quite cut off from the world and might miss a semi-big story or two. I’m always worried that I’ll miss the obituary of one of my favourite writers, actors or sportsmen. When they’re a minor figure in the grand scheme of things, it can be months before I find out. In the case of some American sporting figures, Steve McNair and Kirby Puckett spring to mind, it might have been up to a year before I heard the news. For now, I’m terrified that I’ll miss the moment one of my intellectual heroes Eric Hobsbawm kicks the bucket. When Ryszard Kapuscinski passed away nearly three years ago, I received a flood of condolences from friends who knew how much I adored him.

Anyway, in light of the recent 9-year anniversary of September 11 and all of the coverage of ‘where were you when?’ it happened, it got me thinking about the other big events that fall within the same category. I think every generation has at least three big ‘where were you when?’ events, and for someone of my age and background (spending most of my schooling years in American schools), here are the three biggies:

1. The 1986 Challenger explosion
2. Princess Diana’s death
3. September 11

However, more than anything else, it was reading about the 5 year anniversary of Katrina that messed with my head. One of the biggest news stories, certainly in America, from the past 10 or so years, and I just about missed the entire thing. This all fits in with my arrival in Lviv just over 5 years ago. I was en route from Belfast to Lviv with a very cloudy head and an extremely heavy heart. I’d recently returned from a trip to Chicago where Drew and I had had an epic, unforgettable few days and I, uh, ‘met’ a certain someone who was occupying my thoughts (I almost didn’t even go to Lviv because of her). With her on my mind, a two-day layover in Budapest where I spent most of my hours in Turkish baths getting massages, and then my arrival in a new country where I didn’t have internet access or an English-speaking channel (I had only 4 Ukrainian TV channels for the duration of my stay), I completely missed the Katrina story. I remember watching Ukrainian news a few days after the fact and seeing footage of a hurricane hitting New Orleans, but it was only a 10-second clip near the end of the broadcast, and of course, with hurricanes a dime-a-dozen in the August/September months, I thought little of it. Not to belittle the gravity of it all, of course. When I realised, in the ensuing months, just what a catastrophic event it truly was, I kept wondering how it was that I missed it all as it was unfolding. I don’t think I saw any television coverage of the aftermath until at least a year later, and it was only recently that I was made fully aware of the death toll of around 1,800. Talk about feeling ignorant and out-of-the-loop.

(I’ve made two trips to New Orleans in the past few years, and had a chance to drive through the Lower Ninth Ward and see for myself what havoc it wreaked; I have to say that’s it a city I’d like to get back to, I found it mesmerising and utterly compelling.)

I’d like to share where I was on those three aforementioned big dates in history, sticking to the details of where I was and what I was doing, and trying to leave out things like overwrought emotions and other bits of sentimentality.

1. Like a lot of American school children, because of the presence of the New Hampshire school teacher onboard, we were glued to the television sets at school. More than anything, there was a stunned silence and a sense of utter disbelief when the Challenger blew up.

2. I heard the news that Diana was serious injured at about 2am whilst out at various fraternity parties during the start of my final year at Tufts. I have to say that I was already well-gone on various substances by that point, so as new news filtered in, I could barely digest and make sense of it all. To top it all off, at a certain point in the night, I found myself in the company of complete strangers, and in the wee hours found myself at a Bickford’s with only enough money for one fried egg. I somehow got the waitress’s number though I never actually phoned her.

3. Not to make light of 9/11 in any way, but like many people on that fateful day, as we first heard news that a plane had hit the first tower, I thought it was nothing more than an accident gone horribly wrong, that some unfortunate pilot had flown his biplane into the tower and that it might make the news as more of an amusing ‘what an idiot’ piece than anything else. I was working in Boston and used to have a daily morning ritual. Once I got my early work done and checked, I’d ‘reward’ myself by grabbing the sports section of the Boston Globe and heading off to take care of my daily business. I heard the news of the first plane, shrugged it off, and went to do my thing. Never being one to rush my precious morning ritual, I ambled out of the gents’ some minutes later to find the floors in a whirlwind of activity as rumours were making the rounds and people were starting to panic. As the events and enormity of it all began to unfold, there was chaos and confusion and no one knew what to do. Working in the John Hancock building, Boston’s tallest, there was naturally fear about our fate and eventually it was decided to vacate the premises. My girlfriend was in the 2nd-tallest building, the Prudential, and so between us and our families the fear spread like wildfire. This was also a time when many people still lacked mobile phones, so I had no way of getting in touch with her or anyone, and besides, most lines were down anyway. Suffice to say that it was a pretty terrifying day, to say the least.

Coming back to Ukraine, and thinking about how I missed Katrina happening five years ago, I felt compelled to share these tales. In the future, I’ll try and keep things a bit on the lighter side.

Thanks for your patience. I’ll try and do better the next time.

Summer School Shenanigans & the Start of the Next Adventure

I’m a firm believer that any time we preface a story with ‘you really would’ve had to have been there’ to understand or appreciate it, it just shouldn’t be told. But at the risk of violating this principle, let me attempt to introduce you into the bizarre world of an English language summer school. At this point of my life, having now completed three stints in this otherworldly environment, I feel that there are few other work experiences that can compare.

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.

A few brief words on teaching whippersnappers, my sojourn in Ukraine, my latest existential dilemma, and of course, a World Cup wrap-up. Finally (!)

Sartre said that there are three kinds of writers: writers who write for God, writers who write for themselves and writers who write for other people. I certainly don’t fall into the first category and I probably waver between the latter two. When I delved into the realm of football journalism with my recent nascent attempts at linking politics with sport, I was hoping to keep up a running commentary on observations throughout the duration of the World Cup. But alas, my timetable these past few weeks has been oh-so hectic and I’ve barely had a chance to breathe and collect my thoughts, let alone offer up a few scattershot analyses of the tournament. For my own benefit, I wanted to get it all down in writing. But I do I like it, I readily admit, when my dear friends and readers partake in my nonsense and sally forth with their acerbic commentary. Thus, I suppose I do write for other people; but then these days, who doesn’t?

This, thankfully for some, will be the last of my footballing rants, for the time being anyway. Soon to come, I hope, will be tales of my adventures in Ukraine, including my debut as a restaurant and food critic, as well as some sordid tales from my current stint of teaching at a summer school in England. I’ve spent the past few weeks in a posh boarding school outside London mainly trying to prevent 9-10 year old barely-English-speaking Italian, Spanish and French brats from murdering each other in the classroom, as well as showing off my sporting prowess my going in with 2-footed tackles on unsuspecting 13 year olds. I’ve already broken one poor Greek kid’s finger on a mistimed challenge, but I also suffered a severely bruised chest, which is taking forever to heal and is quite agonising at times. I’m struggling to breathe deeply and raise my voice, a perilous state to be in whilst trying to control a classroom full of mayhem and chaos.

Some of those stories for another time. For now, my thoughts on the World Cup’s closing stages.

Highlights, lowlights and various other sidebars

The mark of a truly good team? In my opinion, truly good teams don’t let themselves fall behind. But when a team does fall behind, how they respond to that adversity is what I look for when assessing whether they are a ‘truly good team’. And that’s why Brazil, Argentina and to a certain extent Spain were interesting cases in this Cup. I had my doubts about the South Americans’ defences before the tourney (not so with Spain), and once those teams fell behind, I think we saw a bit of their true natures. Everyone suspected Argentina’s defence and suggested it would be their weakness, but I was continually baffled by talk of Brazil’s highly organised, pragmatic, defensive core. Really? I felt iffy about this, as mentioned here before, and the Dutch certainly exploited that weakness. Once they fell behind, the Brazilians turned petulant, ill-tempered and looked completely disorganised and out of sorts. Argentina showed a couple of flashes of getting back into their match against Germany, but were ultimately undone by a classier side.

This is why I was impressed with the US. In effect, they were down in all of their matches: 0-1 to England (thank you, Rob Green), 0-2 to Slovenia (should have ended 3-2) and effectively they were ‘down’ against Algeria seeing as they had to win the match. And then 0-1 to Ghana, before succumbing to a superb Gyan goal in extra time. So well done to them, they did themselves proud.

In defence of my predictions. Um, really? I picked France to win it (ouch), Serbia was my surprise pick, I said Slovenia would advance at the expense of the US, said Spain’s time had come after their Euro 2008 success, and probably worst of all, offered up a lazy and ill-researched take on Germany’s chances (haven’t we learnt by now never to underestimate the Germans?).

How can I defend myself? With France, forget it. All I can really say is that I love going with a contrarian pick, and I love backing a team facing adversity. Four years ago I picked Italy to win it on the back of [proven] Italian match-fixing allegations. This time round, France’s ‘luck’ in qualifying and the prostitution ‘scandal’ meant that they were just screaming out to be picked as winners. So much for that. They shamed themselves, they played and behaved disgracefully, and now the entire country seems to be mired in a crisis of identity as the post-mortem is still slowly being conducted from all corners of society. Take my word for it: we’ve seen the last of quite a few of these French players.

Such a far cry from 12 years ago. Here’s an apt comment from the NY Times: ‘A new France seemed to have emerged with the victorious black, white and North African team of 1998, only for the country to revert to type – rebellious, sullen, arrogant – this year.’

Serbia: though I didn’t know it much at the time – I read very little before unleashing my opinions on the blogosphere – they seemed to be a surprise pick of many, including the BBC and the Guardian. So I wasn’t the only one bamboozled on that one.

Slovenia: wait, I meant Slovakia, which means I was right! They got through to the 2nd round, just as I had predicted. Hell, if GW can mix the two up and get away with it, then so can I.

Italy and Argentina: I got these ones more or less correct. Italy lacked proven strikers and they’re definitely an ageing side. Maradona, as entertaining and lovable as he was on the touchline, proved unable to formulate a plan to get past Germany.

A few more words on Argentina and their style, along with another lament on the demise of dribbling. I thank Michael for sharing a bit of nostalgia with me on how, years ago, he would watch Carlos Tevez, as a teenager playing in South America, weaving and winding his way through the opposition, defenders clinging all over him, trying to bring him down only for him to persist and fight his way to getting a shot off. Contrast that to today, and perhaps coaching has something to do with this, where at the slightest touch, many players will go down in a heap, looking for the free kick or penalty (in the final, I’d bet my life on the fact that Robben would have gone down from that Puyol challenge had it occurred inside the 18-yard box). Thankfully, Messi seems a player who still prefers to stay on his feet rather than go down like a house of cards, though I have caught the odd dive out of him.

I sadly missed their match against Germany, but Argentina don’t really seem like a cohesive, organised team – doesn’t part of the blame for this fall with the manager? This goes back to my original thoughts all those weeks ago, where I discussed how the Argentines always relied on the number 10 to pull the strings and orchestrate the play, everything stemming from that individual’s talents. And again, this thought from the aforementioned NY Times piece: ‘Argentina always relies more on individual talent – often outrageous – than cohesion, a fair reflection of the nation’.

Surprise teams: well, I did say that every World Cup seems to feature an unexpected team making it as far as the semifinals, and I think we had that in Uruguay. No one thought it would be them. Or did they?

I’m very ashamed of myself over my Germany commentary, and I have to directly apologise to Tilman on this one. This is no excuse whatsoever, but I was flat-out lazy in my research. Even though they appeared at the top of my list of countries who wouldn’t win it, I actually added them in last, when I’d written all my other opinions and couldn’t think of what to say about them. I said Ballack’s absence gave them no chance, and that their strikers had been in ‘patchy form’. I knew that Klose – like Germany as a whole, not to be underestimated – hadn’t played much all season, but I knew little about the rest of them, and in a couple of Bayern’s Champions League matches, Muller hadn’t impressed me much. That was a lousy basis to go on and I should have looked into them a bit more. Mea culpa; Germany were great, and best of all, were an absolute pleasure to watch, counter-attacking football at its finest. Who ever thought we’d get Germany playing like Holland and Holland playing like Germany?

[Those of you familiar with Bill Simmons on Espn.com might be aware of his ‘Ewing Theory’, which in a crude nutshell goes like this: Patrick Ewing was the star center of the NY Knicks in the 90s and one year he got injured. Most people gave the team no chance, but Simmons argues that sometimes the absence of a superstar player gets the team to rally round each other and can even lead to more of a balanced line-up since teams can’t rely on their one star player. The Knicks made a great run that year, losing in the finals. In retrospect, maybe the Ewing Theory could have applied to Germany sans Ballack? I remember just before the 2006 World Cup, watching Ukraine in their warmup matches without Shevchenko, and they actually looked a more complete, balanced team, an opinion many Ukrainian commentators shared at the time. But once he’d recovered from injury he was an automatic choice in the starting eleven, and any talk of him being dropped was immediately quashed. Same goes with Raul and Spain, where for a long time no coach would dare drop him for fear of the public backlash. This year we also may have seen it with Ghana minus Essien.]

I hope Tilman doesn’t mind me directly quoting him here, because he made a couple of very astute points which I appreciated – if only I had more time to dedicate to researching my ideas, especially by consulting with my football-loving friends. To start with, his thoughts on France and Italy are perceptive:

‘My main point is that France and Italy are dead countries, empty inside. No impulses in politics, society, industry that would produce anything that could make us fitter for the future or so. They are countries in a cast. And....admittedly it is easy to say so now...that is what their game looks like.’

And England, who I didn’t say too much about, originally, got this scathing assessment:

‘England. Please. 5, 6 good players. The rest wouldn’t make it into the Polish, Slovenian, Croatian or Bulgarian squad. Plus, I don’t know what they play. What is this? What exactly is the plan to score a goal? I don’t see goals at the end of what they play. How that reflects on the country? It is like the stock markets and the financial crisis makers in London. They run, they crash, they run again, they crash, they piss fans and people off, but they won’t stop running and crashing...’

Well put. The last word on England from the NY Times again: ‘England always imagines it can [win the World Cup] when [it] comes around, only to rediscover its inhibitions and fatal limitations.’

In defence of my predictions when it comes to sporting prowess, right after I graduated from university, I spent a couple of years gambling quite a bit in [American] college football. I won’t bore anyone, myself included, with the minutiae of all that, but suffice to say that my overall win record was somewhere in the range of 75%, which meant I was able to pay off a small chunk of my student loans during that time. And I quit while I was way ahead. And some bookie still owes me $800 for the preseason bet I put on the Baltimore Ravens to win the 2001 Super Bowl at 40-1 odds.

To sum it up: I’m going to retire from the prognostication business and leave all future predictions for someone with more expertise: Paul the Octopus. What an amazing record he had, perfect in the end. Unbelievable.

So much for this being South America’s World Cup. Some of my dearest friends were busily talking up the New v Old World divide in footballing fortunes, and everyone was calling this South America’s Cup. All I shall say is that I too was impressed by the early performances of South America’s sides, but was thrilled when 3 out of the 4 semifinalists came from Europe, and even more thrilled with the final matchup. I’ll be the first to admit that yes, I’m Euro-centric. I’ve been accused of it before and I won’t deny it.

As for Uruguay, I’m not sure what to think of them. Quite frankly, they were brilliant and mesmerizing to watch at times.

‘What I know most surely about morality and the duty of man, I owe to sport.’
Camus

Suarez: hero or villain? In a topic that will be debated to death for years on end – perhaps – what about that Suarez handball? Was it deliberate? Was it poor sportsmanship? Was it justice, considering that it all stemmed from a bogus Ghanaian free kick, which came from a blatant dive? I’m torn here, mainly because it’s hard to argue that Uruguay didn’t deserve to win that match and because Suarez is such an incredibly brilliant player. But I was and still am equally gutted for Ghana – that was just a heart-wrenching loss.

For further reading, have a look here:
http://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/mehdi-hasan/2010/07/world-cup-goal-neuer-football

But how impressive and gutsy is Gyan? After missing that penalty, he steps right up to take the first spot kick in the shootout, rifling it into the top corner.

I’ve not taken the time to research this – surprise, surprise – but if memory serves me correctly, I vaguely remember a similar thing happening in a group stage match at the 1994 World Cup, coincidentally involving Uruguay. A deliberate handball led to a sending off and a missed penalty, and victory for Uruguay. I also remember a Champions League match – I think a quarterfinal - a few years back, where a similar incident occurred, but the referee actually awarded the goal and sent the defender off, the announcers at the time saying that it was a judgement call on the referee’s part. Can anyone recall either of these episodes?

For my money, the two best matches of the tourney were Slovakia v Italy and Uruguay v Ghana. The latter was arguably the most pulsating 120+ minutes of football I’ve ever seen, and my stomach was in knots. Both teams were going for it, throwing all caution to the wind in an attempt not to let it get settled by the penalty lottery.

And thank goodness the final didn’t go to penalties. Before the match kicked off, I was marginally going for Holland, but after those first 25-30 minutes of nasty, reckless challenges, I was leaning towards Spain. When Iniesta scored, I was just as happy as the room full of 9-14 year old Spanish kids I was watching it with. A well-deserved win for the tourney’s most deserving, complete side.

Though…how must Switzerland feel now, having beaten the best team in the world, in a match they could easily have won 2-0 or 3-0? Spain looked shaky in that encounter, and I’m really glad that I was able to watch that match (I had just arrived in Lviv and had other plans which didn’t materialise).

The Netherlands: what an interesting case. Gone are the halcyon days of epic, free-flowing Total Football and here are the days of cautious pragmatism, minimal wing-play and conservative passing. Many a fan of any side these days won’t complain too much if their team reaches – and wins – a final. But surely a lot of soul-searching has to go on when your time is merely a shell of its former glorious self, and in the case of the Dutch, resorts to a vicious, scabrous approach of hacking down players to advance their cause. The final was an ugly affair, and I didn’t envy the referees’ task one bit. If that were a normal league match, Holland would have ended the first half with 8 or 9 players on the pitch.

A good word from a Dutchman writing in the Guardian recently, on how the Dutch have altered their style of play over the recent past:

‘We play like Calvinists, and this frightens us. Van Marwijk’s boys play a sober game, without frivolity. They play with economy and with profit on their minds. And this touches us on a profound level. The old Calvinist caricature of the Hollander has long been laid to rest, at least among the Dutch themselves. But at the same time, every Dutchman fears it may be right, that we are victims of a faith that forbids indulgence in the things that make life worth living – a stupefying football win, for instance.’

When you’re used to being treated to some of the most gorgeous football on the planet, it must prompt an awful lot of anxious self-analysing of the future of your team. It will be interesting to see where the Dutch go from here. I’d say they might have even alienated a lot of neutrals around the world, this author included.

The rise of histrionics and play-acting? Or, plus ca change? Much like everyone else, I hate the diving, the writhing in pain and agony over niggly challenges, and players clutching their faces after getting brushed in the chest with an elbow. Don’t they realise they’ll be exposed as frauds by millions of viewers? But I’ve come to realise that this is now merely the latest ‘tactic’ adopted by the wiliest of players, and that far from condemning it, many actually seem to applaud them for this latest skill, the more so when they get away with it. I’ve gleaned this from talking to quite a few people over the past few weeks, and only when your team is a victim of such chicanery do people object. This is pretty tragic, in my book, and I hate seeing this.

Idiotic locals and one of my biggest sporting bugbears. Whilst watching England v Germany in a pub full of yobbos just outside London, after Lampard’s goal was disallowed one heavily drunken fool exclaimed, ‘that’s the worst call of this World Cup!’ Fair enough point, and perhaps he was right. But I couldn’t help playing the role of devil’s advocate, and so once the hoopla and initial hysteria had died down, I casually remarked on the two perfectly good American goals that had been disallowed. Bad move. As always in these situations, my accent exposes me as a complete fraud. Almost always I’m met with something along the lines of ‘you’re a bloody Yank, what do you know?’ (but often far, far worse) I won’t claim to be an expert, but after years of observation in British pubs over the years, I’d say I know more than 95% of the people in them. And the absolutely absurd, moronic things I hear are utterly astounding. The examples are too numerous and tedious to relate here, but the jingoism and ignorance about football never fail to astonish me.

But here’s one of my great pet hates when it comes to sport: after the post-Lampard ‘goal’ insults had tapered off, it transpired that none of the locals had watched anything other than England matches. These are the same locals, and types of people, who say ridiculous things like ‘Rooney is the greatest striker in the world’, ‘Ashley Cole is the best leftback on the planet’, and ‘England’s midfield is most amazing thing since sliced bread’, without actually watching anyone else play. I can’t stand this. Please, please, please don’t make such statements unless you follow loads of other teams and are qualified to make that assessment.

On three occasions, whilst back in the UK, I faced hostile opinion from the locals when I was brave enough to venture forth my opinion and correct some preposterous statement. Only once was I able to have a decent, good-natured discussion. English pubs are scary places to be during football matches.

Another thing I noticed in this World Cup. It was good to get back to an English-speaking country for the knock-out round where I could finally fully understand the commentary and always be aware of the score and time remaining (for whatever reason, Russian and Ukrainian TV never show the score or clock, which drove me up the wall). But what’s with all the Messianic talk these days? I lost count of the number of times I heard commentators say things like ‘the USA will come again’ and ‘don’t count out Uruguay, they will come again’. In both of these cases, the respective teams did actually equalize within mere minutes of the commentator uttering these prophetic words. I had never noticed such talk before, and it kind of creeped me out.

So, did I enjoy it? It wasn’t very pretty football, most of the time. The quality of the finals seems to deteriorate every four years, and there’s absolutely no doubt about it that the most exciting, end-to-end international football can be found in the Champions League. From a selfish point of view, I’m not sure whether I am able to develop my theory any further – I watched a handful of matches with an astute eye and open notebook, but too many of them were watched in a bleary-eyed haze of vodka and beer whilst travelling. For the most part, I enjoyed it, though this is coming from someone who once watched a 2nd division Nigerian match and claimed it was great football. It’s all relative, really.

Still, I’ve been afflicted with a shade of post-tourney depression. After most World Cups, I get pretty down after it’s all over, but at least now I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied until the next big tournament rolls around, Euro 2012 in Poland and Ukraine.

The best part? No more of those wretched f---ing vuvuzelas. And thank goodness for that – those things were an earsore, drowning out the chanting, hissing and boos and making my head swarm at times. In person, I can’t even imagine how terrible it must have sounded. My fear in 2012 is that we’ll be subjected to the Eastern European ‘weapon’ of choice, the obnoxiously annoying horns that were a feature of every Ukrainian league or national match. They are almost as bad, and I fear that they will become a phenomenon in two years’ time. I certainly hope not. I’m all for respecting local traditions, but can’t we have just the slightest bit of sophistication and artistry when it comes to noise-making? That’s why nothing will ever beat English chanting and its originality, flavour and passion. It’s glorious stuff, and best of all, there’s nothing artificial about it.

That will be all for the football chat now. I’ll resort to my usual lines of thought – booze, women and travelling shenanigans – in future posts.