Hiding in Bed with Anna Friel

It's been a hell of a week. Emotions have been running high and stress levels through the roof. But then, that's the trouble with being a teacher.

Last week was the end of term. Our school, being an international college, runs on a twelve week rotation, meaning we change classes every three months. Usually, this is great; a new crop of students, fresh faces and whatnot. Unfortunately, however, I had been spoiled over the last few months with not only the most amazing collection of students I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, but also the greatest co-teacher I could have asked for. 

As such, when it came to saying goodbye last Friday, my usual proudness at a group graduating to the next level was coupled with utmost sadness at losing such a great class. Indeed, I was finally reduced to a blubbering heap by one of the Turkish boys, a man whose enormous size is matched only by his enormous heart.

And so, I arrived on Monday with a feeling of trepidation; much like the first day of school all over again, I wondered what my class would be like, what the teacher would be like, and whether the other kids would like me. And I'll admit, it's been a rough week; the students spent most of the first few days looking at me as if I was some kind of insane kid's TV presenter, or a car salesman not to be trusted. My co-teacher, meanwhile, has gone from a wonderful old lady with a mouth like a docker, to, well... Pretty much the opposite. We all need to get used to things.

But that's the problem with change; yes, it's good. It keeps us on our toes, forces us to encounter new people and new experiences, but it's also big and scary. We all like what we know, and although eventually everything new becomes something well-worn and hopefully well-loved, it takes time and effort, especially when it comes to new people. 

Winning over a class is usually one of my fortés, but this one seems to be taking a lot more work. Coupling that with running around organising birthdays and having nowhere to escape from the cacophony of everyday life, I was delighted to wake up this morning to silence. No shouting, no cars on the street below, no dog barking bitchily outside my door, no hubbub of indiscernible language, just the Sunday morning twitter of the birds in the park.

Having finally got a good night's sleep and waking up, of my own accord, to blissful peace, has revigourated my soul. Finally, after such a crappy week, I feel I can take on the world again... And now the cars have started honking by... Excuse me while I make a caccoon and watch Pushing Daisies for the rest of the day...

Taco Tuesdays with Marshall Eriksen

Mexican food is magical. I've already gushed about my love of all foods Mexicana, and indeed, it seems like this week is going to be very grub-heavy on this blog. I think I'm just tired of rice and pasta...

This weekend has seen the arrival of the Bournemouth Food Festival, a chance for local suppliers and restauranteers to show off their wares to the ever-hungry public. From local cheeses and oils to meats of every animal legal on British shores, the delicatessens have proved that you don't need to go far to find some truly delicious ingredients. Dorsey's chefs, meanwhile, have displayed an international rainbow of flavour, from the well-known to the down-right bizarre.

Parked rather strikingly in the centre of the square, like some colossal harbinger of awesomeness has been The Mexican Taco Bus. Perhaps seeing such a flagrant display of peacocking from what should be one the world's most humble and family-based cuisines should have been a sign that my excitement would be far from fulfilled, but, like a lost ship seeking a lighthouse, I headed straight for that bus at full speed.

Now, aside from its extortionate overpricing, my steak taco was far from awful. It did, in fact, sate my taco pangs somewhat. No, I have simply been spoilt as far as tacos go. After my amazing night out at Mestizo's earlier this year (see my previous post on Cinco de Mayo) no taco outside of Mexico itself will ever be up to scratch.

But that's always the way. You have an amazing meal, and spend the rest of your life trying to match it.

I will never forget the burger I once had at some stall in Newcastle's MetroCentre over a decade ago. Best burger I've ever had. Was it really? Probably I've had better since, but nostalgia has nonetheless created a burger of unparalleled and unbeatable awesomeness that may never be beaten. Hollywood. Pizza in Aberystwyth serves the greatest calzones, and the finest steak I've ever indulged in was at a restaurant in some tiny town in mid-Wales that may not even exist anymore.

Every meal, however, is accompanied by a backstory. If the mood is right and the food at least mediocre, any glee found in a meal can be elevated beyond its means. There is no way that some of the dinners shared with close friends in cheap bars were actually better than those that I've had with lesser aquaintances at establishments twice the price, but the fondness with which we look back at those occasions makes the meal seem all the more delicious. Hollywood's calzones remain so magical as they often signified the end of a night of debauchery. My MetroCentre burger was on a Ferris Bueller day off school, whilst my Mesizo's, whilst undeniably damn good tacos, was a night spent with some of the most amazing people to have whirled so briefly into my life,

But there will be better. Of course there will. Well, perhaps not better tacos, but certainly there will be better pizzas, better burgers, better steaks. But, much like the hazy fondness of youth, nothing can surpass the glory of meals long since passed. Much like Marshall in his hunt for the Best Burger in New York, no taco will ever truly satisfy again. Not until I find that elusive red door.

The Hunt for Red Hot Pizza with Michelangelo

As a child I never really understood the appeal of pizza. Odd really, considering the enormous fan of Teenage Mutant Hero Turles that I was (and yes, in England, they were "heroes" rather than "ninjas" as ninjas were deemed by the BBC to be far too violent for youngsters in the early nineties), but pizza just seemed to be one of those bizarre "grown up" foods that were simply of no interest to me.

It's slightly odd, therefore, that two decades later, pizza has become my lifeblood. If asked by anyone what one food would I choose if I could only live off one foodstuff, pizza is inevitably the answer. Combining every food-group; dairy, vegetable, meat, carb.. Pizza is the perfect meal to illicit survival.

During my time in Japan, I struggled on a day to day basis to find any food that vaguely resembled the western pizza, sating my cravings only on my too few and too brief visits to Korea, a land where Pizza Hut is far more prevalent, 

Since my return to the UK, my pizza intake (and subsequently my girth) has increased exponentially; it's so easy to simply bung a pizza in the oven, to dial for a take out, or seek out that ellusive "great pizza" you once had on a night out.

Unfortunately, however, since moving to Bournemouth, I have struggled to find that perfect blend of much needed late night stodginess. True, I haven't exactly been living the Michael Alig lifestyle, and as such, my after-hours munchies have been few and far between, but so far, South Coast takeouts have failed to impress. 

It's not much I'm asking for;; a decent crust, a sauce that isn't bought in, and the right toppings-to-cheese ratio. If I can do it day in, day out for a year, then I'm pretty sure experienced shop owners should be able to manage. So after a night of debauchery, off to pick up my mandatory pepperoni on the ya home, I have once again been disappointed. So if anyone knows of where I can get a decent slice in Bournemouth, please let me know pronto!

Did You See That Ludicrous Display Last Night? with Maurice Moss

I've never quite understood the appeal of football. When the rest of the boys in my class at junior school were out on the football field, I could be found up in the classroom with the girls doing needlework (a delightful piece of sexual segregation that certainly wouldn't be allowed nowadays), and during my time in Japan I must have repeated over a thousand time that not ALL Englishmen are avid followers of Manchester United.

Indeed, whilst sat watching the opening game of this year's World Cup I must admit to turning to my Brazilian flatmate and asking to be reminded exactly how long a football match actually lasts for.

Amidst my general apathy towards the sport, however, I must admit to getting caught up somewhat in this year's festivities. With Manami collecting the Panini sticker album, and a big money sweepstake going on at work, it's difficult for my obsessive collecting, gambling adicted self not to get swept away in the wave of international celebration.

Working at a foreign language school has also made for a fun first week of the cup; the jovial rivalry between students is simply delightful to behold, with one of my Spanish girls in a semi-suicidal frenzy this morning in the wake of Spain's elimination, and the crowd of Colombian kids pouncing on me in unbridled joy at their team's success as I walked through Bournemouth this evening was just lovely.

Because really, that's what the World Cup is all about; for one month every four years, the whole world puts aside political rivalries and economic worries and instead celebrates in unity the wonderous array of cultures and society that our too often bleak planet has to offer. Watching peoples of every age, race and religion coming together and forgetting their differences is a truly heart-warming sight. The fact that there's football going on at the same time simply gives reason to unity.

So although I really couldn't care less whether or not England get anywhere this year (though I must admit to being somewhat in awe of Mr. Sturridge), I shall be following this year's cup avidly through my melting-pot of students. 

And, for the sake of the sweepstake, keeping my fingers crossed for Brazil taking home the prize.

A Little Poetry with Class B2.1

Trying to find new and interesting ways to practice writing skills with my international students can sometimes be something of a challenge. There are, after all, only so many essays that can written on growing up and the things you love about your home country. 

So today, in order to spice things up a bit, I decided today we would try our hand at a little bit of poetry. After a rather embarrassing moment with Edward Lear's Owl and the Pussycat, the class managed to put together a wonderfully eclectic mix of the moving and the downright bizarre, from Korean Sungjin's hilarious ode to cappuccinos, to Turkish Caglar's heartfelt dedication to his girlfriend back home. 

Getting the students to encorporate metaphor and simile whilst at the same time playing with rhyme and metre in order to express their feelings proved to be an adventurous and enjoyable exercise for all, and introduced the class to a new form of expression.

Whilst they were at work, I meanwhile jotted down this little piece, in fond dedication of a wonderful group of young individuals. Enjoy.

A class of young faces,

All eager to learn

Of grammar, and speaking,

And listening in turn.

Each one from a country,

So far, far way,

With dreams of the future

That will come some day.

"How are you this morning?

Any news that is cool?"

"Umm..", "Nothing special"

"As usual; school!"

Today is a test,

On how you can spell.

I'll ask the Koreans,

'Cause I can't very well!

KitKat for the winner,

The "entrepreneur".

Oh, darn it, it's Yoonhee,

"Please, Sungjin, beat her!"

So take from the class

The lessons I preach,

And find some new friends,

To share and to teach.

Three "no"s means "yes" with Sean Connery

James Bond is seen across the globe as the epitome of British suaveness. His daring antics, ingenious gadgets and penchant for unbelievably attractive women has kept audiences raptly awaiting his next adventure for the last fifty years.

I've been a huge fan of Bond since a very early age, indeed 007's adventures are one of the few things I can remember having regular in depth discussions with my day about - just yesterday in fact, having rewatched On Her Majesty's Secret Service, the inevitable debate as to why Lazenby just didn't work ensued.

But of course poor old George had some big shoes to fill, and his overly smooth, uncharacteristically romantic, hairless chested Bond was simply not what sixties fans wanted. And so, having recently been given the complete Bond DVD collection by my father, today we're taking a look at why sixties Bond is just so very iconic.

Setting the Standard

Connery may not be everyone's favourite, but he will always hold the the title of being the first (major) Bond. From his debut in 1962, Connery's unique delivery of the agent's introductory line will forever be THE way to say "Bond. James Bond".

The One-Liners

Connery has an unrivalled ability to deliver the cheesiest of bad puns in the most hilarious of ways. Shoot a man with a harpoon? I think he got the point! Electrocute a chap in a bathtub? Shocking! Connery's comic ability shone through without the cheesy whiff that accompanied later incarnations.

The Gadgets

Okay, so we haven't got to submarine cars (or invisible ones come to that), but the ejector seat in the Aston Martin, the super spy briefcase, even the collapsible helicopter all stand out as some of Jimmy's coolest toys. And Blofeld has some pretty nifty gear too; the table with the chairs that burn traitors, the piranha pool, a ruddy great volcano lair! And who can forget Oddjob's hat??

Good Ol' Fashioned Racism

Bond has never been the most politically correct of franchises; in a series that centres around a misogynistic international super-spy, it's difficult to not offend someone occasionally. But as we all know, racism was yet to be invented in the sixties, so Connery's plethora of racial slurs almost add to the kitch-ness of the time. Disguising yourself as a Japanese man, complete with eyelid implants? Oh Sean...

Sexy Sexism and General Rapey-ness

Much like racism, sexism had yet to be invented in the nineteen sixties. We all think of Bond as a smooth ladies' man, but watching back through Connery's adventures, we can now see what a massive chauvinist he was, and, worst still, a serial rapist. Yup, really. Watch them properly. Ninety percent of the women Connery "seduces" are coerced against their will. But dear god is he cool when he does it. Lovey dovey Lazenby never stood a snowman's chance in a volcano lair.

And so, as I shortly move on the Roger Moore's decade with the gun, I salute you Mr Connery. Sexist, racist and dangerously rapey, Connery remains one of the greatest secret agents of all time!

Gotta Catch a Cold with Ash Ketchum

I hate being ill. It's not the sickness itself that bugs me, it's the absolute futility in which one finds oneself. Actually being ill doesn't bother me; indeed, with the amount of allergies I fight against on my daily basis, I'm more than used to crippling sneezing fits and random phlegmy coughs. No,the thing that gets me down is being physically unable to go about my daily business.

In the last six years, I have taken a grand total of three days off work. The first was after being sent home from school in Kisarazu when I nigh on passed out in the middle of a class due to one of the plethora of bugs that fly around child-laden classrooms. When you spend your day to day life in a stuffy classroom surrounded by snotty, wheezy children,mits inevitable that eventually you'll succumb to one of their ailments.

The second was last year when, suffering from a crippling migraine, I foolishly accepted an unlabelled painkiller from my manager and thereafter spent the next twenty four hours recovering from anaphylactic shock.

And then came this morning.

After spending the last week fighting off the flu that has been flying around the college - indeed, what with moving house and dealing with Manami's likewise sickness, I've been far too busy and important to be bothered with such luxuries as influenza - I awoke feeling quite literally like death warmed up. Inability to move, my voice a tiny husk, and my chest feeling like a baby elephant had been asleep on it, I realised that after battling my way through classes the last three days, I was actually in no fit state to teach

Filled with the helpless self loathing that comes with the bad kind of duvet day, I have spent the last twelve hours slipping in and out of consciousness to an eclectic mix of John Hughes movies and the first season of Pokemon. So in need of comfort as I am, I even went as far as to break my own "no anime in English" rule and forwent my usual Japanese refresher course that comes with regaling in the adventures of Satoshi, Takeshi and Mitsuki (or Ash, Brock and Misty as they are more often known round these parts!).

That's the thing about teaching you see; one of the forgotten disadvantages is that you spend your entire working day sitting in a hot bed of sneezes and diseases, and yet you can't let yourself fall foul to any of them. Any drainage of energy will effect your performance (in both senses of the word), and it's a rare class indeed that will forgive you for a useless lesson (and on that note, a big thank you goes out to my afternoon class yesterday for laughing off my uncharacteristic exhaustion!)

Hopefully by tomorrow morning, I'll be back in working order, otherwise it's going to be another day of eighties cheese and poorly dubbed animation. 

Coughs and sneezes - gotta catch 'em all!