Exploding Snot with Mr. 5

Being ill is a pain in the backside. This is common knowledge; the headache, sore throat and general coughs and sneezes that we all have to go through a couple of times a year are just one of those perpetual annoyances that come with being human.

Unfortunately, when you're a teacher teaching an array of different nationalities from across the globe, each arriving in the country with a somewhat delicate immune system due to climate shock and countless hours spent in recycled airline air, you find yourself in a veritable Petri dish of coughs and colds pretty much throughout the year. 

Whilst teaching kindergarteners in Japanland, I quickly got used to the eternal nose picking and snot-flinging that comes, literally, hand-in-hand with teaching pre-schoolers, and learned that a man's best friend is a bottle of hand sanitiser kept at all times in his stylist yet affordable manbag.

When I began teaching adults, I truly believed that my part-time position as matron would make way for essay marking and tutorials.

Alas, it transpires that adults are even more sickness-ridden than their childhood counterparts, and no amount of barrocca and vitamin supliments can ward off the inevitable.

Of course, being a teacher, it's actually more hassle to take time off to recover than it is to organise and rely upon cover cover. Not to sound like a martyr, but we teachers, we've just got to push on through.

So do us a favour; if you're sick, stay at home! Think of your health, think of your classmates, and most importantly, think of your teacher!

'Cause as my mum always said "I'm far to busy and important to have time for the doctor."

The End of an Era with The New Directions

A friend recently ridiculed me for being a rock singer with a not-so-secret passion for high school musical comedy drama Glee.

I responded accordingly, telling him "good day" before storming out of the room in a strop.

The fact is, Glee has been a bizarre comfort to me over the last six years; yes, I will freely admit that I am a fan of the music (a capella has always been one of my favourite musical genres), but more than that, its perpetual underdog tale has struck many a heart string throughout it's six season run.

At its best, Glee is emotionally charged and touching, at its worst, it's saccharine and inherently twee. Fortunately, for the most part (save for the inevitable season five slump - find me a long-running TV show from the last few decades that did not take a seasonal nose-dive somewhere along the way), the good has outweighed the bad, and it's one of the few shows that has not only kept me coming back week after week, but also managed to keep me emotionally invested for its entire run.

The main reason for this lies in its original premise; teacher searching for creative output re-starts school glee club and leads them, against expectations, to victory. It's simple, but in its execution, it works beautifully. Mr. Schuester's struggle to balance his rocky private life, wavering bank balance and passion for his students pretty much rings true to every beat of my own life.

Why do I love Glee so much? Because I am Will Schuester.

Whether it's trying to juggle home life with work life, work life with creativity, or, most importantly, education with inspiration, I have connected with Mr. Schue from day one, and although the stories of the students have been touching; Kurt's coming out to his father (a scene which will always have resonance due to my own family circumstance), Puck's realisation that he will never amount to anything more than a Lima Loser, and Coach Bieste finally coming to terms with who she really is; it has always been Will's journey (excuse the pun) that has kept me watching week in, week out.

As the curtain closed on Glee this week, I was safe in the knowledge that tears would be abundant. And I was right. But not for the same reasons as the tweenage audience. I found myself in the shoes of my hero; watching as the students I had grown to love finally found their places in the world, I felt a strange sense of relief and pride as the lessons Schue had taught finally paid off.

In my own reality, I find myself believing once again that perhaps some day, I too can have my dream job, inspiring students and at the same time managing to take care of my own life. Eventually, I too will find that perfect balance between education, inspiration and aspiration...

Don't stop believing...

The Best of Both Worlds with Hannah Montana

I love being a teacher. Having slaves my way through kitchens, hotels and the bevy of crappy jobs that come with being an over-educated, under-experienced child of the eighties, the promises that come with schooling are somewhat quashed by the crushing reality that was the credit crunch. 

So when I finally, accidentally, stumbled into a career in education, I was delighted to discover a job that fed me both mentally and passionately.

Teaching allows a born entertainer to revel in the knowledge garnered through world travel with a love of performing to an ever-eager crowd.

Of course, as the education industry attracts such a rag-tag collection of wannabe actors and unrequited musicians, there are many of us left wanting that little bit more.

As such, I'm glad to have found myself nesting in the musical hubbub of Bournemouth. As I sit this evening waiting to go on as I headline one of the local acoustic nights for the second time in as many months, I  reflect upon the amazing opportunities that have been thrust towards me. 

Having only really embraced music about four years ago when Manami pushed me into taking a post as house musician at a local gaijin bar, it's amazing to think how very far my £5 guitar has taken me. From disgruntled line cook to the dual life of teacher by day to acoustic rocker by night, I feel privalages to be able to keep the candle burning at both ends.

Sure, my caffeine consumption has risen exponentially, but spiritually, I'm fulfilled. Right now, I'm definately enjoying the best if both worlds!

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...

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.

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!

Bank Holiday Weekend with Russell Brand

Having spent pretty much all of my professional career (in the UK at least) a slave to the service industry, I have never seen the wondrous thing that is a four-day weekend. So used, am I, to working, as chefs, waiting staff, emergency service workers and other such labourers are so accostomed, when everyone else is enjoying themselves, that even a glimpse of sunlight was once a treasured gift. We work the weekends, the late nights, and most unsociably, the holidays. Whether it be Christmas, New Year or Easter, the call of the service industry is never-ending, so remember to tip well and forgive the occasionally disgruntled employee when you're out having a whale of a time.

This year, however, I have had the utmost joy of actually being able to spend a bank holiday weekend with my feet up. Four days without work (Friday and Monday being paid, of course, or else I would have clocked in and put my feet up in my classroom!) has allowed me for once to see how the other half live. It's also given me a ruddy well-earned break after the eventful and exhausting first month at my new place of employment.

A picnic on the beach, followed by the not-quite-amazing-but-certainly-better-than-the-first Amazing Spider-Man 2 on the gloriously sunny Good Friday, a day in the park on an equally fair-weathered Saturday, museums and ramen followed by movie night with good friends on a rainy Easter Sunday before finally getting all those menial weekendy things done today. Top it all off with a tummy filled with M&S Easter eggs, and we have a most joyous weekend indeed (I shall omit the fact that I've just sat through the rather terrible "Hop" on TV this evening!)

But as you sit back this evening, fully relaxed and raring to hit the office tomorrow morning for another four-day week, spare a momentary thought for those who have not had the same luck. The chefs that cooked your wonderful meals out this weekend, the disgruntled teens that served them. The shop staff that found you those last minute eggs at five thirty on Saturday. And most importantly the emergency services that have been overworked as a result of the tomfoolery of all-too-excited folks with weekends of alcoholic mischief. They're the ones that really deserved the break. 

As a kitchen veteran though I've ruddy well earned mine!

Osmosis is... With Sabrina Spellman

Let's face it, the are always a dozen jobs that need doing that we really cannot in our heart of hearts be bothered to get on with. 

During one of my classes today I discussed with some of my Latin students the concept of "mañana mañana", that being putting things off until the tomorrow which, of course, never actually comes. They were delighted to know that we have a word for it in English; procrastination.

pro·cras·ti·nate   (prō-krăs′tə-nāt′, prə-)

v. pro·cras·ti·nat·ed, pro·cras·ti·nat·ing, pro·cras·ti·nates

v.intr.

To put off doing something, especially out of habitual carelessness or laziness.

v.tr.

To postpone or delay needlessly.

---

[Latin prōcrāstināre, prōcrāstināt- : prō-, forward; see pro-¹ + crāstinus, of tomorrow (fromcrās, tomorrow).]

---

pro·cras′ti·na′tion n.

pro·cras′ti·na′tor n.

I'd love to be able to say that I'm not a slave to this dispicable affliction, but indeed this blog itself is often a means to waste time before doing a more pressing task. Over the course of this evening, I've made four cups of tea, taken a bath, watched two episodes of American Horror Story (my new favourite show), Masterchef, and the episode of Sabrina that inspired this post's title, as well as taking various toilet and tobacco breaks, all in the vain hope that the pile of marking that I've been periodically making my way through would somehow disappear whilst I was off doing something more interesting.

But of course it doesn't. I'd like to preach to you, dear reader, on the dangers of leaving things to the last minute, but in all honesty, I would be an utter hypocrite to do so. What I will say, however, is that those dishes aren't going to do themselves, those lesson plans are going to magically fill in, and not even owning a talking feline is going to get those exam papers marked. So sure, stick the telly on, get yourself a cup of tea, but the sooner it gets done, the sooner you can relinquish that little whisper of guilt in the back of your mind.

Learn from the Spanish; tomorrow never comes.

Back to School with Will Schuester

The first day of school is, if American sitcoms are to be believed, one of the most terrifying days of a person's life. Fortunately, perhaps, I have absolutely no recollection of starting primary school. Sure, there is a faded photograph on the piano of me in my brown shorts and school cap, but as far as a cognitive memory goes, nothing. I do remember starting school in Durham after out monumental move to the North at the age of ten, and the subsequent teasing for my "cockney" accent, and my first day of secondary school, huddled in a corner with my small handful of primary school companions, fearing for our lives in the shadow of the sixth-form giants that surrounded us.

Nevertheless, these first days pale in comparison when weighed against the terror of walking into a school as the newest member of staff.

I've taught English as a foreign language on and off now for five years (the off period being the year and a bit since my return from Japan, during which I've managed little more than a cover post here and there) and find few greater pleasures in life than that clichéd reason every teacher gives; inspiring a class. I'm sure in the future I'll blog endlessly on the joys of being an awesome teacher, but that's a big-headed story for a more smug day.

This morning, however, as I arrived for my first day at one of Bournemouth's leading language schools, quaking in my stylish yet affordable boots, I realised how I must have felt all those years ago on my first day at West Dene Primary School.

Would the kids like me? How hard would the lessons be? What would the teachers be like? How terrible would the lunch be? Really, it's amazing how similar the questions of a new teacher are to those of a quivering schoolboy. 

I guess the main difference between starting a teaching post and starting any other job is that with most jobs, you can hide behind contemporaries for your first few days, whereas it's very tricky to hide when leading a class. Indeed, it rather defeats the point of the post in the first place. Much like acting, being a teacher puts you in the spotlight, performing to an audience that you must not only entertain, but more importantly educate. Perhaps that's why so many graduates with drama degrees end up as teachers; it's almost like a stable acting post. 

Fortunately, however, the kids did like me, the lessons, for the most part, went pretty well, the teachers are lovely, and I took my own packed lunch. So generally, my nerves were all for naught. Bring on day two. Now, all I need to do is assemble my own multi-lingual glee club...

Famous Last Shifts with Mila Kunis

I've had a lot of different jobs in my lifetime. So many in fact that most people, when meeting me for the first time, find it hard to believe that one man could have been head chef, hotel manager, English teacher, house musician and advertising agent by the age of twenty seven. But I have. It probably helps that I haven't been out of a job (technically, though not necessarily psychologically) since the age of fourteen. Subsequently, however, I've had a lot of "last days". Many of these I remember with fondness, some I barely remember at all, and some I still look back upon with a sense of regret.

I guess that's always the way when moving on to pastures new. Save for being made redundant twice last year, leaving has been, for the most part, my choice. I've always strived for better, and having been stuck in the service industry for much of my career, can you really blame me?

So to mark my final day as Farnley Tower Hotel's breakfast chef/assistant general dogsbody (after a year and a half of searching, I've finally found a teaching position in Bournemouth of all places!), I thought I'd take a look back on some of my previous "last days".

Rock 'n' Amigos

My first job (paper rounds not included) was in a twee Mexican restaurant in Durham city. I started out waiting tables before the head chef took something of a shine to me and moved me into the kitchen. At sixteen it was quite cool to be able to tell people at school that I was a chef, though looking back I was really little more than a glorified kitchen porter. It was here, however, that I learned the basics of the trade that would both support and haunt me for the next decade. Unfortunately, my father (always an overbearing presence in my life) took a disliking to the fact that I was working unsociable shifts for three pounds an hour and essentially told me I wasn't to go back. Ho hum.

Dogs' Trust

Advertising? Dogs? What a great mix! No, not really. My advice to anyone who sees an ad for "at least 23k" commission only work is to steer well clear unless you enjoy traipsing the streets in all weather for about £100 a week. My "career" in marketing lasted less than a month before I politely informed them it wasn't for me.

Salt

Salt was a pretty fun place to work; I was at their Aberystwyth restaurant for two years during university before becoming sous chef in their Cardiff Bay site for a year and then subsequently returning to Aber whilst sofa hopping as the gods on high took their merry time processing my visa for Japan. The staff were great, and many of them have become my friends for life. The stories that the submarine-like kitchen could tell are endless (indeed, my fry cook at the time - the one who inspired me to go to Japan - did in fact write a "kids book" called The Happy Little Fry Cook). When I left Salt, I was thrown a huge Japanese themed do which involved me dressing up as a Hentai schoolgirl. Like most restaurants, I left with the bittersweet feeling of relief and fondness.

WinBe English School

I loved this job. I truly did. It's because of my time in Japan that I have spent the last eighteen months desperately trying to return to teaching. I left due to an acrid mix of wanting to return to the "normality" of the UK and longing to see friends and family again. And cheese. Dear god I missed cheese. Saying goodbye to the ninety or so kids that I had taught and watched grow over my years at the school was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, but the blow was lessened by the amazing barbecue and booze-up thrown by the bar that I had spent my weekends singing in. Unfortunately my totes emosh leaving speech is somewhere on YouTube. Oh the humanity!

Mrs Mustard's

Mustard's was one of the toughest jobs I've ever had to endure. After returning from Japan, I found it nigh on impossible to find work and inevitably found myself back in the kitchen. Unlike previous culinary exploits, however, we had a very tense head chef (from the school of Marco Pierre White) and a kitchen haunted by poltergeists. Seriously. I nearly died one day when the ceiling collapsed where I had been standing a split second before. Our last day at Mustard's will always stand out as the day I turned up for work as usual to find the bailiffs emptying the place. Much drunkeness ensued, followed by a week trudging through three feet of snow before I found...

The Establishment

Of all the restaurants I've worked, the 'stab has been my favourite. As head chef, I developed my own menu, did a heck of a lot of baking, and, most importantly, got to work with the most amazing team I've ever had the privalage to be stuck with. Unfortunately, the restaurant just wasn't making enough money, and we were forced to close. Our final night was the George Gently wrap party, and myself and the team had an awesome evening throwing cocktails and shapes with the stars of the show before having one of those manly emotional moments as the doors finally closed. Save for WinBe, leaving The Establishment was my saddest last day to date. Which brings us finally to...

Farnley Tower Hotel

Farnley is like my safety net; ten minutes from my childhood home, I have worked here sporadically for the last decade, and was fortunate (if that's the right word) that a position arose the same week the Establishment shut down. Returning to somewhere you worked as a teenager, before the degree, the masters, the teaching... It rather gets you down. But you get through it, and as I said in my blog with Mr. Luhrman, it's worth it in the end.

As Justin Beiber said, never give up!

Am I seriously leaving on that? No. Here's a picture of Mila Kunis on a cliff instead. Enjoy.