A Giant Bath with Tony Montana

I've been rather offline of late; indeed the last few weeks I have found myself in something of a late-twenties crisis (possibly mid-life... At this point, who knows?). As the turning point of thirty looms ever-closer, I feel the need to sort my life out a'proper. 

If I had asked my teenage self where I thought I would be as I approach the end of my third decade on this earth, I would have, without doubt, seen myself in a comfortable job (with a pretty high level of employment security), owning a small but cosy house somewhere in the 'burbs, with a dog and a nice little run-around car. Once upon a generation, these things were not beyond the reach of a young professional.

Instead, however, I find myself in a job, which although I love dearly, offers as much security as a chocolate fireman in the ever-tempestuous market of the EFL industry. I am living at the bottom of my overdraft in a job which, if my P60 is anything to believe, offers a net salary somewhere below the national minimum wage, supplemented by all-weather busking and private lessons with all-too-often sporadic students.

As such, I have had my head down of late, battling against the rising tide of depression with a trident of determination set on sorting my ruddy life out once and for all.

The dreamer in me has finally summoned the courage to do what I have been promising myself for years, and has auditioned for both The Voice and The X-Factor in the unlikely and yet seemingly possible fast-pass to a smidgeon of success, and although I have no pretence of getting anywhere, I have already made it through a couple of rounds of the former, so perhaps I stand a half chance of at least a few wedding gigs out of it if I can get some TV exposure.

The realist, meanwhile, is fighting valiantly against the ever-baying wolves of bills at the door, and is beginning to wonder whether it's time to pack in this teaching malarkey. Sure, I love my students, but it's time now to look to the future, and perhaps a job in copywriting would be a little more financially viable. Sure, I wouldn't enjoy it quite as much, but at least perhaps I could take a bit of a breather once in a while when it comes to the battle between monthly bills and the decision to eat.

So apologies, dear reader, for a somewhat more bleak than usual post, but this is where I have been of late. With continued oomph, perhaps soon I'll get out of this slump, both financial and psychological, and get some more positive posts coming your way. 

The day I can afford a bath I can actually lay down in and take a load off; that'll be the day I can relax.

On the plus side, only eleven days 'till Jurassic World! Suppose it's not all doom and gloom!

A Trip to the Vet with Nami and Robin

Owning a pet is great. Having been a constant animal owner since before I was even born, I can honestly say that an animal in the house is a source of perpetual amusement and companionship. Over the course of my life, I've had two very different dogs, one a bizarre mongrel (who we think may have been the unfortunate partenering of a King Charles Spaniel and a Rottweiler) and one an utterly insane Labrador who generally believes herself to be an oversized housecat. I've also had the pleasure of owning an overly affectionate (if somewhat destructive) house rabbit who although cost us nothing to adopt, did end up losing us £600 in deposit money after eating his way through an leather sofa. 

My favourite pets, however, have been my guinea pigs, the first pair of which I was bought during my third year at university by my well-meaning friends as a way to combat my crushing bachelorhood. The boys, Oz and Warren (named after characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer of course) were a cantankerous pair who lived to the ripe old guinea pig age of eight, Oz, rather amazingly, playing the role of Odysseus' dog Argos in faithfully waiting until I finally returned from my adventures in the Far East before shuffling off this mortal coil.

A few months ago, having gone somewhat petless for the last year (the neurotic Labrador still living with my mother in the North East) I decided to look into getting a new pair of guinea pigs to bring a bit of joy to the home (and also to further delay any more conversations about potential tiny feet...). Having looked around the local pet shops without finding the right piglets for us, we when somewhat taken aback to discover a pair of female Peruvian Long-hairs up for adoption.

Now, if, like most (and myself to be frank; I'd always thought a guinea pig was a guinea pig), you are unversed in the plethora of cavy breeds, the Peruvian can best be described as the love child of Cousin It and Mick Jagger; a quivering ball of fur with a very self-important strut. Not realising yet what a handful they would turn out to be, we took in the pretty pair, naming them Nami and Robin (the two main female characters in Oda Sensei's One Piece) and settled them into their new home.

Of course, what the pet shops don't tell you is that having pets that look like they could be in a L'oreal advert comes at the rather time-consuming cost of having to groom the little blighted on a daily basis. For Robin, it's not too much of an issue. Nami meanwhile will squeal and scream at the top of her lungs as soon as you go anywhere near her with a comb, let alone a pair of scissors. Unfortunately, this utterly abstinence from the clippers means the girls have to go to the vet once a month for a makeover.

And this is where the negative side of pet ownership comes into play; vets' bills. For a five minute nail clip and bottom trim, each pig costs the ridiculous sum of £18. That's £36 for the pair. Had I known this prior to their arrival, I would've got a pair of bog-standard piglets and let them get on with their lives. But no; I had to get the ruddy Kardashians of the rodent world.

So a word of warning to all; pets are great, but be careful what you choose, 'cause a pet is for life, and so are your credit card bills.

Days Off with BMO

When you're a teacher trying to make his merry way in this world, a day to yourself when you have absolutely nothing to worry about; no marking, no problematic students, and, heaven forbid, no bureaucratic nonsense, comes about as often as finding a fresh fifty pound note laying in your path in the street.

So, on a peaceful Sunday morning (and by morning, I mean afternoon - you know it's a proper day off when you can still be in your pjs at 1pm with no guilt) I find myself thinking of the perfect ways to spend a day off. For your reading pleasure, here's my top five...

Cartoons

As any long-term readers of this blog know, I spend a vast amount of my precious free time indulging my nostalgia by watching the cavalcade of cartoony goodness from my youth. Whether it's a classic Disney series, or a piece of modern gold such as Adventure Time, there's nothing more enjoyable than some good quality kids' TV. In fact, one of the few reasons I have for actually having kids in the near future is to allow myself to continue watching cartoons under the pretence of it being for their enjoyment. "You want to watch Octonauts? Shuttup, Darkwing Duck's on!"

Baking

I don't bake as much as I'd like. Indeed, until about three years ago, I hated baking and was adamant that I was a cook and not a baker. Times change, and having somewhat been forced into the craft at a restaurant I was briefly working at, I have finally come to see the joys of throwing a bunch of stuff in a cake tin and hoping for the best!

Comic Sorting

I've always had a passion for alphabetising, coupled with a lifelong affinity for superheroes. Thus there are few greater joys in my life than hours spent lovingly putting comics into plastic envelopes and sorting them into chronological order. Dear god I lead a sad existence...

Gardening

I never thought I'd be the gardening type. Indeed, as a kid I absolutely hated the hours spent in the shed with my father on some cockamamie DIY project. It's rather odd then that when we moved to our current flat, I found a strange affinity with our shed. As soon as the sun comes out, I find myself outside, Bon Jovi blaring, potting and repotting the various fruits and veggies that we've currently growing on the veranda. Eventually, I might even get this kiwi tree to grow. The avocado's certainly looking healthy!

Busking

Street performing has becoming something of a zen-like experience to me now. No matter how bad my day at work, a couple of hours with my guitar, making a few extra pennies, has become the highlight of my week. Music is the universal medicine, and actually being appreciated for it quite frankly is awesome.

Unfortunately, having spent the day geeking out, I've now for a pile of ironing to work through. At least I've got Finn and Jake to keep me company though. Guess what time it is?

It's Ironing Time!

At the Terminal with Kurt Wagner

I hate airports. Cold, faceless gateways to the world, there are in fact very few that instil any sense of excitement about the holiday to come.

Having spent a depressingly large proportion of the last decade arriving and departing from various destinations across the globe, I have come to regard airports with the same suspicious loathing with which they regard me.

Nowhere else in life are you expected to arrive hours early simply to be bundled into a cramped, noisy, smelly room and be grinned at inanely by people with more makeup on than Ronald McDonald. Once ushered through the gates, a minimum of one whole hour before the flight (indeed the one you already checked on to online the evening before), you are greeted by a landscape of unsmiling travellers, perched miserably on their luggage as the inevitable news of flight delays are delivered by faceless flatscreens, charged extortionate amounts for mediocre coffee, and (unless you luckily happen to be in Asia or Amsterdan), denied even the simplest of luxuries in a relaxing cigarette before your twelve hour flight.

Perhaps if I didn't hate flying quite as much as I do, airports wouldn't be quite as bad, but as I sit here at Southampton terminal waiting for the first of four flights this week (two of which being entirely superfluous - I'm having to fly up to Newcastle in order to catch another flight southbound, straight over my ruddy house in Bournemouth), a cacophony of babies crying and possibly braindead teens ringing in my ears, and a severe case of the sniffles adding to my grumbliness, I can't help but thinking maybe I should have just stayed home.

But then again, I'm finally going on my first holiday in four years, so perhaps it'll be worth it in the end...

If only I could teleport...

I'm Getting Too Old For This Sh*t with Roger Murtaugh

So the weekend of debauchery went ahead much as planned, with a delightfully civilised meal with friends and colleagues on Saturday evening followed by karaoke until the early hours of Sunday morning. This, topped off with an epic game of laser tag (consisting mostly of us ganging up on prepubescents in order to claim the crown), and much fun was had all round.

Unfortunately, with the new term kicking off at school this morning, I awoke feeling far from fresh as a daisy. 

A three-day-in-the-making hangover was coupled with the aching joints that follow running around in the dark like a madman, pretending to be District Attorney Dredd (not long before the promotion), lead to a general realisation that I am indeed, getting too old for this shit.

As experienced by the cast of How I Met Your Mother, Murtaugh's law states that eventually we all reach a point in our lives when we simply cannot handle the frivolous activities we once enjoyed; whether they be busting some ass on the mean streets, or simply busting a move at 2am, eventually we all have to grow up, or at least deal with the consequences of desperately clinging on to our youths.

Of course, my clinging usually entails playing with Lego and watching copious amounts of Disney movies (my knowledge of which never fails to come in handy in my line if work - a brief verse of "Let it Go" always breaks a smile on even the most morose of children), but nonetheless, a good old fashioned outburst of stupidity, whether it be shooting the heck out of strangers, or a spontaneous slut-drop to Ke$ha, is sometimes very much in order.

I fear that in the coming future, my body's tolerance to my childish exploits will continue to lessen, but when all's said and done, it's a price I'm willing to pay for being awesome.

'Cause after all, you're never too old for anything.

Except possibly dungarees...

I Gotta Feelin' with Will I Am

Having done absolutely nothing for my birthday last year (we had not long moved down to Bournemouth, and as such were both penniless and rather lacking of a social circle), I decided that this year, in honour of my final twenty-something anniversary, celebrations were in order. Only one more year before the big three-oh, and therefore one last chance to keep a fleeting hold of my ever-disappearing childhood.

So, nursing a rotten hangover, brought on by Belgian drinking games and end of term partying, I have spent the morning fumigating the house and guinea pigs, readying for the arrival of friends from afar.

Stinking of bleach, I'm now sitting on the bus on my way to fill my tum with ramen before this evening's festivities begin.

So how to celebrate? Why with three of my favourite nostalgic exploits of course! Pizza, karaoke and laser quest!

Indeed, it's funny how, as a child, your birthday is all about the excitement of presents and being utterly spoiled for a day. As we get older, however, these things become rather trivial - in fact, save for a rather groovy Pokémon t-shirt, there's nothing I actually want present-wise (that's not to say I shan't be delightfully chuffed by whatever gifts do happen to come my way...) and am instead just looking forward to meeting up with friends I haven't seen in far too long and getting up to some ridiculous antics.

Over the next few days, expect battle reports of the great laser tag revolution, hideous caterwalling karaoke clips, and, most importanly, the continuation of my present state of hungoverness.

'Cause I've got a feelin' (wooohoooo!)

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."

Sorry for the Inconvenience with George Agdgdgwngo

I hate banks. To be quite honest, I'm tempted to embrace the ideologies of our fore-fathers and start burying my pitiful savings in burlap sacks in conveniently hidden places around my house and garden to be forgotten about until the future tenants luckily stumble upon them decades from now.

Of course, by that point, I will have died in abject poverty, and the noble pound sterling will have been replaced by that wonderful representative of utopia gone wrong, the Euro.

Banks seem to deride a masochistic amount of pleasure charging extortionate fees for the most trivial of mistakes, and yet realistically, all they do is profit from the profit of others.

This morning (a sleepy Sunday may I add), I was rudely awoken by "James" calling from the Halifax to inform me that I had exceeded my credit card spending limit, and that he was terribly sorry to inconvenience me, but I would be being charged twenty four pounds for the courtesy of his calling.

Now, normally this would have irked me somewhat, and I would have done the natural British thing and apologised profusely, dealing with the matter at the closest possible time. Unfortunately for "James", however, I had already dealt with the problem with another jolly representative from ten thousand miles away, and then again on Friday with yet another overly-chummy Halifax employee based somewhere in Mumbai.

Call me cynical, but surely all of these long distance calls, and indeed a calibre of workforce able to actually make a simple note stating that the balance would be settled via my next scheduled payment would negate the need for extortionate bank fees? One phone call from a centre just down the road, with a representative qualified enough to simply unclick the "keep calling this poor sap halfway across the world" box would save our dear British bank a heck of a lot of money.

Add to this the rage of being awoken from a peaceful slumber by inane mandatory security questions first thing on a Sunday morning, and quite frankly you should be sorry for the bloody inconvenience. And you should be grateful for my twenty years of custom thankyouverymuch "James". So you can stuff your fees up your jacksy, elswise I'll be spending this month's paycheck on burlap sacks and shovels.

Douchebags.

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...

Dinosaur Hunting with Hannah Spearritt's Pants

The general cacophony of modern life has been wearing me down of late. The inability to escape from the hubbub of city life, coupled with the never-ending noise that comes with working in a multi-lingual environment is usually partnered with the respite of being able to go home and switch off both ears and brains after a long day at the office.

Unfortunately, when you live in the gay quarter of town, and your nights are punctuated by hourly renditions of Rocky Horror's "Sweet Transvestite", the sound of the city can eventually lead you into a state of murderous rage.

The problem is, I'm a country boy at heart. Although I love the culture and the internationality of urban living, at heart I still crave nature. The tranquility of sitting on a beach, or in the middle of a forrest, undisturbed by anything or anyone is base need for my Shintoist soul. Indeed, if there is one singular thing that I miss about life in Japan, it's the ability to find peace in even the most built-up of areas, the Islands of serenity set aside mid-city for those much needed moments of spiritual calm.

So, after another exhausting week amidst the humdrum, and enduring the outlandish behaviour that came hand in hand with Bournemouth Pride this weekend, I decided to head to the New Forrest for a peaceful cure to the deafening drone of modernity.

The New Forrest, home not only to wild horse and dinosaurs (being the main location of filming for Primeval, one of the most underrated sci-fi series of the last decade, made famous by its awesome cgi dinosaurs, and gratuitous shots of Hannah Spearritt's knickers), is a real retreat into the natural world. After jumping on the train to Brockenhurst (a wonderful little village with a plethora of charming pubs), we made our way past the ponies into the heart of the woods.

Laying atop a fallen tree for a half hour or so, I finally achieved the meditative few moments I have been craving for the last few months. Zen is hard to come by in any built-up metropolis, but for what may be the first time since leaving Japan, I finally found a half-ounce of inner peace. Breathing in the fresh, woody air, listening to nothing more than the occasional tweeting of birds, nothing in the world could have made me happier.

Except perhaps a dinosaur.

Or Hannah Spearritt's infamous pants...

A Well-Earned Weekender with Shakira

Finding the time to treat yourself can at times be a real hassle in our hectic modern lives. We sleep, we work, we eat, and thereafter exhaustion sets in. Wash, rinse, repeat. A moment to oneself is a treasured thing, and a moment to oneself when we can actually do something enjoyable is often nigh on impossible.

After the longest week imaginable (despite loving the juggling of my dual personality, it's becoming more and more difficult burning the candle at both ends!), I was treated yesterday to the greatest school trip I have ever been on. Almost twenty years after it opened, I finally got the chance to go to Legoland Windsor, a day out that allowed my inner child to escape and run free for a full six hours of ages 5-13 fun.

As anyone who knows me is inherently aware, I have something of an obsession with Lego, and would happily while away my monthly salary on set after set were it not for more mundane things like rent and electricity bills. 

And so it was with childish glee that I spent the day gallivanting about the little people (both toddlers and plastic minifigures), caring not particularly for the rides, but instead marvelling at the microscopic architecture, dreaming of the day that I will eventually be able to rule over my own Lego Kingdom.

I returned home sated and pooped out, revelling in even more good fortune as I found a discarded Metropolis framed poster on my amble home.

To top off my self-indulgent weekend, Manami and I have just gorged ourselves on Columbian treats; meaty, fruity, spicy goodness that added up to the best meal I have had in months. Not even yogurt from Shakira's belly button would have surpassed this South American smorgasbord. 

My inner child delighted, my inner geek feeling lucky, and my corpulent stomach filled with finery, this week's trials and tribulations have most certainly paid off!

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...

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!

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!

Weird Dreams with Gwyneth Paltrow

For millennia, dreams have confounded mankind. Their lucid yet detached imagery has forever been the subject of debate as to meaning, foresight, or simple craziness of the human psyche.

For the most part, dreams are simply a mish-mash of whatever has been on your mind as of late, whether it be stress, worries, or bizarre thoughts that you've had during the day, all culminating in a wonderland of colour and nonsense. The narrative of dreams is often a TARDIS ride like journey, jumping through time in a way that somehow makes sense within the dream, but when we wake up, we wonder how on earth our mind could have accepted jumping from place to place so rapidly. Indeed, it's much like trying to recall an evening spent drinking absinthe; you know you were in certain places at certain times, but god knows how you got there!

I've been having some pretty crazy dreams recently. I don't know whether it's down to stress (not likely, as I'm pretty happy at the mo), the cold I'm valiantly fighting against, or the vast amounts of cheese I'm eating before bedtime. Whichever it is, my dreaming this week has run the full range from delightfully intriguing to wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat terrifying.

This is why I begin to wonder exactly where my dreams are coming from;

Thursday's dream involved me going for a drink with a member of my family (who shall remain anonymous for legal reasons) in a dank, underground pub, talking about everyday things and whatnot, when suddenly another family member appeared from the shadows, clad in a leather trench coat before surreptitiously beating the first relative into a bloody, dead pulp. I awoke from this nightmare in an uncharacteristic cold sweat. 

So this is where I begin to wonder about how much reality reflects the dreams we have; true, the family members involved are not on the best of terms, but they are folk that I have had little (in one case) to no (in the other) contact with in a fairly long time, and the situation is far from anything I've ever come across. All round weirdness.

And indeed the direct contrast to last night's dream in which I found myself dating Gwyneth Paltrow after meeting her on the set of Glee. Now, I've nothing against Miss Paltrow... She wouldn't necessarily make my top ten list by any means, and I've already professed my adoration for Glee, and as enjoyable as a night at the theatre was, I once again found myself waking up terrified when her male PA decided to fill in for her at the end of the evening...

So where are these bizarre dreams coming from? Is it related to my aforementioned coffee addiction? Or am I simply just a mess of insanity? Probably a bit of both. But you know what? A few more celebrity dates certainly wouldn't go amiss!

Cafe Nervosa with Lindsay Lohan

Im a man of a lot of vices. Most of them I could quit given any inkling of motivation; I can go for weeks without a drink, and smoking is really little more than a social exercise nowadays. Indeed, If it weren't for the weekly "staff meeting" at the Goat and Tricycle, I could probably pass on both of these habits quite easily.

That said, the one thing that I can never see myself cutting down on is the warming, life-affirming beverage that is pure, liquid lava. Coffee. Not your fancy frappuccinos or metrosexual mochas, I'm talking straight-up caffeine-dosed Colombian goodness.

I started drinking coffee at far too young an age to really be acceptable; during lunch breaks at school I would wander into town and pick up a double-shot americano from the local Costas (long before Durham was inevitably invaded by its evil American cousin Mr. Starbuck). Wandering back to class with a lidded paper cup in hand gave me a delightful sense of grown-up-ness and made me feel far more cultured than my classmates. Dear god I was a pretentious child. Not that that has changed all that much...

Of course, starting on caffeine at such an early age probably goes a long way to explain my ridiculously rapid heart rate... Hindsight's wonderful ain't it?

The reason I find myself concerned one, however is not the careening pulse, nor the fact that I cannot begin the day without at least two mugs of joe, but that my students have now come to see my mug as a permanent part of my anatomy. Whenever I'm in class and without a cuppa, at least one student will undoubtedly question the whereabouts of my coffee. If it's not with me, a wave of worried looks will wash across the room, followed by inquiries as to my well being.

I mean, it's nice to have students notice your quirks, and believe me, I have an abundance of them, but I'm beginning to wonder whether my dependence on the stuff is starting to be too big a part of who I am. Even now, as I write this entry at 10pm, I have a steaming mug next to me. It no longer affects my sleep, nor my moods, it's just a security blanket of which I'm afraid to let go.

Maybe my nervous disposition and general sleepiness can be traced back to all the caffeine, but you know what? I genuinely don't care. It's delicious, it's reassuring, and at the end of the day, there are worse things to be addicted to. I mean, at least it's not crack.

'Cause that always ends well, doesn't it Lindsay...

Pest Control with Henry Pym

Ants.

If there was ever a more annoying thing to find in your house, then colour me surprised. 

Having discovered one delightful little bugger on my coffee table the other morning, I was filled with a feeling of dread that suddenly, like in the classic B-movie "Them!", I was to be invaded by an unending stream of carnivorous beasts.

So when I awoke this morning to find not one but three scurrying across the countertop, I made it my mission to knock this little alien intrusion on its head before it could go any further.

Finding the source of the trouble was far from difficult; our front door is annoyingly old and as such has a gap larger than Springsteen's underbite through which any beastie may enter unhindered into our crummy little condominium. Not two metres away, an army of tiny soldiers was erupting from a hole in the Tarmac.

Armed with no more than a boiling kettle and a can of Raid powder, yet feeling like John Goodman in "Arachnophobia", I set about the task of destroying their meticulously build home in one foul swoop of scalding hot rage. Ant powder copiously scattered around the door frame and hopefully that's the last we'll be seeing of the blighters.

Admittedly, of all the household pests, ants are probably the most harmless, and yet they are somehow the creepiest. Crawly little things giving you the willies? No one needs that.

So unless you're Antman and can tell them to bugger off, or Rick Morranis' shrunken children, knock that invasion on its head before summer sets in, 'cause they're about as welcome as, well, ants at a picnic!

A Giant Amongst Men with Jack Black

Being tall has its advantages. You stand out in a crowd, so rarely get lost in a nightclub. You can reach stuff on high shelves, and as such get that lovely sense of helpfulness when an old lady needs a poorly placed jar of jam in the supermarket. People look up to you (literally), and generally society seems to hold you in a slightly higher regard than those more vertically challenged.

Unfortunately, it also has some enormous downsides. 

Over the last few days, I have been experiencing some of the most crippling lumbar pains of my life. I find it hard to get up once sitting, and using the whiteboard at work has become utterly excruciating. Indeed, I feel rit now like the only thing that could relieve my pain would be for an army of Thai masseuseses to repeatedly stampede along the length of my spine.

Why such pain? I hear you ask... The answer is simple; I spend my entire gargantuan existence crouching down in order to hear people. Whether it's in the classroom or walking down the street, so as to engage in conversation with people more easily, I need to bend down slightly, else wise conversation gets lost in the lofty breeze that blusters around my snowy summit.

But this isn't the only problem with being so darn tall. I remember during my time in Japan, my commute on the metro would be hindered by having to crouch through un-ergonomic doorways, and even over here, I find myself banging my head on things that most people wouldn't even see above their heads.

As a fan of longcoats, I find my fashion choices limited by most garments falling far too short, giving somewhat of a Mr Bean air, and finding a jacket long enough in the arm is a rare thing indeed. Air travel is also a nightmare; if you've ever grumbled about leg-room on a flight, try fitting a gangly frame into economy class. It simply does not work, and you'll find toilet breaks a welcome reprieve on any long-haul flight.

That said, despite the lumbago and general annoyances that come with the altitude, being tall does allow you to occasionally feel superior. Someone makes a stupid point in an argument? Or is just being andouche in general? Just extend yourself to full height (probably cracking a few vertebra back into place in the process) and give yourself that rare moment of superiority that comes with being a giant amongst men... 

On a side note, whilst finding a picture for this post, I found myself remembering just how bloody awful Jack Black's Gulliver was... The scene with the transformer? 'Nuff said...

Being a Grown Up with Peter Griffin

I talked in the past many times about how being a grown up is rubbish. Along with the stream of social expectations and responsibilities you have to adhere to on a day to day basis, you also have to deal with greying hair, having to watch your diet, and aches and pains in parts of your body that you never even knew existed.

The most annoying thing about being a responsible adult, however, is having to cope with the daft little nigglings that come with living in your own home. Sure, having your own place brings freedom and a sense of finally taking a step towards getting somewhere in life, but it also leaves you having to deal with all those daft little tasks that you never realised needed doing...

The Plumbing

Nothing is more terrifying than the first time your boiler goes on the blink. The instruction manual (if anywhere to be found) is inevitably in some techno-babble completely nonsensical to anyone who hasn't studied particle physics. Thereafter, you finally garner some essence of understanding why your mum was always so stressed out whenever you needed to call in the boiler man. And let's face it, he's never going to have "that part" that's broken. Four weeks later, you're still using an electric heater and wondering why you didn't just find somewhere with a coal fire. At least then you wouldn't have to make tea and small talk with some hairy workman every other day for a fortnight.

Bills and Accounts

Not so much the having to pay. If you didn't realise you'd be spending the larger percentage of your paycheck on completely boring but annoyingly necessary things, then you were off to a bad start anyway. No, the infuriating part is setting the damn things up in the first place... Finding the best deal, waiting for your modem to show up, spending hours on the phone to customer services... It's all just an enormous headache.

Getting Locked Out

You've only got one key now. Or two if you live with someone else. But even if you do, you've got to wait for them to get home. Getting locked out when you don't have parents and siblings to let you in is just a gigantic pain in the bum.

Replacement Stuff

Bin bags. Light bulbs. Fuses. Batteries. Things that you don't think to get in your weekly shop that when they run out, you're stuffed. You never find yourself thinking "ooh, we really need some light bulbs" and then one goes and you're left sitting in the dark until Tesco's opens the next morning. And what the hell does a fuse do anyways??

Sorting out the Laundry

Doing the laundry I have no issues with. Indeed, my weekly trip to the laundrette is weirdly one of the highlights of my Saturday routine. The inanely dull part is the hour long folding, balling and ironing that follows. Maybe my brother has it right; piles of clothing dumped randomly on the floor would certainly save on matching up socks.

Of course there are some good things about bipeing a grown up... Stuffing your face on the sofa in front of a Family Guy marathon kind of makes the list. But honestly, isn't there enough to worry about in life without wondering how many bloody bin bags are left??