Author: oyster28catcher (JRA)

John II

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

Mum and Paul soon needed a larger house; there were five of us and only two rooms.  We arrived at Broom Avenue, off Broom Lane in 1991.  This road was located in the district of Levenshulme.  Levenshulme was famed for its antiques village, and very little else.  I started at a new primary school, this time Chapel Street Primary.  The new challenge of making friends was not easy.  Year 3 was not easy.  The bullies soon discovered new prey.  Who better to pick on than a dictionary-crazed, mathematically-ahead-of-them, wildlife-loving kid who was way ahead of them, or seemed to be because he didn’t eat erasers or fart the national anthem using his armpit as an instrument. I never thought I was better than anyone. They projected this onto me. Made me feel inferior by appearing superior. I hurt lots. Every day. Every year for nearly four years straight.  I became more and more distant from the other kids, as I often found people would reject me as a friend. I didn’t trust anyone, initially.  Troublesome Peter Ridyard, and snobby Alex Muir became my friends.  It was rare I would play out with them until year 5, as they lived far away at the other end of Broom Lane [although just 2km away, it seemed, back then, to be closer to London].

Within days of moving into Levenshulme, Pup had run from the house, and Astrid had run after him between parked cars.  Astrid was hit and landed many feet from the point of impact as the car screeched to a halt.  I remember the day as it was so confusing for me.  I had been taken to see trains go by with Ernie (my Granny Ivy’s partner) at Levenshulme station.  We were eating Gregg’s Bakery pasties on the platform and he was telling me and Grannyny Ivy all about how trains worked and the good old days of steam.  We returned to my house to discover from the neighbour’s Mary and Bill that they had all rushed to hospital with Astrid.  Later that day Paul returned with Paul junior.  He told us how it had happened, and how Astrid was.  She had suffered severe head injuries and a broken leg.  It would take weeks at Booth Hall Children’s Hospital (where I had my hernia operation aged 7), and months of intense physiotherapy and treatment at Rodney House Specialist Support & Outreach School before Astrid with recover.

The day after the accident Dad collected Pup from our home.  The only way I would now see my closest friend was when Dad would pick me up.

During May 1991, within days of starting school I finally swam my length at Levenshulme swimming baths.  It was apparent I was not going to be a channel swimmer, but I did progress from a width to a length.  Class 4PC as dictated by the tyrant Miss Clegg started with a bang.  Within two weeks I had many things confiscated by the hairy-nosed teacher.  Two Lego men, countless Micro Machine cars, and twenty pence (as provided by the tooth-fairy) went into her large laundry-bag-come-personal-suitcase.  My attendance at school however was excellent.  I did enjoy learning even if I hated the bullies.  Miss Clegg referred to me as a loner on many occasions but made no effort to help me make new friends.  I was behaving sensibly (to mix and mingle amongst the other monsters may have got me into trouble and maybe even eaten by Miss Clegg).

Miss Clegg was an enforcer of learning.  Whilst under her control, our class worked as hard as possible.  We worked on as many ways as to wind her up on the class trip to Levenshulme library [a place of dreams], we sneak off and hunt down the Anne Hooper’s books for a giggle.  We also rotated the “who can throw a rubber [eraser] at Cleggy and get away with it” game amongst ourselves.  At parents’ evening as with many years of schooling, I’d be told alongside my parents that my work was great, and my work rate was above average but my handwriting was poor.  Maybe then I had foreseen the Computer-typed work age.  Besides in Miss Cleggs class would I shiver often at the thought of being told to slow down and let others catch up.  That, and I had to keep an eye on my back, at the bullies. How could my handwriting be neat under those conditions?

In September 1993, a wise and witty teacher by the name Andrew Jones began to teach us.  He allowed us more room with our imaginations and helped us with our vocabularies.  This teacher was dedicated to his job.  He helped my confidence, encouraged me to be recognised by the class in teams, and congratulated me on a determined improvement of my handwriting.  During this academic year several pupils visited Ghyll Head Outdoor Education Centre, close to Lake Windermere.  The car park view looked over the great lake.  Our supervisory teachers included Mr Jones, Mrs Treanor (the deputy head-teacher), and Miss Spencer.

On the Monday we explored the site grounds of Ghyll Head, climbed the rope course, and I also met numerous mallard ducks.  They were already hand tame and loved the bread I had brought them.  On the Tuesday, we enjoyed rock scrambling on Humphrey Head overlooking Morecambe Bay.  We also kayaked across Lake Windermere seeing several swan eggs along an island to the West of the lake.  The other days varied from horse-riding like John Wayne, to gorge walking, tunnelling two miles up an underground flood drain, caving in Ingleside (Yorkshire) and singing on many mini-buses.  On the final night we had a barbeque and Mr Jones claimed he was drinker a Larger drink, but we all knew it was Lager!  During my stay at Ghyll Head, I had to sleep for five nights in room Gimmer.  There was also five others there, and we chatted late into the night with mad post-mushy-peas farting epidemics. The older kids were friendlier than the younger students there. I didn’t feel threatened.

The end of year five arrived, and before departing for home for the summer period, Mr Jones very kindly gave me a set of encyclopaedias he had learnt from as a child.  It was a very generous and touching gift, and I thanked him.  Mr Jones was my greatest Primary school teacher.  In fact he remains my greatest teacher of all time, and I hope he is doing very well for himself.

Miriam Roe was our next teacher.  6MR was a very lively year, with me, Osman and Alex always doing Smashy and Nicey impressions (characters from the TV show, Harry Enfield and Chums).  We even allowed Evangalia Votski into our group, she was a very kind friendly Greek girl. She was also the first girl I ever found attractive and wanted to kiss. It wasn’t to be. Miss Roe taught me that even when I wish to be independent that asking for help at times when I required it would not be frowned upon.  I survived a year of bullying, and Chapel Street Primary school with its giant six-foot-plus headteacher that was Mr Gary Kershaw.  I no longer had Mr Kershaw to guide me through school, and help me avoid trouble.  After Summer, I would enter high school in Reddish Vale with classmate James Cliff.

To summarise my early years, I had a coin ride obsession when I was a wee toddler; I most likely kept Professor Peabody’s in Blackpool’s Winter Gardens open for trade; enjoyed many a holiday in Cleveleys and Morecambe with Nana and Dad, and many other family members; I remember getting drenched one birthday in Blackpool with Neil Fanning and my Mum;  I even remember pushing my sister Astrid, aged two, up the Great Orme in Llandudno; and if anyone invites you to Scarborough for a holiday, say no.  Scarborough can boast grey skies that would rival the likes of a winter in Wales. But now, after three primary schools and years of relative comfort, the ride of life would begin…

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter John.

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

On the 28th of October 1982 I was born.  I cannot remember it, nor wish to remember it.  My birth certificate was to arrive several days after my birth.  Either the registrar was busy, or my parents were contemplating such names as “Eric”, “Steven”, “Bert”, or “Joe”.  The prospect of being called Peter Eric Acton over my real name is not something I’d have desired – after all my initials would spell out a green garden seed.  Thankfully this was avoided when Mum decided on naming me after a line of Grandparents – John Robert was named.  I have a Mr Tom Danson (Registrar of Births & Deaths) for approving my given name, and also confirming I was born.  I’m sure Mr Danson was a terribly nice bloke, his signature on my birth certificate was stylish!

I was born a male, and thankfully still remain one [I checked earlier, and have been doing so since I was a teenager].  Crumpsall Hospital, now North Manchester General Hospital, gave rise to me.  I imagine I was a terrible burden on my parents, probably burping, farting, and vomiting to a strict schedule.  Something I may have carried on with throughout life, but cannot confirm.

After my birth and entrance to life, my parents returned to Margate Avenue in Newton of the Heath [a greyer place there was not].  There was no peaceful return, screams and wails ruled now.  Newton Heath, the origin of a certain controversial Trafford based football team, and was also made up of many railway workers.  The area was not an ideal Conservative Party recruitment point.  The house was also home to Beaut, a German Shepard dog, who sadly passed away with old age in early 1983.  Mum had Basil, a black and white cat whose hobbies included Samurai sword fighting and bingo.  We all uprooted to Warbeck Road in Moston.  We were joined by a new family addition, he was young, black with golden patches, and available for free donkey rides.  Pup Acton, our wee dog had arrived, and he grew at an alarming rate over the years, keeping his big floppy ears.  He would lick many people, and always be by made side for many years.  Basil and Pup loved each other, in a cat chases the dog, dog chases cat kind of way.  On the 13th of August 1985, my Grannydfather John Roberts died aged sixty.  The family was devastated.

As I grew older, my parents grew apart.  Divorce soon followed.  My Dad moved back to  Ludgate Road, in Newton Heath, with Nana and Granddad.  A crappy settlement was agreed upon whereby Dad could only pick me up on Saturdays.  A primary school child would always feel worry, when Dad would not ring, nor arrive on Saturdays.  A waiting child would regularly sit watching through the front lounge window, without even a hint by phone that my Dad would not be turning up.  After twenty minutes of waiting past the time of his expected arrival Mum would tell me he was probably working.  Still I’d wait until long after the sun would set.  I’d expect every diesel engine car that turned onto our road to be his car.  I’d often cry myself to sleep, crying for wanting to see my Dad, hoping for him to arrive.  There was one night I remember when I was young when Dad visited late one night, full of excuses.  I did not care for his excuses.  I just wanted to see him.  He brought with him a Goblin head, which when you pulled its eye out, it made a gurgling sound.  It was a really heavy toy, with bright and thick orange hair set on a green head littered with scars. I wish I had that toy but am most satisfied that I have the memory. I hope the good moments never leave my skull.

I would not care whether we went to watch football [be it Man City or Oldham Atheltic, Maine Road F.C. or whoever], go to the allotment (Pup could tag along too), or visit Nana and Granddad.  Time with Dad was always enjoyable.  We would spend many days on the allotment.  The allotment on Brookdale Park may not have seemed a magical place, but my imagination and the company of Pup made it wonderful.  Dad would provide fizzy pop, cooled in a barrel of rainwater, as a treat.  I and Pup would trek into Brookdale Park and its wilderness, whilst Dad would build a greenhouse or dig up his plot.  We’d plod over imaginary mountains, I’d climb trees whilst Pup bounded around below, we’d play hide and seek, and walk up the park stream.  And when I became tired we would ascend the highest point of the stream embankment looking down onto the allotment.  We would sit on the peak and look down at Dad working hard.

After a day out or at the allotment, Dad would take me to Nana and Granddad’s house for our evening meal.  Nana would cook something homemade and always wonderful to the taste buds.  Nana would spoil me with sweets, usually Chewitts, Vanilla slices or Boost chocolate bars.  Granddad would treat me to some yellow tomatoes which were his specially grown variety.  I miss the stew, dumplings and delights. The return home would not fill me with joy, because I never knew how long it would be before I could see my Dad again.  How long would it be before I would see Nana and Granddad again?  Nana was an amazing lady, always treating the younger family members, and spoiling the dogs she kept over the years:  Snowy (a West Highland terrier, for which breed Nana loved), Nomaz (a Yorkshire terrier short hair, of which breed Nana also adored), Suzie (also a West Highland Terrier and perhaps the oldest of Nana’s dogs during my lifetime), Pup (when he visited), and even the neighbours dog Nobby (who was clearly the offspring of Pup, as were the majority of Newton Heath’s mongrel dogs – sorry, RSPCA!).

A bowl of Nana’s homemade stew alongside some potato croquettes or chips and you would soon feel full.  There would always be room for desert, and desert always came with custard, warm or cold.  There was no need for posh restaurants as far as I was concerned; a meal at Nana’s was luxury.

One year, Dad drove me and Mum to Knowsley Safari Park.  On arrival we sat in the car, watching the Peacocks outside.  Dad suggested we had some food in the car, and handed out Spam sandwiches.  We watched the Peacocks for hours.  The zoological park had closed eventually.  I think Dad was a little short of cash and could not afford to go in.  I loved the day trip never-the-less.

My New Moston Primary School days hold little memory for me.  I just remember playing catch the girl, kiss the girl and catching my classmate Claire at the time; a friend called Anthony; and me having a pooh in a classroom because the teacher would not allow me to go to the toilet.  I whipped my trousers down, squatted in a playroom kitchen pen and laid one down.  Sadly, a fellow pupil and classroom whinge-bag Kelly spotted me and promptly enlightened the teacher to my doings.  I never got away with it.

A couple of weeks prior to my seventh birthday I learned to swim.  The school enforced visits to Broadway swimming baths enabled schoolchildren back then to combat the risk of drowning.  They simply subject you to water deeper than your body height, throw you in, and watch you learn that no kicking of the legs or motion in the arms will ultimately result in swallowing excessive amounts of water towards the lungs and belly.  My first width certificate was in the bag on the 13th of October 1989.  It was also noted that you could leave a yellow slipstream behind you if the teacher would not allow you to the toilet.  Had she not learned from my earlier primary school actions!?

Not that my teacher was the only victim of my terror, the dentist who had not warned of his intentions to probe my mouth, soon found his hand littered with a John-size bite mark.  Having someone else’s hand in your mouth will always seem wrong to me.  Even Mum became a victim of me pouring cornflakes down the toilet, blocking it with old toilet roll tubes, and also seeing exactly how much washing up liquid would empty from the bottle in one squeeze (naturally onto a clean surface, for example the carpet).

My craze for Thomas the Tank Engine was quickly topped by Ghostbusters, and before long Dangermouse, Count Duckula, and eventually the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  Lego remained faithfully by my side throughout the years. Secret showings of The Gremlins on video at my Nana’s house when Nana was away, under Dad’s supervision had me praying for a Mogwai for my birthday.  Instead Dad allowed me to choose a present at Morrison’s superstore in Fallowfield.  Naturally, I went for a small Lego pirate set along with a large truck space carrier.  The next day Mum invited my friend Neil and another friend who like Turtles too around for a birthday meal.  I was allowed the choice of food, so we had Bangers and Mash with beans.  This was my favourite at the time.  Mum had brought me a Lego castle set, as she was always trying to bring out my imaginative side.  Neil came from several doors down.  His mum Miriam knew my mum.  To get to Neil you could walk along the front road, or run to the back of the garden and cut through the back of several gardens past the man who always recited “Peter Piper picked a pepper…” to us and made us giggle.  One day on the route down to Neil’s house I discovered a dead gull.  It looked lifeless as expected, and when prodded with a stick, it was rock hard and crawling with small beetles.  There was a lesson to be leant, but it passed me by whatever it was.

In 1988, Astrid was born.  I now had a little sister to fight with, and to love and cherish.  It was around this time that Basil the cat had left home, and moved a few doors away to be fed.

Mum, met Paul Mathers in early 1990, and we moved to 2 Range Street, Openshaw.  Dad moved from Nana and Granddad’s house into 76 Warbeck Road, and I often visited to share bowls of Frosties for an evening meal!  Plus, the new neighbours to my Dad were of Chinese origin and loved to share Lego with me.  My new primary school was to be Clayton Brook Primary.  They made me retake my width certificate on the 8th of October 1990, the idiots were holding my progress back with P.E.  However, I could zoom far further ahead with mathematics and science in classes.

We added Ben the cat to the family; and Mum and Paul also added a new child to the family.  Paul Anthony Mathers junior was born on the 15th day of November 1990.  After escaping to my room to play with Lego and eventually exhausting my supply of bricks, I decided to play out in the new area.  Originally I was only allowed to the park around the corner, and to the top of my street.  I did make one friend, but he was banned from playing with me by his parents one day, as a result of me hitting his head off the opposite side to a see-saw I was on.  Accidents do happen.  I did not like Openshaw, I knew very few people there, and the area was riddled with good for nothing kids and derelict factory buildings.

TO BE CONTINUED?

The Price of Competition?

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

Everyone who follows football knows that transfer fees are getting out of hand – and transfer caps or salary restrictions would be detrimental to the game unless imposed globally. As one league implements caps, another league benefits. The best players will inevitably follow the cash, glamour and sponsorship deals. Veron was £28m in 2001, when he joined Man U. Rio Ferdinand cost £30m in 2002…. that was around the price of striker Robinho in 2008 (£32m). Judging by some paper talk. Anyone would think paying over the odds is new? Was De Bruyne worth £55m in 2015? Ex-City midfielder and Liverpool legend Steve McManaman put his writing seems as bad as Paul Merson’s comments now. Merson wrote “Manchester City paying so much money for Kevin De Bruyne is an absolute joke.” After all, De Bruyne was, “out of his depth at Chelsea”. City had bid for Eden Hazard in 2015 and refused to pay £32 million. What is that player’s valuation today?

West Brom’s owner has an 87%+ share and is estimated to have US$6.2bn. Arsenal’s majority owners are valued at US$22bn. The Glazers have a value of US$4bn. Everton’s Farhad has a wealth of US$2.3bn. Money is everywhere in a league that has TV rights/sponsorship deals in the billions. Barnsley, Aston Villa, Bristol City, Fulham, Derby County, WPR, Sunderland and Wolves all have billionnaire backers (in fact, Wolves have a richer backing than Manchester City!). Even Portsmouth have billionaire owners.

92 million Euros Cristiano Ronaldo was reportedly upset that Gareth Bale cost 6 million Euros more than him. Zinedine Zidane’s 75-million Euro transfer and Luis Figo’s transfer at 62-million Euros back in 2001 and 2000 respectedly aren’t small numbers. Many label players as world-class or not good enough. Surely, the result of their contracted time, is the time to judge if a transfer is good value. Joe Hart cost Manchester City £100,000 and a Gregg’s sausage roll. 266 appearances with 97 plus appearances out on loan and appearances for the national side have followed. Having battled for the number one jersey against Andreas Isaksson, Nicky Weaver, Shay Given, and Kasper Schmeichal he battled back, holding 29 clean sheets in 2011/12. He managed four Golden Glove awards in 5 seasons. Two league titles, the FA Cup and two Football League Cups added potency to his name. He was great value for a transfer fee. Vincent Kompany cost £6 million. Only 7 of City’s 24-man squad are valued below £20 million. Clubs have long been paying money for youth players, young players and future stars. It is nothing new.

In 1999, Thierry Henry cost Arsenal £11 million. Niclas Anelka joined Arsenal for £500,000 two years previous. Anelka would go on to be subject to transfer in the regions of £22 million (twice), £15 million, £13 million, £8 million, and €12 million. Since his youth days at Paris Saint-Germain, Anelka has amassed transfers in excess of £85 million. His total salary on top probably equated to that of a small nation. Nowadays some players transfer fees have exceded these collective figures. With shirt sales and commercial deals at an all time high, these disgusting figures are quite small when compared to revenue and income received as a result of that particular player coming in. Also, clubs and players are starting to form their own conscience and donate money to charity or foundations. Most banks and private companies do this to offset tax or develop their public image. Movie stars, another form of entertainment, do the same. Is football any different?

Does a successful team create an inferiority complex for some opposition teams? Possibly, yes. For years, Man U dominated the league and domestic front, whilst strengthening their name globally, sacrificing appearances in the prestigious FA Cup one season. They chased cups and money, and sometimes clubs didn’t believe they could beat the juggernaut of a club. Right now, Jose Mourinho, the most whimpering, whining, nit-picking, moaning, grousing, griping, groaning, fault-finding, complaining, carping, bemoaning, of managers is using every lamentable accusation and dissatisfaction possible aimed at City and Pep Guardiola is responding like it is water off a duck’s back. Some clubs spend almost £300 million on players, and complain it is not enough.

In Summer 2017, City invested heavily in fullbacks. Fullbacks Zabaleta, Kolorov, Clichy, and Sagna formed the 11-man exit of City’s senior squad last season. Around £57 million was raised from those players’ sales. 5 went for free. City paid out over £198.7 million on just 5 players. In the previous season City paid out £167.2 million on 8 players. Man U paid £160.7 million for 3 new players; up from £145.3 million the previous season, again for 3 players. There isn’t much in it, in terms of outlay. Arguably City’s 13 players [an average purchase of £28 million] to Utd’s captured £51 million per player. With little digging, almost every excuse falls apart.

It is really pleasing to see City investing deeply in community, global communities and charities and the future of Manchester. We are very propitious fans to see so much building for a long-term future. To be partnered with Girona FC, Melbourne City FC, New York City FC, Club Atlético Torque, and Yokohama F. Marinos – alongside a plethora of academies is a dream. Overseas, like so many clubs, hearty supporters’ clubs, and even teams like Manchester City F.C. (Sierra Leone) carry the flag of Manchester City. Maine Road F.C., long stood as a supporters’ team since 1955 have hugged City’s history. City, so often flogged as a club with no history, have a deep binding with English football history. The Revie Plan was a tactical system used in the 1950’s. It was used by Hungary to beat England at Wembley in 1953. We’re Not Really Here, is one of a handful of cult songs, even the catchy Yaya/Kolo version of 2Unlimited’s No Limit has been sung by rival fans – and isn’t unsual at darts tournaments. City have shot a long way since their inception by Rev. Arthur Connell and William Beastow as St. Mark’s (West Gorton). Not that the international scene is the only focus.

City as a club has maintained roots. The Connell Sixth Form College, fanzines such as King of the Kippax. There is a historical movie called Trautmann, and then there is the movie, There’s Only One Jimmy Grimble, which showcases how dire City were at one stage, yet the spirit shines on. Each football kit under Umbro had a piece of Manchester and a feel close to the heart of the City. The Academy Stadium is a short step from the Etihad Campus to the Etihad Stadium via footbridge. All are commercial, yet a clear vision from childhood football to juniors to that of a senior level is in place. The Manchester skyline is setback and every now and then a Lancaster bomber flies over the visable Pennines to the east. The successful Women’s team also have platforms to progress and a sizeable crowd is following them. The sites of the old Hyde Road and Maine Road grounds are a stone’s throw away.

Artist L.S. Lowry painted a piece called Going to the match, and was a keen City fan. Yes, we’ve had Curly Watts and other celebrity fans like Ricky Hatton and the Gallagher brothers. Real fans have become feature stars in Blue Moon Rising. This movie was updated the following season to show City’s first major trophy in a gap of 34 years. The sky-blue colour, mostly with white, sometimes with a dash of maroon or dark blue has been synonymous with Manchester City incessantly. Fans with yellow bananas, singing renditions of Blue Moon (after years of singing You’ll Never Walk Alone) have followed City home and away, loyally. For long periods City were known as everyone’s second favourite club. Typical City and doing things the hard way had made City loveable over the years. The club’s ability to be a soap opera and our fans’ die-hard approach, following in lower leagues and glory days makes up our DNA. Yes, there are new fans, but that is the wider world and how the internet and TV have changed things. Historically, City have yet to beat Wycombe Wanderers and Bristol Rovers, in over 4500 league games against many opponents. We know where we were, know where we are and are excited by the endless possibilities ahead.

Journalist Eric Todd, said of City fans in 1968, “like patience on a monument smiling at grief”; Joe Mercer was quoted as saying, “Like the players they deserve to have their perseverance rewarded”; BBC’s Mark Radcliffe in 2001, “when we are bad we’re just as bad as we always used to be, so that’s got to be good hasn’t it?”; journalist Paul Morley in 1998, “To support United is too easy. It’s convenience supporting.” Bands such as Doves, 10CC, Badly Drawn Boy, and photographers such as Kevin Cummins have used their materials to lighten up Manchester City. Comedians have shown along the way like Jason Manford, Chris “Frank Sidebottom” Sievey and Eddie Large. James Bond’s Timothy Dalton, John Henshaw, Alan Rickman, David Threlfall, Ian Cheeseman, Andrew Flintoff, Mary Anne-Hibbs, Natalie Pike, David Green, Marco Pierre White, Sir Howard Bernstein, Sir Richard Leese, money saving expert Martin Lewis and Princess Beatrice of York join fans that range as far as Arsenal F.C.’s CEO Ivan Gazidis (a former Mancunian school student). Beyond fame, a working class fanbase and supporters loyal for twenty five or more years remain. City have, in recent years, capped seasoncard sales at 36,000 seats and have sold-out. There is a waiting list. Even in the late 90s (City spent one season in the third tier of football), City gates averaged gates of 30,000. Gallows humour has always been present. Cult status has been awarded from benchwarmers Gláuber Berti to ever-presents Pablo Zabaleta and even visiting players like now Guangzhou Evergrande forward Alan. Being a City fan means you can have a laugh. Some comments may be tongue in cheek, or off the cuff – after all, winding up opposition fans is part of the parcel of being a City fan. Talking and drinking with them before or after a game, is also essential.

In 1881, St. Mark’s (West Gorton) lost 3-0 to Newtown Heath LYR. The Ashton Reporter noted it to be “a pleasant game”. The first recognised derby in Manchester. Derby games became central to Mancunian spirits, and in 1889, the first floodlit derby (at Belle Vue Athletic Ground) was held to support the Hyde Coal Mine disaster fund. In 2017, City and United sported the Manchester bee following a terrorist attack in the city that year. Each club came together, and it filled many with pride. After that, normal rivalry resumed, and why not? After all, attacks shouldn’t change out way of life. In the 1970s derby games added bite and controversy, legs were broken and cards dished out. United were reportedly relegated by Law’s backheel. Perhaps, when their fans invaded the field and caused the game to be called off, it was a factor? Who knows. It wasn’t as simple as Law’s backheel. It added, but it wasn’t the cause. City were underdogs for decades following this. From 1989’s 5-1 win over Ferguson’s side until 2002’s win at the last Maine Road derby, City hadn’t won a game against Utd. This is the period of time I grew up in. Every Red Arrogant Git made themselves known. Welcome to Manchester?

I worry that City are upsetting too many football fans. It is a shame really. There are 6 billion people on Earth and a reported 12 billion United fans. Maybe like other club supporters they feel threatened. Man U have more than double the value on Forbes, as City. More than 160 million Euros difference on Deloitte. They have board members on the Premier League and UEFA. If power is a worry for The World’s Greatest Football Team™ – then you have to worry. If you christen your ground, The Theatre of Dreams, you must live up to that, surely?

For the first time since April 1974, City enjoyed a monumental win at Old Trafford in February 2008. Since 2008, the derby games have been more level with Sir Alex Ferguson proclaiming the 09/10 derby at Old Trafford as “probably, the best derby of all time” but I would argue the 6-1 away win in 2011 or the two dominant wins under Guardiola as far better games. The blue line of City, since World War 2 has sat below Manchester Utd’s red line for far too long. Oddly City have scored far more goals than United, but lost a staggering 72 games to 51. Roll on derby day 176. History and the derby go hand in hand.

On October the 21st 2010, City allowed Lech Poznań a larger than usual away support. Their Grecque bounce soon became known as doing the Poznań. Just like that movement and style had been seen time and time before, and after, fads like transfers fees come and go, and shape the game. They keep the debate and pub arguments alive and kicking. I’ll never support Man Utd and I’d never expect their fans to back us, but this is the beautiful game, put aside your differences and agree to disagree, or agree that football and money are out of control – and it is not a new phase to the game! You’ve gotta roll with it…

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

圣诞节快乐 ( Shèngdàn jié kuàilè / Merry Christmas ) Christmas in China#4

oyster28catcher (JRA)1 Comment
2014: 圣诞节快乐 ( Shèngdàn jié kuàilè / Merry Christmas )
2015: Shèng dàn kuài lè [MERRY CHRISTMAS] 圣诞快乐
2016: 我永远不会放弃 (wǒ yǒngyuǎn bú huì fàngqì [I will never give up!]
2017…

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. The yuletide arrived upon us, beating down on us like the summer sun on exposed earth. The relentless flow of festive cheer and cash registers slamming shut full of your hard-earned dough began and flashed by. Santa bar crawls, logo-covered bunting, and piss-poor parodies of Frostie The Snowman were go, go go. Repeated movies, dusty and scratchy Christmas songs and badly replicated versions of last year’s over-priced toy sat side-by-side with tinsel so dusty that it could line a funeral procession and not look out of place.

In some cities, villages and places around the world, there was loneliness and feelings of being so lost, poor, destitute or sad. It shouldn’t have to be this way. Jerusalem was unified and completely calm. So, we as people must also put aside differences and make those who feel alone, feel part of something bigger. Christmas 2017 was my fourth Christmas in China. I vowed last Christmas (2016) to go home, to Blighty. For reasons, visa-related and the like, that wasn’t likely to happen. It won’t be like this in 2018. I don’t feel that bad about being away from family at this most festive time. I hope that they can understand me. I hope they don’t think that I don’t want to leave gifts under Christmas trees or fill their Christmas stockings with a little thank you for their wonderful warm natures (Well, mostly! You know who you are!). I wouldn’t mind a Christmas tipple with my family-folk, but it wasn’t to be this year. Instead we can share one on the next occasion.

This Christmas, I made a charitable donation to a good cause and that was my main gift I gave, save for stockpiling thoughtful things to deliver to family and friends.

Anyway, I waffled on, I don’t have purpose to this blog post, aside from wishing everyone a late happy Christmas and a wonderful new year. Tomorrow is another day. I hope it brings joy and smiles for you and your family.

Christmas Eve was spent in Shenzhen watching the Hollywood Movie Orchestra perform themes such as Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Ark, a James Bond medly, Somewhere In Time, Superman, Harry Potter, The Lord Of The Rings, and so many more great movements. I shed tears in the themes of Schindler’s List and Forrest Gump. They have always pulled on my heartstrings, just like E.T. and Bambi. It is mostly sentimental but always reminds me of how lucky I am. I feel really fecking lucky. At times, I have felt low, then I dig up a wonderful memory and all is good again. Lately, in periods of deep relaxation (sat reading The Fortress by Andy McNab, or during an Ox-horn massage etc) I have dug up some memories that may have slipped away for far too long. I think my 2018 resoultion is to write more. So, in January, I will write about my history, a kind of release of warts and all, with some love and hugs along the way. This isn’t showing off. I really like writing and there is no vanity intended. Each month I’ll slap some words on a palette and call it writing. A thematic bubbling pot of pish.

January: The Life of John

February: Manchester [Our City]

March: My favourite writers [musicians, journalists, authors and more]

April: Ambition.

May: MCFC, Okay.

June: The U.K.

July: Cycling.

August: The family tree.

September: Music.

October: Travels.

November: Movies.

December: Happy holidays.

To be continued…

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Balfour 100: Need a little time to wake up…

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

A few days ago, I sat down and ate a Twix for breakfast. A cheeky cup of McDonald’s coffee (there are no coffee shops open in the morning) sat alongside. Salad and healthy living had no need to visit that morning. Having played football the night before, my body ached. The exploits of Cool Breeze F.C. (Changping) had worn me right out. Shattered. The morning has in for many months involved reading news and waking up slowly. As per the Oasis lyrics to Morning Glory, “Need a little time to wake up…”

Is it me or has everything just become a larger stinking pile of danger than it needed to be? There is a clash of ideals on an epic scale. In historic times, brutality, pillaging, plundering and ransacking was not an ideal way to live but it was generally expected, as groups of different people moved around the world seeking resource, slaves and valuables. Then came a time when people stood up to one another and said things like, “Stop. Wait a minute. [insert minority, ethnicity or different people here] are just like us. They’re human.” It was the turn from being retarded cave-creatures into proper decent people. Civilized. But, wait the new minority didn’t get the memo. They in turn preached and disturbed the evolution of knuckle-dragging folk into enlightened beings. And now, one of their own runs a rather large country.

I don’t need Wikipedia to inform me that the U.S. of A. houses around 320 million people. Americans have roughly a 75% white and 70% Christian background. Around 20% of the country has no recognised faith. The U.K.’s 65 million people has about 85% of its people as being Caucasian (that’s polite for white). About 76% of the people of Christian background, about 22% don’t identify or follow a faith. I think from my experiences; the U.K. is very much multicultural and on the cusp of a post-Christian society. All faiths seem massively tolerant and open to inter-faith mingling. However, I believe social integration is a bigger problem. Cracks in communities are there but they are there by class more than religion. Unless you read The Sun or Daily Mail or The Telegraph…, there are more to choose from. Anyway, U.S.A. formed in 1776 on a date in July. I forget the date because their modest history doesn’t give us any celebrations to hold for this matter. After obliterating the natives, they had expansions, a huge Civil War, an era called the Reconstruction Era, mass immigration, an industrial boom, a Great Depression that followed The Great War (far away in Europe), and the Cold War with bitter rivals (and now possible electoral friends) U.S.S.R. (now Russia). Civil rights arrived late.

Speeches and deaths followed as the U.S. opposed China and Korea in the 50s overseas, and the following decade brought about the Civil Rights Act of 1968. Sexual revolution, black nationalism and opposition of the Vietnam War preceded a war against poverty. 8 U.S. Presidents presided over the U.S. fed conflict in Vietnam. The U.S. seemed at this stage to be moving closer to a role of World Police, and freedom. Their stubborn grasp of their right to bear arms has seen this supposedly developed nation top the charts for gun violence consistently. Each atrocity has been ignored by their senate and government, save for the standard press release.

President Obama said his final year of presidency would feature a dominance in the theme of gun control. He had no chance. No backing by the lawmakers. As money poured into research, lives were shed in their hundreds. Three of the five highest death tolls occurred in 2016 and 2017. So, with stupidity ruling the controversial and contentious debate on gun control, it was with no surprise that U.S.A. voted in a fuckwit as the 45th (and worst to date) President of the Utd. States. The wigged man has had a hattrick of wives, a barrel of offspring and invested his assets everywhere. Controversy is his bed-fellow and walls he seeks to build.

Now, Trump blows a powerful horn, the top seat of a major country. He has possibly sought company in Alex Jones and Roger Stone. He has pandered to white nationalists, time and time again, whilst blowing raspberries and race debates. The F.B.I., busy with Hilary Clinton’s emails seemed to back Trump by dealing their hand at an odd time. A shadow of sexual misconduct, pussy grabbing, non-consensual kisses, gropes and much ill-timed words have been documented by many media sources. I imagine they are all entirely as fake as the man who self-proclaimed that he invented the word fake.

Before his election Trump has had no political history or military background. It is likely that he shadow-wrote his books and at most organised letters into his name quite often enough to remember how to spell it. Plus, Trump means fart in British English. The clue was in the name. But, still he was elected. A fairly-elected President deserves respect. He has exercised all the humility and modesty of bull in a China shop, during an earthquake, as Earth implodes, whilst being sucked into a black hole and total-plutonic reversal.

“Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.” – Egon Spengler, Ghostbusters

So, what does a 71-year old man get out of being U.S. President? Well, think of the endorsements. The legacy. The legend. The power. The control. And Trump is in that seat until 2020…

So, now to the big fish lurking in murky deep waters. This week, U.S. of A. recognised Jerusalem as the capital of Israel. Great news? A peace deal was reached? The international community backed this? All sides are happy?

Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas used the word deplorable. Not a weak word there. Deplorable sits in the thesaurus around great words such as appalling, unacceptable, shocking unpardonable, shameful and the antonym praiseworthy. Perhaps he was mistranslated. Why do 8/15 of the U.N. Security Council want an urgent meeting by the end of the week? Perhaps, they have another pressing matter? The final stages of the peace processes stated in 1993 that the Israel-Palestinian peace accords would justify Jerusalem’s status at the latter stages. Are they there yet? Judaism, Islam and Christianity have been hotly contesting Jerusalem for thousands of years. Did Trump just do the unthinkable and deliver on a presidential campaign promise? Yes, he did. He didn’t lie. Mostly, he endorsed Israel and shied away from Palestine. As Mr Abbas, spoke of “eternal capital of the state of Palestine” and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu tweeted, “Jerusalem has been the focus of our hopes, our dreams, our prayers for three millennia” it was clear to many that dangerous consequences were on the horizon. The Islamist Hamas at their Gaza nightclubs probably didn’t have a party, and phrases such as “open the doors of hell” aimed at Americans seemed to be banded around. Saudi Arabia was pissed off too, King Salman mentioned something that “would constitute a flagrant provocation of Muslims, all over the world”.

Istanbul’s U.S. consulate needed added security as crowds gathered to cheer and enjoy the decision? Theresa May may or may not be leader of the U.K. in the future, but her sound words about being “unhelpful in terms of prospects for peace in the region” sounded solid enough as she broke further away from being friends with Europe. French President Emmanuel Macron sounded like a Scouser, “Calm down!” Turkish Foreign Minister Mevlut Cavusoglu tweeted (the media of everything nowadays), “the decision is against international law and relevant UN resolutions”. The Arab League (nothing to do with football) asked if the U.S. could remain as a “trusted mediator” in the future. Qatar mentioned something about death sentences, which seems terribly dramatic for a place so respectful of human rights. Jordan (the state and not the model) seemed to add constructive words, whilst Iran slipped in a worry of a “new intifada” – meaning uprising. The shitty Man Utd went to Rome to see the Pope and this is what he said, “I cannot silence my deep concern”. He hasn’t spoken much since. I think he is sleeping. China, Germany and Russia mentioned possible tensions. Hell, if the Devil was nonfictional, he’d probably congratulate Trump.

2017 will be remembered for North Korea playing advanced versions of darts; Harvey Weinstein and a billion other Hollywood abusers; Trump playing God (he also had 528 protest marches against him in January); Brexit actually being used as a word; the Yemen, Somalia, South Sudan and Nigeria humanitarian crisis getting little coverage; Syria (ongoing as always) and chemical weapons; cyber and ransomware attacks; America exiting the Paris Climate Agreement; ISIL attacks globally; possible textbook Rohingya Muslim extermination; Hurricanes Harvey, Irma, Maria; U.S. and Israel exiting UNESCO; Fats Domino, Roger Moore and Adam West departed life; Catalonia departing Spain, illegally; but at least Robert Mugabe is gone.

 

MMXVII, you suck (That’s American for bobbins). Mostly, due to Trump – and much down to the Balfour Declaration (created 2nd November 1917)

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

How are the Yazidis doing?

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

To the tune of Jingle Bells:

Dashing through the town, not looking to play, mowing all down, it doesn’t matter today… Genocide, genocide, happens every day… Oh, how the west, would wish it went away… Oh, genocide, genocide, happening every day…

Okay, not the most uplifting topic to begin writing with on a Friday morning. How did I even start thinking such satirical bollocks? Simple. I read the news. The thing about genocide is that there is always one happening. When stubborn and often stupid leaders want to wipe away opposition, that is one thing, but eradicating an entire race is utterly evil. It didn’t just begin with the Holocaust but the word did stem from Raphael Lemkin’s book Axis Rule in Occupied Europe, published in 1944. Before that the largest recorded account would probably be the European colonisation of the Americas. This is a large and less civilised piece of modern history. The Dzungar (准噶尔灭族; Zhǔngá’ěr mièzú), Circassian, Manifest Destiny, California, Selk’nam, Namaqua and Herero, Green, Assyrian, Armenian, Libyan, Soviet famine, and Kazakhstan genocides filled a period of time form the 1750s to 1933. Bleak, right? Did it end in World War Two with the Holocaust and Porajmos? Not at all! People from Bangladesh, Burundi, East Timor, Cambodia, Guatamala, Kurdish, and Isaaq fell from the 1970s to late 1980s.

Now, there is the crisis of the Rohingya Muslims and the fallout from the Ratko Mladic era of pain and suffering in Bosnia (and Yugoslavia). How are the Yazidis doing in northern Iraq and Syria?

In 1994, the world seemingly stood by and watched Rwanda explode as the Hutu majority squashed the Tutsi population, Twa, and moderate Hutus into oblivion. The cause was hugely complex and the after effects are still drastic today. It has been estimated that in the 50 years leading up to 2016 that 43 genocides have led to 50 million deaths. An equally large number of people have been displaced and sought resettlement. The International Court of Justice has held countless and expensive court cases against numerous war criminals. They have costs taxpayers millions and their remaining victims have often been left feeling tortured and humiliated. Ever since I read the book We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families, by Philip Gourevitch, I have paid more attention to ethnic cleansing news. The book had made me physically sick but opened my mind to horrors in ways that history teaching, news broadcasts of theYugoslavia conflict could not convey. I wasn’t a teenager when the serious Rwanda genocide hit the news. I read this book much later, when I was at university, in a spell of procrastination, where I would read everything and anything. This book strangled my attention. The movie Hotel Rwanda barely touched on the horror and affect on the people. Whilst Don Cheadle on the supporting cast were wonderful, it simply felt like a lighter take on hell. Not that we, as cinema-goers, want to see a quarter to half a million rape scenes as happened, or the genital mutilation of men. Nor did we want to see the HIV-riddled and AIDS fall-out that followed, or pygmy people (Batwa/Twa) being eliminated categorically. The 400,000 orphans of the years that followed are now likely in their twenties and thirties, if living. A quarter would have become the head of their family.

The world watched news. The big countries and strength looked away, worried of a new Battle of Mogadishu. That Somalian killing field and the U.N.’s Assistance Mission for Rwanda led to utter failure on the part of supposed world policing. Israel’s documentation regarding arms sales to Rwanda remains sealed. Since then there has been the Great Lakes refugee crisis, the First and Second Congo Wars. The Gacaca Courts and the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda have dwindled away. The horrors as fresh as the small Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre, which holds a quarter of a million remains!

So, what is genocide? Brutal, generation-affecting and ill-meaning to all. It has effects on the leaders, their victims and those who carry out the atrocities. The ripple of the pool spreads globally. Those who had power to act and did not, are equally to blame. If their aim is to deliberately murder a whole community or race and they fail, but come close, they have aready changed the dynamics of that community and race. Each massacre, slaughter and eradication attempt towards a nationality or ethnic race, should have been the end. The final act.

 

There are quotes galore about this horrid subject and matter, and discussion comes and goes, but more choose to focus on iPods, the latest running trainers and what’s hot in the kid’s Christmas aisle. Wars and poverty have hugely influenced a vacuum, and in vaccums hate thrives. This isn’t an argument or thought-rich piece of writing I convey, it is just a simple, open up your minds. Those who don’t act, witness the slaughter of other peoples. Nobody wants to see bad news, day in, day out, but right now the media are being guided by leaders like Trump and matters so trivial that the viewer is patronised. A Victoria’s Secret model that falls on the catwalk is not news. Nor is the denial of a visa to a pop megastar to China. Perhaps Yemen might feature on the next genocide, or the Philipines… or Cambodia again. The warnings of history are there to be read, but we’re all reading about insects made into bread.

“You have to understand what caused genocide to happen. Or it will happen again.” Tim Walz

“Rwanda can be a paradise again, but it will take the love of the entire world to heal my homeland. And that’s as it should be, for what happened in Rwanda happened to us all – humanity was wounded by the genocide.” Immaculee Ilibagiza

“The 20th century taught us how far unbridled evil can and will go when the world fails to confront it. It is time that we heed the lessons of the 20th century and stand up to these murderers. It is time that we end genocide in the 21st century.” Allyson Schwartz

“My people are few. They resemble the scattering trees of a storm-swept plain…There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatness of tribes that are now but a mournful memory.” Chief Seattle, The Chief Seattle’s Speech

“We must win in Iraq. If we withdraw, there will be chaos; there will be genocide; and they will follow us home.” John McCain

“They want us to be afraid.

They want us to be afraid of leaving our homes.

They want us to barricade our doors

and hide our children.

Their aim is to make us fear life itself!

They want us to hate.

They want us to hate ‘the other’.

They want us to practice aggression

and perfect antagonism.

Their aim is to divide us all!

They want us to be inhuman.

They want us to throw out our kindness.

They want us to bury our love

and burn our hope.

Their aim is to take all our light!

They think their bricked walls

will separate us.

They think their damned bombs

will defeat us.

They are so ignorant they don’t understand

that my soul and your soul are old friends.

They are so ignorant they don’t understand

that when they cut you I bleed.

They are so ignorant they don’t understand

that we will never be afraid,

we will never hate

and we will never be silent

for life is ours!” Kamand Kojouri

“First, they came for the Communists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn’t speak up because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time no one was left to speak up.” Martin Niemöller, from the poem “First they came…”

 

To quote Coldplay, open up your eyes, but more importantly, our minds need to be exercised not nullified. I don’t claim to understand genocide at all. I don’t. I just think some things need a spot of time to think about, no matter how tough a subject they are. Perhaps next time, I can rip into cancer…

 

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

28 Degrees (Later?)

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

For everything else there is Mastercard.

I heard a story that goes a little like this. A man spent a considerable amount of time validating his university degree certificate and police check in summer. It cost him far too much for two pieces of paper (£5 at the solicitors, £30 at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and £30 at the Chinese consulate) – £130 for two pieces of paper. With that he left for Hong Kong, he met someone from his new school, obtaining a 60-day double-entry visa by the third day, and then entered China as a tourist. He had to exit China on the 30th day and on the 60th day, once again. This time the next visa was for only 14 days. On that 13th day, he exited and returned the same day, with a 30-day business visa in hand. Strangely, that man is now wondering what will happen next?

The man’s dreams of a life in China are fading, his insurance has been voided, he cannot obtain local medical treatment (if ever needed), and he has not rented an apartment. Is this illegal worker a hobo? Should he stay, or should he go? Previously, he worked for just under 4 years without a hitch – on a legal work and residence permit. As a native speaker, he has a university degree, the requisite TEFL, wants to learn Chinese and contribute to international relations. His years of experience gained count for diddly squat right now. I even heard he had to sign another form to say that his name is his name and to his knowledge, there is no other in China by that name.

Anyway, enough about him, let’s talk weather. Chilly in Carlisle? Icy in Ingleton? Yesterday, the mercury hit 28°C, which seems crazy for the 12th of November. Today, it is a fairly-humid 20°C, the downpours have been with us since 9am, making for a soggy ground and a real feel temperature of 27°C. The highest it will reach today is 25°C. For the remainder of the week, it is expected to hit 28°C, with lows of 18°C. Winter is coming, but nobody seems sure as to when…

“Don’t eat my little friends.” 27 tangerines to be precise. Each gifted to a student, on the basis that if they behave very well, they will be rewarded team by team. If not, they must give their tangerines to another student in a different team. It forms just one small segment of bringing the students together – and eradicating a simmering tension between one half-Japanese student (half-Chinese too) and his classmates. Many students are from Singapore, Taiwan, Hong Kong and Macau too. One student is half-French. One student is half-Australian.

The whole Japan and China thing is instilled in culture, and is not a subject to approach lightly. My only concern is that a six-year old boy is being cruelly singled out for something he never experienced, nor did his father, and likely another generation after that too. Just like the 1917 Balfour Declaration, the actions of others cause an affect on the lives of those down on the ground. This being 72 years later than the conclusion of World War Two; even longer after the 1931 Japanese invasion of Manchuria; 74 years following the outbreak of the Second Sino-Japanese War.

The Marco Polo Bridge Incident may have been 80 years ago, sparking up the bloody and cruel Second Sino-Japanese War. This war became popularised as the War of Resistance (抗日战争) and the eight years’ war of resistance (八年抗战). Even now the name has changed to reflect a conflict stemming back to 1931 (十四年抗战) – the 14 years’ war of resistance. The War of Jiǎwǔ (甲午戰爭; Jiǎwǔ Zhànzhēng) lasted around 8.5 months from 1894-1895. It is vastly confusing and a bitter time resulting in around 37,000 deaths. This period is often referred to as the First Sino-Japanese War. To complicate matters entirely China had been a in state of civil war from around 1927, following the April 12th Incident (四一二慘案). Even that stems back to the 1923 alliance by Nationalist Party of China (中國國民黨; Zhōngguó Guómíndǎng), with the Soviet Union. Only in 1912 had the Qing Dynasty (大清) ended, having started in 1636! So, after 276 years of stability, recent memory of the Middle Kingdom’s rule has been shaped drastically by times of warfare and leadership battles.

The People’s Republic of China (中华人民共和国; Zhōnghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó), founded on October 1st, 1949 followed almost a century of uncertainty, turbulence and conflict. To conclude, the past should affect not one child, but sadly it does. There is only one certainty in life and that is death. As a teacher we must protect, fight for and defend our students, supporting them in ways like a parent, but also that of a guardian of their galaxy. As a seed finds its way into the soil, it is protected from the environment overhead, and predation. We as teachers must be the soil to allow our seeds to grow. Without getting too convoluted or dull, the past is just that, and everything needs to be focused on turning the now into a great future, for each of us, our community, our countries, and ultimately our world – environment and all! Politics and history isn’t a place for a six-year old kid learning how to say, “I can play.” That’s not his place. He needs to focus on schooling, playing and growing up without distraction and fear. Twenty-eight degree temperatures can’t be enjoyed otherwise

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Kind of Personal Views (Teaching)

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

School requested an article on education, experience or some such similar subject. So, I drafted the following:

Personal Views of Teaching

Hey, hey, my name is Mr John. I come from Manchester, the northern powerhouse of England. The industrial revolution and communism have origins in my hometown. Aside from links to Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx and the first railway station, my city is famous for music, football and cycling now. That and a T.V. show called Coronation Street! My interests include writing, reading, history and Chinese culture. I enjoy swimming, football, cycling and eating. You can see from my stomach that I like eating. I am not slim.

For me there are few things more rewarding than introducing new words, topics, and questions – only to see the students embrace these and use these frequently. The ostrich and kangaroo cannot walk backwards, and this is an approach to speaking English, I hope all students will hold. I believe teaching is far more than textbooks and games. Confidence, belief and an interesting and engaging classroom environment deepen learning in a way black and white words cannot. I believe in investment in classroom materials, the classroom decoration and books.

To make the learning environment bright and bold, is to awaken the imagination. Stories, the skill of questioning and a hunger to want more from each class goa long way to releasing a students’ full potential. Taking elements from great comedians like Laurel and Hardy, or Morecambe and Wise and applying slapstick humour, appropriate dialogue and real world uses of language is important. Communication through body language is equally as important as the words we speak.

A happy teacher is one free of out-of-school distractions, settled in a home and passionate from morning to evening. There are many great non-native speaking teachers but to be perfect, a school must headhunt the best available teachers. In an ideal world they must all be native speakers, or educated at the highest levels in order to offer genuine and authentic pronunciation. On top of this the foreign teacher must offer a glimpse of their cultures. There is a vast difference between many peoples, and the people of the U.S.A., U.K., Ireland and Australia have also very much distinct heritages.

A cosy work environment makes for a settled teacher. Schools should work tirelessly to retain their best teachers, whether Chinese, foreign or alien! We all remember our best teachers from our times in schools. Few former students will remember ever-changing lines of teachers. Teachers should feel valued and wanted. A steady teacher can settle and offer support to students, parents and colleagues alike.

From my experiences within China, I have an understanding, of face, the love for food and other intangible cultural facts. However, my attitude is that the world is changing. We must preserve our heritage but not at the expense of the future. I hope to push our students to respect key areas of conversation such as recycling, the importance of our environmental, conservation, and more daily matters like brushing your teeth and eating less sugar. In my classrooms there is no flag of one nation, there is an international door welcoming all nations as one. To be stronger, for China, we must work together as one and put aside history or politics. We must respect one another and make our students prepared for the world ahead.

Students are central to schools, like water is to life. To that end we must protect and maintain the purity and safety of our students. A safe area of studies, where each student will spend the majority of their week, is one in which they can blossom. In the classroom, facts, figures and essential life skills can be honed. Parents can support and provide common sense which together with schooling will enhance a child’s future prospects.

My time in China has been enjoyable and inspiring. Each positive day pushes me on, and makes me hungry to not just do my best, but to want to try new things and make a difference. I hope each and every day in school features a plethora of smiles for students and just reward at the end of the road. Some days it won’t come easy, some days it won’t come at all, but these are days that make and break us. Being broken isn’t the end, it can be the foundation for a grand building, a great future and to that end, every student can succeed. Every student has potential and it is up to us, the teachers, the guardians, the parents, the guides to help each student find their feet. They can do it. We can do it. You can do it.

From the above, I then edited it down to the below:

Personal Views: Teaching

Hey, hey, my name is Mr John. I come from the city of Manchester, in the U.K. It is two hours north of the city of London. My city is famous as the birthplace of industry, great music, and sports such as football and cycling. There is also a famous T.V. show that many people learn English by watching it. It is called Coronation Street. My interests include writing, reading, history and Chinese culture. I enjoy swimming, football, cycling and eating. You can see from my stomach that I like eating. I am not slim.

I get great satisfaction from teaching. I enjoy introducing new words, topics, and questions. It makes me smile to see the students embrace new classes and use these often. Together we can make our classes more exciting and colourful. We can make the black and white world of homework and tests into something different. My time in China has been enjoyable and inspiring. Each positive day pushes me on, and makes me hungry to not just do my best, but to want to try new things and make a difference.

The ostrich and kangaroo cannot walk backwards. This is how I want my students to be. To speak English, by only going forwards. Learning is far more than textbooks and games. I want my students to feel confidence. They can do it. We can do it. I can do it. Everything is possible with each student’s powerful minds. We all must believe.

I believe in investment in classroom materials, the classroom decoration and books. White walls can be rainbows. Chalkboards can be frames of artwork. The ceiling can be a place to hang and celebrate great work by students. Students should be inspired to ask questions and be curious. Stories and reading can help better their minds. Using comedy along the way, we can bring laughter and sunshine both inside and outside school. Each student can share their stories of school for days and years to come.

A happy foreign teacher is one free of out-of-school distractions. They are settled in a home and passionate from morning to evening. They have energy and engage their students. They push students to enhance their language skills. They are free from worry and distraction and focus on their students. They always try to improve their classes, classroom and students. They share their culture and believe they can make a difference. We all remember our best teachers from our times in schools. My hope and beliefs are to make our students better, each and every day.

Students are central to schools, like water is to life. We must make schools a place for students to want to go. We must open the gates to their minds and happiness. A happy home life and a happy school life can help students be ready for life. Teachers, parents and students can work as a team to turn paper into thought. The future will be brighter with good study experiences and a better understanding of the world. I believe every student can succeed. Their potential is in our hands. We won’t let them down.

The content changes may reflect my moods on each day of writing. Or perhaps, in hindsight I was too politically-charged in one piece and less conservative in another. It is important to know your audience, if in fact you have one, when you write. Writing from the heart is all good in one situation, but in another it may cause offence. And if you take something you have read by me personal, I have some expletive words and directions for you to take. Oh, and grow up. If you get offended by words, even if I contradict myself from time to time, I never look to offend anyone. Okay, maybe some knobhead singing boybands, Manchester Utd. fans are fair game too, and people who quote books without ever reading them, but not Scousers. I’ll have nothing said against high-pitched bin-dippers [tonge firmly in cheek]. Banter.

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Modesty and humility (went into a bar)

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

somebody

[suhm-bod-ee, -buhd-ee, -buh-dee]
pronoun
1. Some person.
noun, plural somebodies.
2. A person of some note or importance. A person of greater importance than others: he seems to be somebody in this town.
[ Collins English Dictionary – Complete & Unabridged 2012 Digital Edition]

What makes a somebody? I’ve heard this term banded around so freely in China. It bugs me, because not everyone has had the fortune to rise-up the social classes or has been afforded a chance, a real shot at life. Some are born into poverty, some grit their teeth in a no frills lifestyle and almost everyone tries their hardest to improve themselves. No single person wants to awake each day in shit. Yes, many paths are different, some opt for crime, fraud and treachery, others seek out lawful means. In my humble opinion, saying “he is a somebody” or “she is a somebody” discounts the fact that people are always somebody. I also find that most of the time being a somebody means having money. Yeah, I get business and success, hats off to them for working hard and pushing on. My gripe is along the way, is the questions.

  • Were they paying their staff fairly?
  • Were they putting profit before quality?
  • Did they compete fairly?
  • Were laws and regulations followed fairly?
  • How clear was their conscience?
  • Who did the real work?

The list could go on and on, and I’m not lecturing. Did they recycle more than a box of plastic bottles in their career? Does this make me ethical? I don’t know. I just don’t rate this capitalism lark. The rich get richer and the poorer fall further behind. Life quality may improve but equality is a dream, that has eluded many for many generations and will continue to without a focus on community and bringing balance. Wouldn’t we be much stronger if we supported our poorer communities globally and brought more education to the table? Or should we stay focused on me, myself and I? I get little satisfaction from tunnel-vision about rewarding myself. Don’t get me wrong, I love to improve but seeing others rewarded for teamwork and togetherness is far more nourishing to my soul. So, when I meet people and they are immediately introduced as a “somebody”, I generally think, “I literally couldn’t give a fuck, knobhead.” To others they may inspire, support and do something for the greater good, but wearing a shiny gold watch and belt, parading their flashy investments is not enough for me. Their crocodile skin shoes may be as fake as their smile. For me human kindness is more genuine.

You can either make money fast, or steady in a highly competitive world but at some stage values, principles and moralities must come into focus. Having attended the opening of a Multinational Conglomerate Corporation Group Worldwide’s new mega-city-one-shopping-mall-effort once, one guy played Top Trumps with me. I didn’t enter the game. Still he persisted with, “I ate champagne and drank snails on the Seine.” I’d soon learn how Big Ben looks from The Shard and the London Eye’s V.I.P. suites. If only he knew that Big Ben was the bell, and not the tower. I interjected that the Thames now has octopus and is much cleaner than many years ago. He looked unimpressed. I asked where he visited in the U.K. Just the city of London. Just the centre. He spent five weeks there. Not one museum or walk around the heart if the city. All business. No play. This Panini sticker album of boasts kept going on and on. Eventually Business Man Of The Year from the Province of Most Wonderfulness, asked me, “so what was your best view of a city?” I said, whilst I am from Manchester – the Northern Powerhouse of England, I don’t think cities are the be all and end all of life. I explained how farmers in the U.K are admired and not looked on as peasants like in some countries. I said many aspire to hold idyllic homes built by Transnational Cosmopolitan holdings in quieter places with less traffic and smog. His jaw seemed to drop. He pushed for my greatest city view. I said aside from working in an office overlooking the great Manchester Town Hall, and views of football stadiums, old architecture and the like, cities for me were not amazing. So, then he said his greatest moment was to sit in an office at Trump Towers and see New York. Whilst I admit, New York is a great city, for me the view lacks nature, green and blue. His great moment reeked of cliché. That pong, not only had New York’s wonderful skyline, attached to many romance movies and stories, history etc, but also Donald “Fake-word inventor” Trump added extra buoyancy to it. He pushed me again for my greatest view. Eventually I caved in, and told him, “I had a shit that froze in the Himalayas. The view from the small wooden toilet window was breathtaking. I shed a tear of joy. It was pure beauty.” He didn’t ask for my WeChat I.D.

If the next James Bond novelist needs an inspiration for a baddie, there are loads here in China. Not bad people out-right. Just they fir the platitude and formula required to face up to 007. Between many of them, none have checked a fire extinguisher. Some have probably moved said item to fit a company logo made of copious amounts of precious stone. They’re the sort that open their business with a fashion show of pre-teen girls (and one stand alone boy for good measure). The inappropriate catwalk of minors. Many men, usually in their thirties and upwards, the ones who made illegal massage parlour culture popular, whip out their camera phones and snap away. There is no hint that they are paedophilic in nature. This is not always true. They are just plain improper in their actions. Their snapps line their social media moments, probably unprotected from those they have rarely met. As the skimpy-clad clothing of teenagers departs, on steps a man. He’s usually in his 40’s. He wouldn’t stand out in a street ordinarily. But today, today, he is wearing all white. He has dance moves that everyone’s uncle and father could pull off after a hip replacement. His voice isn’t too bad. It isn’t too good either. The song evolves from Cantopop to a segment of rap which he pulls of in the antonymical meaning of flawlessly. He departs to applause. Singular. His partner is obliged.

Next up comes two children. The cutest ones from the class. They hum and mime a song by TF Boys. Like the TF Boys, they are one voice drop from disappearing forever. Their catchy pop songs will reign eternal as they inject the royalties into their veins. After a talent competition hate-filled juvenile eyes look on at their winning rivals. Throughout the audience product placement is as barefaced – totally unashamed. The latest overly-gassy alcopop sits next to a the most colourful of children’s sweet confectionaries. By the end of the night, the event highlights will have included a smoke machine clashing with a bubble machine. You had to be there. In closing there is a group photoshop and individual photos with a selction of glass phallus-shaped trophies.

Occasionally, through the excessive lighting comes a bright spark of talent and a real clap appears from the audience. Sadly, like Dan Brown novels, you must read many pages to enjoy a chapter or paragraph. Can you get the two hours of time back no? Did you enjoy it? Yes, maybe, but perhaps not in the ways that others did. And that is life. Enjoy every moment, write aggressively and angrily when required or nod, smile and carry on. Do what you love. Love what you do. Hate nothing, but observe and report in your own ways. You never know. You could be talking to Mr Business Man Of The Year from the Province of Most Wonderfulness tomorrow. It doesn’t mean it will all be bad. Share your favourite view from a bathroom.

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Here’s to you Nige Carr Evans…

oyster28catcher (JRA)1 Comment

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / S’mae / Hello / How do,

WeChat Image_20171107210611

[Image: Let’s not forget past blues, Facebook]

Nige, oh Nige, I am sorry to hear you are no longer with us. I remember some time ago when you said you hadn’t long left, and we were sat chatting in your apartment that I rented from you. One thing about you, you were always genuine and loved a natter. Those brews and beers that went with the chat were great. Down to earth at the best of times and uplifting in the worst of times. After my Grandfather passed away, and then my other Grandfather passed away… you were there to talk with in dark hours. Between a tooth problem that I needed fixing, you helped me, despite having worries of your own. You seemingly always wanted to make others happier than yourself.

I loved the car journeys with Mike Wattsy, the other Nigel and many others up to the then City of Manchester Stadium, having met you through uni mates, who spotted a blue working at Aberystwyth. Those nights watching away games in the Pier, Kane’s or wherever we could find City on screen, and the odd game watched at Park Avenue, I could listen to your rants about football over-and-over again. The thing with us footy fans is, that we all know better. We’re a breed of coach that didn’t do our badges, and decided to experience the emotional ride. That ride was one where you let me use your seasoncard in the early days of the City of Manchester Stadium – and helped drive us to Thomas Cook Trophy games, League Cup games on a midweek night and a fair few away jaunts too. Eventually, you convinced me to move from the East Stand into the South Stand and I never regretted that move.

I always got the impression you were massively dedicated to many things. Family, friends and football. You roped me into a sponsored headshave at Headlines with Maria. After you moved in with Maria, you seemed so happy and your world had a glow to it. You supported each other so well. I’ve not seen many couples that close, ever! Your banter with opposition football fans was there, and the twinkle in your eye shined through. I was lucky enough to meet many great people through knowing you and had the pleasure of meeting your daughter ever so briefly, and other relatives. I offer my solace to all of Nige’s family, my love and my gratitude to Nige himself, for taking time to be a friend. Sadly, years away from Aberystwyth means friends grow apart, but catching up with Nige at the Etihad for brief moments was like seeing him only yesterday. I can still feel the growl of the red (why red?) Seat as he gunned the engine and headed us to Manchester via The Whistling Kettle for a fry up.

You even pushed me to join Penparcau F.C. when quite frankly I was ready to give up kicking a football. Training there was a memorable experience with Mike Gilbert, and Colin Bitchell. At that time, I knew I wasn’t good enough, but you said, “go and have fun in training.” So, I did. I had a few chances and bagged a few goals at the highest level I had ever played. Everyone needs a Nige in their life. That little gentle friendly shove and suddenly you feel at home, suddenly you feel you can do something extra and be that little bit better. Here’s to you Nige Carr Evans, your mates love you more than you will know…

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

On Andy Morrison, bee-ing 35 and diarrhea

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

On the 29th of October 1998, one man arrived at Manchester City F.C. He would go on to make a difference in ways unmatched by many since.

To set the scene, City were struggling, properly striving to continue running day to day. They had fell two flights of football, following Francis Lee stepping aside as Chairman for David Bernstein. Francis Lee had inherited a club in a dire state from Peter Swales. Franny “One Pen”, the former City forward presided over the club for a year and a half. Bernstein arrived with a vision of stabilising the sleeping giant of City. But, it wasn’t going to start smoothly. After seven seasons in the top flight, City petered out of the elite league, holding on for a 2-2 draw with Liverpool at Maine Road. On that day, it was firmly believed a draw was enough. City woefully dropped down to Division One. Coventry City and Southampton’s greater goal difference condemned City. The following season City finished midtable and then the major cracks began to show. Alan Ball, Steve Coppell (for 33 days), and Frank Clark  (with two other caretaker managers) featured as managers in a rollercoaster season. As City failed to bid for promotion, a second season in Division One loomed.

CITY DOWN

Frank Clark’s battle wasn’t helped, in inheriting 40 senior players on good contracts, he could not reduce the squad. He was often looked at a bad manager. Most of it wasn’t his fault. He hit the nail on the head, when speaking to the Sunday Times in August 1997, “Because we’ve got to fill the reserves with senior pros needing match practice or players we’re trying to sell, the youngsters’ development is held up.” The Sunday Times 6/1 favourites to win the Divison One title stumbled. A 63-year association with shirt-makers Umbro and a new crest didn’t help the feeling that City’s heartbeat was on life support. Even laser blue replaced sky blue. City loaned out numerous senior players and released many. Big Joe Royle came home to City as manager in spring. His signings Richard Jobson, Jamie Pollock, a little known Bermudan called Shaun Goater and Ian Bishop didn’t have enough to City from the drop to Division Two.

So, by October 1998, City had recorded just 5 wins from 15 games. Hardly promotion form. Their debut season in the third tier of football had began woefully. Players left in an exodus and Big Joe Royle signed Big Andy Morrison. And he was big. He didn’t have a slim typical football figure about him. He’d have been more at home on a rugby field, perhaps. But, one thing he did have was a pair of eyes that could be read. He did not want to lose a thing. Not a tackle. Not a game. His beady intense stare shone with heart and strength. A debut goal, after arriving on loan from Huddersfield Town, was only the start of something special.

city 99

Andy Morrison was a tackler, from the off, he loved to smash an opponent by putting his foot through the ball – and sometimes player. City paid just £80,000 for the centre half. Within a handful if games he had made the Captain’s armband his own. Three goals in just four games helped showcase his leadership and bravery. His tooth and claw attitude made him a cult player very quickly. With losses at York City (watched by a record crowd of almost every Mancunian on Earth), Lincoln City, Barnsley, and Stockport County in recent years, every game could have ended in defeat. Home games were just as dogged-ugly and a dismal mood seemed to swamp City like the insurers of Georgi Kinkladze’s Ferrari.

17 wins from 31 games, with just 4 defeats helped City to reach the play-off finals, by finishing third. City then drew at Wigan’s Springfield Road before Goater’s goal at Maine Road sealed a trip to Wembley. Having led City out against Gillingham in the Play Off Final, he was forced off with injury after 61 minutes. Local lad Michael Brown (still playing at Port Vale) also made way for Tony Vaughn and veteran Ian Bishop. The scores locked at 0-0 until 81 minutes passed, then Carl Asaba stabbed a knife into every City fans’ heart. All belief seemed to evaporate in that moment. Tony Pulis’s side went one better, six minutes later, with Bobby Taylor scoring the second goal. Surely it was over. How could City compete without their Captain? “Party time in Kent tonight” suddenly became in doubt as Dickov flicked the ball to Goater. Goater skipped through the centre of the Gillingham defence, but was upended and as he picked himself up tentatively, Super Kevin Horlock had rifled the ball into the net. His super left foot, stranding man of the match Vince Bartram. A few half-hopeful balls from Bishop, hooked into the defence; a misguided cross from Terry Cooke high over the crossbar; Gillingham playing the ball into touch at every opportunity – and the five added minutes of stoppage time seemed to be dwindliung away. City looked condemned to another year in Division Two. On 93:48 City’s Cooke, slid over the right-hand byline, chasing a seemingkly lost cause. Weaver played the ball back from his goalline, having seen the ball bobble all the way back to almost the corner flag. The throw-in fed back to Wiekens who lofted the ball upfield reaching a midfielder’s head for a flick on to a yellow and blue-striped hero. The Sky Sports commentators, “its not over until the final whistle…” as Goater received the ball, threading it beautifully out to Paul Dickov, who entered the box. His shot hit the net and the laser blue end of Wembley erupted. 94:09 showing on the clock. City went on to win on penalties with heroes from goal to the bench, to behind the scenes. All of this was possible because of a man at the back, who gave hope and was part of something special: City’s first true team in my lifetime. A City team with heart and belief. My first glimpse of that never say never attitude, that would come again in 2011/12. As Weaver runs around crazily, he runs into Andy Morrison had Morrison’s face is ecstatic. He deserved to lift that trophy – and become embedded deep in City folklore thereafter.

P1090329

My Dad mentions Mike Doyle and Gerry Gow as hard men in the game, that played at City. Since Andy Morrison, I’d only add Richard Dunne, Nigel De Jong and Pablo Zabaleta in there. Now, Andy is Manager at Welsh Premier League club Connah’s Quay – and remains close to City’s heart in his role as official Fan Ambassador of Manchester City. More importantly, every player that has followed can see his images, his videos and his passion. Whilst not always the cleanest player, he was certainly one of the most spirited, at a time when it would have been easy to collect wages and look for a bigger club. Bumping into BlueMoonRisingTV, Andy Morrison said, “play me with John Stones” and has always continued a down to earth relationship with City. I bumped into Andy after City’s win over QPR in May 2012, and he was happy to allow me a photo with him.

Morrison’s junior years at Southampton (alongside Le Tissier and Shearer) couldn’t deliver. He moved on to Plymouth, with six good years before leaving Peter Shilton’s team to Blackburn Rovers for a record fee. Colin Hendry (then Captain of Scotland), Henning Berg, David May, Patrick Berger, Ian Pearce, Kevin Moran etc stood in his way. His potential never had a chance. A move to Huddersfield followed and his off the field character shut a door. City called. The rest is as they say history. Back to back promotions at City allowed City to return to the Premier League. Nervous players suddenly found their calm nerve under the captaincy of Morrison. Maine Road’s gloom lifted-off and the excitement factor returned.

Between fights with Paulo Wanchope and licking Stan Collymore, several “clearing of the air” incidents added to Andy Morrison’s fearsome character. Professionally, Andy placed himself “in the top 1%” for training and professionalism. His off the field antics, ups, downs and lows are captured throughout his autobiography, The Good, the Mad and the Ugly – The Andy Morrison Story. Rather than slip off the rails and do bad, Morrison enlightens all on demons that many have lurking at the end of the bed. The warnings came time and time again. It made his character who he is, no doubt, and nobody with a sensible mind can argue, that fighters fight more with their minds, than their bodies. His battles with depression, finding new directions, money management and mental health can lead, as he did on the field. Hundreds of footballers have had chances, and many make it work – but few as well as the household names like Messi and Ronaldo, and ever fewer ride the storm to sail onwards like our Andy.

Speaking to CityTV’s Chappy, in November 2014, “It was just a very surreal feeling in the changing room afterwards and I was one of the last people to leave. I just felt, I just felt a fulfilment. You know that sacrifices made – that there was a reward for it.” To new fans joining City’s growing football family, I implore you to look at the story of City, in every corner, era and decade. Embrace our future – together with our history. Grasp the community and the folk who featured. It isn’t just cups and titles. City are much more than that.

P71028-201223

Oh, and yesterday, I turned 35 years of age. I didn’t party as such. I awoke. Having slept in late. The middle of the night diarrhea hadn’t gave me any motive to move much. The movements had been pretty-damn uncomfortable. Not only that, but the school’s apartment stank of shit from the off. A leaking waterpipe had meant not even a shower was possible. Thankfully I had somewhere to go and escape to, after waking up. After losing my voice on Tuesday, struggling through MC duties at school’s Dance Extravaganza and avoiding doing the YMCA the following night, I again took up MC duties on Thursday night. Almost every day I had a combination of a bad belly and headaches coupled with other niggling annoyances. Last Sunday night’s game of football may have been a win, for my new team Cool Breeze (Dongguan) F.C. but I came off the field needing rest. The trip to Hong Kong last week had hammered my immune system.

images

So, without breakfast in my belly (and the maximum allowance of anti-diarrhea tablets), a light snack and a wasted afternoon of napping, I headed to Dongcheng. There I met Ched, Mrs Ched, and Jodie. A quick stop at The Treehouse, around 6pm, for the Artisan’s market and an equally brief stop at Irene’s Bar’s extremely cool Halloween grotto followed. From there 10pm had arrived on the watch. Dark o’clock meant City were on the tele-box, so on arriving to Murray’s Irish Pub, that meant flicking the switch to on. Two hot-whiskey lemon drinks with cloves were needed. They sat well. They calmed an aching rumbling stomach. Two bowls of excellent chilli con carne at Irene’s Bar had been needed. The combination, pooled-together, simultaneously, at the same time, to settle my stomach. Following the footy, I watched the Mighty Orphans and the house band before eventually scattering for a reasonably-early night at 3am. Not bad for just two alcoholic beverages all night. Oh, and I dressed as a bee, but everyone Asian thought it was Pikachu from Pokémon. I do like the idea of someone drunk mistaking me for a short, chubby rodent on their night out. For photos, I refused to smile, unless the request had the word please. Hardly the scariest outfit of the night but I shocked a few people. This is perhaps the closest I have come to wearing a onesie. I am not having a midlife crisis.

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Spatial awareness, cuddling goblins and common sense.

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

mmexport1506781984796

So, the first Friday of my return I met my students for the 2017/18 academic year. They are all grade one students. There seemed to be an age range from 6 to 7 years old. There are considerable differences in height and physique. Spoken English ability appears to very high, with only a limited vocabulary restricting conversations flowing with perfection. They are learning fast and have a great foundation.

I first met several students in the days leading up to Friday, whilst I was preparing the classroom. My students seem to have a range of normal names, not often witnessed in Chinese primary schools. Rain, Christie, Natalie, Lawson, and Evan are a few examples of ordinary names, for extraordinary students. Soffy, whose older sister Waffy, is an oddity of a name, however, her English ability is magnificent. I suspect the names relate to something that I am yet to understand.

Today was my 28th day of school. Many fine moments have been had, and many questions have formed along the short jouney to date. How far up a nose can a finger reach? If a student is hyperactive and responds to other positive stimulus, should they receive different treatment? How funny is a music teacher using a mobile phone to play music over a tiny megaphone device? In China those little portable voice amplifiers are the size of an old Sony Walkman. They will happily distort any old sound. They’re even partial to a bit of feedback that even the Gallagher Brothers would be proud of. How many potatoes are too many? Why do my textbooks and pens keep taking nightly tours away from the classroom? Which children’s books are the best?

One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes… it seems my stomach is the world’s biggest patting board, and if hitting my stomach was an Olympic sport, then China would secure gold. Desciptions of places beyond my stomach, such as my head have ranged from a big white cabbage to that of a potato. My legs have been described as a sack of mashed potatoes. It is great to know your students have learnt the word potato, and have a knowledge of how to cook said root vegetable. If I put on a jacket, they’ll no doubt call me a jacket potato.

So, on this day in 2005, I wrote an article for ATFC.org.uk. Today, I am reminded of it. It feels good knowing that ATFC.org.uk is running and supporting the football club Aberystwyth Town after 13 years. I think ATFCnews.co.uk ran for about 5 years and before that there were a few other dated websites. The team that run ATFC.org.uk are doing a fantastic job. Unlike the national team of Wales and their bid for the World Cup, the ATFC.org.uk team are well and truly in the ball.

“Caersws 5-1 ATFC – FAW Premier Cup Round 1, 11/10/05
Newyddion/News / Contact Report Author
Demolition Derby or Caersws Curse
Referee: Mr Whitby. Attendance: 182. Entertainment value: 1/5 stars.
An early goal always helps the side who scores. Aber had no such luck as Neville Thompson helped the Bluebirds to start brightly. The ball had not crossed into the Caersws half before Caersws had the lead. Poor concentration and a strong finish around Richard Morgan allowed Thompson to score. Within ten minutes Stuart Roberts sprinted clear to almost test ex-Taff’s Well shot-stopper David Jones. Jones had some luck as Roberts’ shot clipped the post and rebounded clear.
Aber lose track of striker Neville Thompson
Caersws liked scoring so much they did it again…
Did the scoreline flatter Caersws? Quite the opposite. Caersws made use of the ball, played some neat passes and made what they deserved. Goal number two came from Neil Mitchell. Mitchell added to his one WPL goal for this season. Maybe Aber could have had some attacks and split Caersws open? Caersws were solid at the back… and determined. Their determination gave Aber no time on the ball, and their sheer graft was an example of how hard-working football should be. Even at two nil up, they rolled their sleeves up and got dirty. They played fair football and did what they like to do best, in that of frustrating their neighbours.
Now nobody knows the importance of the derby game more than Sean Jehu, the veteran Caersws player marked the game with a goal after 40 minutes sending Aber in at half-time three goals down. Half-time: Caersws 3-0 ATFC. No nobody can argue that the Aber concentration has room for improvement because yet again Aber were caught wide open. Neville Thompson bagged his second of the game after 46 minutes. The striker paced through and upset the visiting team’s hope of a come-back.
…and again.
Coates looks to pressure the Bluebird defence.
Aber had one shot on target (what I think correctly as being their first on target) soon after the 4-0 mark. Substitute Glyndwr Hughes firing past debutee David Jones from a cross. Minutes later Mr Whitby and his assistant failed to spot Jason Rees’ shot cleared from inside the goal by Andy Thomas. Thomas was clearly shielded behind his keeper and another defender. The referee waved play on much to the disbelief of Aber. With under ten minutes to go Caersws’ Venables headed home to put the icing on the Bluebird fairy cake.
Tonight Aber were watched by Tomi Morgan (Friday looms for another Mid-Wales derby game) and Ken McKenna tonight (who is looking forward to a win at Treflan?). Interesting to see a warm cuppa is still served in cups at Caersws – delicious. Bari Morgan will likely be absent from the coming games due to severe bruising to his thigh. Glyndwr Hughes is shaking off his achilles injury.”

In some ways, I miss writing football reports and watching copious amounts of football. In other ways, I don’t. I like writing about variety and having made the decision to exit HubHao – I can safely say I need a new and local challenge, after a break since issue 27. There is a series of novels in the pipeline with provisional interest in the text from a few choice publishers. And something akin to being a textbook… The Very Hungry Caterpillar it is not.

I love how people often cross the road here, without stopping, looking and listening. Heck, drivers seem instinctive at entering flowing traffic without looking. Their yellow flashing lights are at no risk of a bulb blowing from overuse, or actual use for that matter. Today, m\ny students entering class with pull-along wheely backpacks. They turned up the aisles, and each one hit the first desk, dragging it out of position. I watched most students hit two to four desks in the process. The ones who managed to hit one desk, had a desk on the front row. Those who hit no desks, carried smaller backpacks. These backpacks are often too heavy to be hung on the students’ wooden chairs. Yet, they do. Throughout the day when seated, they are balanced out. When they stand, a seat upends. Despite demonstrations on how to steer around desks, place heavier bags away from unstable seats… it isn’t going so well.

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

The Muppet Show 2017.

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

It’s time to play the music, I fancy a spot of live music. Zhuhai-based band Sun Yat Sens are in town on a double header. It’s time to light the lights, both at Treehouse on Friday night and then at reportedly the best sound system in Dongguan, at One For The Road – Traditional English Pub.
It’s time to meet the Muppets on the Muppet Show tonight. Well, it should be. If I can find a few episodes and get chance to kick back and relax. It’s time to put on make up and design some more classes. It’s time to dress up right, using waterproofs and all manner of attire to prevent my body from resembling a swimming pool. It’s time to raise the curtain on the Muppet Show tonight…

Why do we always come here? A thought I always visit when it gets like this. I guess we’ll never know. It’s like a kind of torture when your mind hits that point, again and again, and you think that is the last time. To have to watch the show of life go on and on, with no clear instruction booklet, is a challenge and a half.

But now let’s get things started on North Korea. It would be very easy to say to China and South Korea, “Why don’t you get things started?” Some news reports say, “It’s time to get things started,” but they are usually American-based reports. In truth the Democratic Republic of North Korea, are messing with heavy shit. A nuclear test that triggers an earthquake on a scale of 6.3 is not to be pissed around with. The estimated blast is around ten-fold of Hiroshima’s 15 kilotonnes of painful destruction. The effects are still felt today. Besides, is it in the interest of China to unify Korea and allow the Americans a military presence bordering mainland China. Or, do they already have that in their perimeter with Russia? On the most sensational, inspirational, celebrational, muppetational dealings between Russia and Trump. This is what we call the Muppet Show.

The world needs less physical borders, more unity and more communication. China’s Xi Jinping opened a delegation in Xiamen (the BRICS summit (between Brazil, Russia, India and South Africa) just as North Korea rumbled the ground. Back in March, United States Secretary of State Rex Tillerson in Beijing met Xi Jinping, as North Korea successfully tested a rocket engine prototype. Fast forward two months as leaders gathered with Xi Jinping to showcase the capital’s One Belt One Road conference, rockets again stole the newspaper headlines. Maybe a a few memos or WeChat messages need pinging on. Perhaps, someone, somewhere in the land of vagueness, could hail a string of sentences to Pyongyang in support of nuclear research for energy to end the rolling-blackouts experienced by power shortages. A copy of Raymond Briggs’s When The Wind Blows wouldn’t go amiss too…

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Previously Now.

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

SUMMER DAYS

In the week, I visited Dan and his tribe, I made my third consecutive visit to The Pantry, Parton as it is Dan’s most local of shops. I tell my mate I am going to see him and his family. It is all lies. I am there secretly for the delicious flapjacks and scones at The Pantry. That, or the slabs of chocolate delight. I will return one day soon. I guess I should call in at my mates again too…

For one night only, whilst watching comedian Ross Noble, with my brother Paul I headed to a village near to the cathedral city of York. Glamping is not something that has ever appealed, however, the wooden huts were surprisingly aesthetic, cosy and warm. The window allows great ventilation and the front door was perfect for the peaceful countryside nearby. The location was 10-15 minutes walk from Pocklington Station/Railway Station (now a converted leisure venue)/Aldi/Sainsburys – and a short skip from the glider airfield. The village is delightful and can be reached with ease from the X46/X36/747 buses from York and elsewhere. A barbecue area, great kitchen facilities and a simple yet effective shower block added to a strangely glamourous camping experience – without the hassle of camping. If I hadn’t have stayed with my spotty younger brother, I may have swayed to calling the location romantic. The owners at Wolds Glamping are not just friendly but clearly thoughtful in their bedding services, location of the six pods and ample groundspace nearby. Maybe, one day, I could take more than a night there…

Converesely, Dan and I did some actual camping, following on from our Morecambe Bay camp with the late Pete, and our North Wales camp with Adam, Pete, Steven and others. Whilst 2016, missed the now traditional pitch-in-the-wild due to Pete’s sad passing away, we will continue the fixture, which was accidentally skipped in 2014 as I was in China. So, with a supply of rum and whiskey we parked somewhere near Buttermere and hiked far and wide (in this case I am wide). In fact, we tried two sites but decided the watercourses and lay of the land to be unsuitable. Our chosen pitch was by a lake, overlooking beautiful forestry with the towering peak of ? behind us. The shadowy crag, coupled with blustering gales and driving drizzle added to the eerie ambience. After burning a tonne of forest debris on our camp fire, we buried the fire and drifted off to sleep, around about the time that the sun arose. I guess starting drinking and snacking, with stories of old, talking ideas and general natter around mid-afternoon wasn’t that bad. It is always great to catch up with your best friend. It is, as if, no time has been spent apart.

I intended to visit Gaint’s Causeway and ideally take my sister Astrid there for a short break. It wasn’t to be. However, summer did see me visit York, Pocklington village, Quarry Bank Mill, Cam and Dursley, Chepstow, Tintern, the International Birds of Prey Centre in Newant, Morecambe, Parton, Whitehaven, Kendal, South Lakes Safari Park, Ribblehead, Hyde, Lancaster, Bentham, Rotherham, Newport (South Wales), Brighton, Hove, Rotherdean, Shoreham-on-Sea, Arnside, Cardiff, Caerphilly, Caer, and various other parts of Cheshire, Lancashire and Manchester. My only complaint is that I didn’t get to see all my friends and family once again. Life has this nasty habit of being distracting and taking best laid plans apart. It happens.

OUR KID’S GAFF

Being home allowed me the chance to catch up with friends and family. A visit to Ace and Steph’s is always something to cherish. Not just to fuss their bounding bouncy cat Jake. A week spent down south with rhubarb crumble at least twice, trips to Chepstow Castle, Tintern Abbey, Dyrham Park and a few museums was most relaxing. Catching up with Ace’s father-in-law Pete was pleasing. Senior citizens and the older generation, not that Pete seems so old, is something I miss greatly. I feel I learn more from my elders in a moment than I do self-teaching in a month. Plus, for a Blackpool fan, Pete has a great sense of humour. Even, if he, Ace and Steph’s tribe enjoy the game of cricket.

I like catching up with our kid greatly, as he understands the family as much as I do. We might not always agree or disagree, but we certainly seem to make each other think, in between the games where Ace is cheating me out of pennies.

SHAUN OF THE DEAD

One thing for sure, is Christina, the second youngest of my siblings is working hard, doing something for herself to grow up and be a success. Having completed studies in Child Care, she is now embarking on studies towards a career in the uniformed services. I admire her ambition. However, my youngest sibling Shaun is wandering a gloomy path. He is very much growing into the Annakin Skywalker of Clan Acton. With his boyish good looks and his twinkling eyes, he should be utilising them to his credit. Instead, he has left home at Dad’s to live with his alcoholic mother. Whether she is still drinking, is a different matter, but stability she offers not. Also, is the alcoholic uncle still living there? Why was the first time I spotted Shaun and his mate in town so odd? Why did he look up to no good? Why can’t he think for himself? Why does he not go to college? What is his ambition? What will help him? Why didn’t he want to go the Manchester City versus Everton game? I offered to take him, wasted a bloody ticket for it too, and even just us two, and not Dad (as he could sit alone at the other end). But, he let his angry and aggressive mother talk, and couldn’t even look me in the eye. I hope he wakes up. Soon, he’ll be jobless, and with no solid roof over his head. Manchester has enough homeless. So, all summer, I’ve tried to see a brother who hasn’t tried once. It hurts. Shaun has a good heart. I can’t say the same for his common sense. But, I wish him well. Hope won’t help. He must do it for himself.

FOR EVERYTHING ELSE THERE IS MASTERCARD VISA?

Sandwiched from the dawn of the holiday to almost the end of the holiday, was a small task. It should have been a simple one. It wasn’t. “Submit your documents to the Chinese Embassy,” the school said. After weeks of pushing for my Non-Criminal Record certificate, I eventually received a Disclosure Scotland-issued certificate to say I had no criminal record. Step one complete.

So, with this and my University degree certificate, I attended Manchester China Town’s Visa and Document Handling Centre, twice. First mistake. It turns out they don’t deal with document validation. So, with the Manchester’s Chinese Consular’s address to hand, I trundled out past Manchester University into the area of Victoria Park. On arriving, I was told I must submit the documents to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office first, so that they can mark them as authentic. Online I went, filled in their forms as they said it should be. But first, I had to get my Disclosure Scotland form stamped as being witnessed by a solicitor, but without their company name on it. £10 (for two documents) lighter and later, I had this. I then submitted each piece to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (£30/each, so £60 for both, if I have my maths right). A week later they were returned. One was accepted and sporting a lovely legalisation slip. The Disclosure Scotland, however, did not. Previously, the solicitor had advised that hand-writing on it and stamping it with invalidate it. However, now the Foreign and Commonwealth Office had said it must be stamped and signed. So, a reluctant solicitor signed and stamped it, earning £5 for doing less than a minute’s work. With that the Foreign and Commonwealth Office earned themselves £30. To their credit, they had refunded the rejected document, less the price of postage before. After a further week, I waited and muc annoyance it arrived with me once more. I toodled off to the Chinese Consular, set in a great British detached house, amongst a tidy unassuming garden off Denison Road, Victoria Park. The red flag drooped in the Mancunian rain. The stars yellow and soggy. Far from home, yet still proudly overhead. On entering the cubicle-sized office, I joined a queue (not too dissimilar to ones witnessed across Dongguan) and waited my turn. Two photocopies of my passport (totalling a Great British Pound) and then I fast-tracked my submission at £30 a pop (my bank account now showing as £60 Felix Leiter) and away they went. They were returned within three days. I am now the owner of a legalised University certificate and Non-Criminal Disclosure form. Between which I managed trips to Morecambe, the Lake District, Gloucestershire and South Wales.

CURLY-WURLIES

Actually, I won’t write many things here. Sometimes, you can’t. Not because the words won’t spill out. They’ll plummet out like my bowels after a bad curry. It isn’t through shame or pain, just sometimes, somethings are for you to manage on your own and figure out. They may or may not concern others. The task of the brain is to sense, process and respond, with or without action or inaction. Experience like other perceptions are stored. My jetlagged mind is still dizzy and lagging time, like a webpage buffering slowly, and right now I have my emotions in check. Some things are filed under ‘Work in Progress’, others as ‘Out of My Control’ and some tucked away in a draw that refuses to close, called ‘What do I do?’ This is life. If it was easy, it’d be boring. If it was too simple, it wouldn’t be a challenge. Challenges make us stronger. For every great moment eating Curly-Wurlies with my Aunty Christine and talking to Uncle Ed about politics, there may be a thousand demands and stresses. If the simple life doesn’t want to call by, you don’t have to expect it. Just crack on, and do your best.

THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY OF LIFE – AND THAT’S YOUR OWN…

Getting Mum and Paul to accompany me to watch The Levellers was a good experience. It seemed they both enjoyed watching Billy Bragg, Dreadzone and The Waterboys support the main act. I acknowledge that they weren’t quite crowd-surfing or enjoying plush cushions at the Royal Exchange Theatre, but I hope it provided a little escape and leisure from every day life. Before being cross-examined about my favourite soup by a late-night reveller, my ears were treated to some of my favourite tunes from the album Levelling the Land. What a great it was, full of spirit and all things wonderful about my hometown Manchester – and the joys that music can bring. It was the only gig I had the pleasure of attending in eight weeks back. A few visits to the Manchester International Festival tent provided some glimpses into live music, but nothing too serious and time-filling. I joined the Manchester International Festival guided tour about the city’s revolutionary history and, also a town hall tour, a few days later, whilst visiting the unveiling of Phil Collin’s Engels statue in Tony Wilson Place. This last event, itself, having a Super Furry Animal ballad and some joyous artistry throughout the sequence, entitled Procession. Taking in Elizabeth Gaskell’s Plymouth Grove-based residence and exploring Quarry Bank Mill added to my connection with the history of my hometown. It is important not just to be passionate about where you come from, but where it can take it. Knowledge is great to share.

Oddly in pre-season, I only watched Hyde Utd F.C. host Connah’s Quay Nomads F.C. (where big Andy Morrison is manager). City’s game at Brighton was fun, followed by a stubborn Everton side battling out a draw at the Etihad Stadium. Between these ties I watched City U-21s at Rotherham Utd. F.C.’s swanky ASSEAL New York Stadium. Usually, I’d go out of my way to watch more games. Sadly, I did not. I also intended to watch some rugby league and ice-hockey. Again, this did not happen. There is always next time!

TYPHOON HATO

So, having woken Mum and Paul at Stupid O’clock, we hugged farewell and I checked in at the Etihad desk. Their kind and friendly staff instantly adding brightness to an hour where the sun was just about springing over the horizon. I boarded my flight with ease and flew to my interchange at Abu Dhabi International Airport. On arrival, it was noted that I had a minor seven-hour delay. A meal was offered for my troubles. I sought solice in a good book and put my feet up. Sleep was not an option.

On arriving in Hong Kong International Airport, I collected my 30kg of baggage and walked to the train station. From here, I changed twice before arriving at Hostel Casa, a stone’s throw from a subway exit in Tsim Tsa Tsui. I ate a light dinner, catching up with Ched (who was in H.K. for a Photoshop course) before eating gooseberry yogurts, from Marks & Spencers. Then I went to sleep in the cupboard-sized but cosy room. The whole time since arriving I had seen very few people. Earlier in the day the eye of Typhoon Hato had rolled over Hong Kong, before ploughing into Guangdong ruthlessly. Nature claimed several lives that day. The storm’s trail leaving totalled trees and clattered cladding across Hong Kong. Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China had issued Typhoon Warning Level 10, for the first time in over a decade. The warnings had immobilised people from going outside and probably saved countless lives. Similar warnings had been issued across Guangdong too.

With a visa arranged, two nights later, I sped, slowly, on a train from Hong Kong to Changping arriving on Friday the 25th of August 2017. My pick-up by Simon at the school was smooth and I immediately dropped things into my temporary dormitory…

ROOMS FIT FOR A KING

The dormitory has so far had a replacement fridge-freezer, fan and bedding. The shower and toilet are both in urgent need of repair. The western toilet and shower both have extremely high water-pressure. Two blasts have destroyed a shower head and a U-bend sealant! The room is quite warm and A.C. My-heartsaver has been working hard alongside a fan on the highest of near-typhoon strengths. Anyway, the plan is that the room is temporary and provided by school until I find somewhere-less-located-on-school-grounds.

DAY ONE

Standing at the gate around 7.30am for 50 minutes in blistered 32°C heat with humidity so high, wasn’t all bad. Excited new students rolled by for drop-off in high-end luxury cars, yellow school buses and the odd, lesser spotted two-wheel effort. Some skipped, merry and wide awake. Others appeared dozy and out-of-routine, with school beginning just today for most.

My new school, St. Lorraine’s Anglo-Chinese School, is attached to numerous English language programme, notably Cambridge University’s language courses. Mr Lam, the Principal, has been most-welcoming. His support and that of his right-hand man Simon has been clear and concise from day one. With Mandy overseeing the teachers, and Cici assisting me in class, the year ahead is ready to take-off. Up, up and away!

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Smart? Sea? View? Brighton?

oyster28catcher (JRA)

So, I booked Smart Sea View Brighton, Brighton & Hove on Booking.com. It had 4.5/5 on that website. I’ve since seen reviews on Tripadvisor giving 2.5/5. Facebook’s new reviews system is equally low. So, here’s what I posted to all three.

The name Smart Sea View Brighton sounds bold. Does it promise sea? How is it smart? Brighton? Well, it is in Hove. I guess since Hove and Brighton, or Brighton and Hove became gay lovers, they hooked up and had a civil partnership and the City of Brighton was born. Hove is not as dominant. It happens in any relationship, I guess.

I arrived 1.30pm, joined a sizeable queue and was seen inside 30 minutes. The eastern-European ady was busy but polite, but even a smile would have made it more welcoming. Paid £1.50 for a extra locker (by the counter area) and went to the room. The room was basic. It looked like I was the first there. I left my coat on the bed, noticed no bedsheet or pillow case. Went to reception, asked for this. Was given this, with apologies by a big tall man (grey haired). Went back and prepared the bed. Left my rain jacket to mark it as being a bed taken. I was allocated room 118, bed 12. I then went and locked my valuables away.

I returned long before midnight, having enjoyed food and two (just two beers) following City’s game at Brighton and Hove Albion. It was a hot day, I’d been up since 4am with only 4 hours sleep the night before. I was due to meet my cousin the next morning. I was being, how shall we put it, sensible. I grabbed my things from the locker, and went to my room and bed. It had many belongings including a phone tucked under the pillow. I did not want to move it. I checked every other bed. All appeared taken. All had bags on them.

People drifted in, about 4 blokes, sound lads from Manchester, polite as anything and I was told their party of 9 had been split between several rooms. I couldn’t find a bed and they didn’t know of a spare bed or who had taken bed 12. So, I went to reception, a tattooed lady, went to my room and said I could use another bed. It had no sheet or duvet. It had a bag underneath it but not on it. I was tired. I tried to bunk there. After a little nattering, more people came back. I counted 16 bunks across 8 double units. From then until 3.30am, at least 30 different blokes entered the room. Each claiming to be in that dorm. At that time, I was exhausted and was in and out of sleep, disturbed constantly before about 4 or 5am when a tall-slim man, who worked there came in with two sheets of paper, he shone a torch into my eyes waking me from a troubled light sleep. I was startled. I almost reacted to defend myself, before he spoke and told everyone else that they should not be there before reading just two names. He said only two people should be in that room. My name was not on it. I shown him my paper. After some arguing he went away. From then until maybe 6am, people left because of the confusuion, and some muttered over-bookings. I checked out after sleeping from 8am to close to 10am. Shattered. I was supposed to meet my cousin in Shoreham by 9am. We met at 11.30am.

The room had a sagging ceiling, no toilet rolls in the holders either in the room or the two cubicles close to the room – at 11pm. The shower unit stank of toilet matter. The windows need to be covered to allow light to be blocked out. The breakfast is served from 8am to 9.30am, but due to that night, that was the only time I slept. Towels costs extra, which I don’t mind. Complaints are waved away and laughed off on departure. The whole hostel idea needs rethinking. I stayed in civilised and organised places where earthquakes and conflict have hit – and felt more welcome and safe. Opting to use my bag as a pillow and lay down in clothes was a choice, because frankly it needed it. I have itchy red patches where my skin had touched the bedding and my feet are sore from resting on the bars at the end of the beds (1.85m long) – and I am 1.94m tall. There are no doubt homeless people in Brighton enjoying better rest – and that says something.

A noodle unravelling in a pan of boiling water

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

Continued…

Last Thursday I started writing this. I was at the time acutely aware you could be reading this on any of the other six days, or most likely, not at all. Print is dead, I hear. It feels like this last week has been tough. No money from two sources that should have paid up by now – and stupid requests to get what is owed. It feels like being taken for granted – and right before summer, where the money is precisionly planned to leave my account for good reasons.

Then, there is the visa nightmare. My CRB (now called Disclosure and Barring Service) application should take 14 days, it shows 23 online and there hasn’t been a reply by Disclosure Scotland, where I applied. I called them. It said on their number to check online. Online it says to call their customer services for problems. I tried that again. It said check online. Catch 22.

So, I fly to the U.K. with a signed contract, but no visa after 13th July 2017. The Foreign Expert Certificate expires on the 30th of August 2017. It will have to be sorted in Manchester or London. Exactly, what I did not want. I’m due back by the 23rd of August 2017. School starts on the 28th of August 2017. The race to return is under way…

Today, no students are at school, a typhoon (Merbok) threatened to impact the city. In fact, the day is grey with mostly calm skies. A few strong gusts last night did little, other than air the city. Better safe than sorry.

School wouldn’t let me make make a farewell speech. Instead, I plan to post this before I fly…

Dao Ming Foreign Language School has been part of my life since February 2014. I landed in a new culture, village and city not knowing how important Dao Ming would be in my life. It has been much, much more than a job. Dao Ming introduced me gently to Chinese cultures, ways of life harsh and poor, to strong and privileged. It opened my eyes to a fast-developing country and gifted me the chance of new friends. From the off, Principla Mr Wang, Bright and Miss Jiang guided me through the gates and allowed me the freedoms to teach oral English and culture. They embraced me from day one and pushed me to be better, despite my lack of singing, dancing and musical talent. To each, I say:

谢谢你给我很多建议.(Xièxie nǐ gěi wǒ hěnduō jiànyì.) Thank you for giving me so many suggestions.

There were days when the transition from a temperate climate to a sub-tropical range drained me. Adjustment took a rather long time. The team of P.E. teachers pushed me on, as did my first batch of foreign teaching colleagues in Esben, James, Liam and Bri. To each teacher that first semester:

当我消沉的时候，你鼓励了我。对此我十分感激。 (Dāng wǒ xiāochén de shíhòu, nǐ gǔlìle wǒ. Duì cǐ wǒ shífēn gǎnjī.) I really appreciate that you helped lift my spirits when I was feeling low.

My colleagues have worked tirelessly along the years and many have sadly moved on to other schools. Some to be closer to home, some to face new challenges and some due to artistic differences. The nature of education does that, but one thing that each and every teacher I have encountered throughout my time has had, is passion and a smile on a Monday morning. Not every Monday, but not far off it. To see each teacher so tired yet to passionate about making a difference, is in my eyes inspiring.

太感谢了(iài gǎn xiè le) So thankful.

In grades 5 this last year, I have worked with Alice, Orchid, Amy and Jack Armstrong. They have bubbled with enthusiasm and encouraged me despite our cultural differences, and our workload being far apart. They are the backbone of English at a most important stage of development. I have seen each teacher improve with every passing month.

万分感谢(wàn fēn gǎn xiè) Ten thousands percent (of) thankfulness.

In previous years, I have taught in Grade 6. Only Nancy now remains, from her once passionate and dedicated team. To her, I say thanks for the gift of remaining so positive and confident. It rubs off on others. She can inspire and lead.

谢谢你的礼物! (Xièxie nǐ de lǐwù!) Thank you for your gift!

In actuality, as it is, right now, I do not feel like writing anything and my ebb is out of flow, yet I know deep down in my heart, I need to express my gratitude for my time at Dao Ming Foreign Language School. It was an opportunity given to me by Worlda International Education. Jessie and Casey right at the start pushed me hard and fast from landing in Guangzhou’s airport to stepping off a sweaty coach in Houjie Square. Things moved quickly, almost like a blur and before long I was in my first class, alone – and in full control. You either sink or swim. I don’t believe I sank. I still believe I am learning to swim. Experience has led me, and instinctive calm supported me, but none of this would have been possible without Worlda presenting the opportunity and relations with Dao Ming Foreign Language School. Kimmie, and Mico have been very hands on, yet hands off in recent times, being there when needed and assisting me with the technicalities of working under foreign laws, rules and regulations.

Then there were colleagues such as Yolanda, Michael, Joy, Keith Tao, Chloe, Christine, Dan, Teresa, Ishit, David, Jessie Wang, Joanna, and Wendy who all assisted me in some shape or form. None will be forgotten. All played their part in this journey of sorts.

非常感谢你的帮助 (Fēicháng gǎnxiè nǐ de bāngzhù) Thank you very much for your help.

The students have always been a joy. Without them there would be no school. There would be no community built closely around the school. There could be no jokes about test and exams on a regular basis with vast descriptions of homework mountains. There surely would not be smiles in sunshine and delight at cooling rains as the harsh summer drains energies. There would be no requests for Acton’s Independent Sweet Store to re-open. To each student:

辛苦你了！(Máfán nǐ le!)   Thank you for your hard work!

真不知道该怎么谢你(zhēn bù zhī dào gāi zěn me xiè nǐ) I really don’t know how to thank you.

没有你我该怎么办 (méi yǒu nǐ wǒ gāi zěn me bàn) What would I do without you?!

To everyone, who has been lost, found, confused or clear in working alongside me, I want to say thank you. Please forgive me if I have confused you or even made your stay here blighted by any negative comments about humanity. This is me. I hope I cheered you on. If I didn’t, I certainly tried! To James, Liam, Esben, Bri, Mikkel, Liane, Andreas, Catherine, Emily, Micaela, Kira, Joe, Tess, Arvid, Jack, Beth, Analisa, Josie, Omar, and Alexis.

欠你一个人情 (qiàn nǐ yí gè rén qíng) I owe you one.

To all, I say:

非常感谢你 (fēi cháng gǎn xiè nǐ) thank you very much.

Have I finished in China?

没有没有，还差得远.(Méiyǒu méiyǒu, hái chà dé yuan.) No no, not at all. There is long way to go.

步步高昇 (bù bù gāoshēng): Onwards and upwards.

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

“All change.” – Part One

oyster28catcher (JRA)2 Comments

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

 

So, on June the 16th 2017, I will leave Dao Ming Foreign Language School after 3.5 years teaching there. I am not allowed to make a farewell speech for fear of upsetting the students. I suspect it is more so that parents don’t get an incorrect message. It is a private school, afterall! I had requested the opportunity to say goodbye at the final flag-raising ceremony to which I was told, the ceremony is taken “very serious.” I guess departing and wanting to say thank you and good luck is not serious. I do feel a little more than disappointment. I am gutted. And, to confound that, I was told not to tell teachers and students. However, some students in Middle School already now. There is a fear in the school of overly-emotional students and mobbing for hugs. I suspect mostly, the fear of parents removing their students. So plans to abseil into the playground and announce in bright lights of my departure are on hold.

What next? I will free transfer to St. Lorraine Anglo-Chinese School. It isn’t religious. It just liked the name, so I gathered. They are Hong Kong-owned. They often have fencing, croquet and archery – what’s not to like?! They want a science-based English teacher. They work with schools from Wales (U.K.), Florida (U.S.), and the Gold Coast (Australia). Anyway, visa-permitting (I am awaiting – and chasing the CRB in the U.K.), that is where I should start on August the 28th.

Yesterday, I played 7-a-side football in 35°C heat, with humidity that gave it a real feel of 47-52°C. Our team, Houjie Murray’s FC lost three games on the bounce, losing the latter with no subs. We forefeited the fourth game due to pnly having 5 players. We started with 11. The Treehouse Invitational Cup was excellent but the weather was the winner.

To be continued…

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Cat Diaries – stolen from HubHao (kind of)

oyster28catcher (JRA)

11th May 2017:

Have I been cat-napped? I say that because I’m going through a phase of culture shock. There I was minding my own business, knocking chopsticks around on the floor as if I was Lion Messi, and the next minute I’m in a cold barren apartment.

Where did it all begin? Well, I was stuffed into a dome-shaped box, barely big enough to swing a cat around in. I know, I tried. How do I know exactly? Well, I’m an Expat Cat. A British shorthair of upper class distinction. If you see H.R.H. The Queen has abandoned Corgi dogs one day and gone for a real animal, it’d be me, my kind. I’m practically a Duke. The Duke of Hengli. I’m on a diplomatic mission at the British-ish Embassy here is Dongguan. I can’t say who my Master Brewer is, but he lives in Hengli and manages a corner of the English aisle. I won’t say too much otherwise you’ll be a winner and guess where my Master Brewer is. The Master Brewer is from Hobbiton, in England. I’m not entirely sure why he is heading home, probably to have dinner with H.R.H. The Queen and the now retired Prince Philip. It’ll pave the way to my return to the U.K., no doubt.

Paws for thoughts?

Anyway, back to the here and now, and now and here. I’m in Houjie. My captive is a Sky-Blue Giant shiny-headed thing. I think he is human. I’m not so sure. He grunted and made weird noises when I put my paw in his mouth this morning. He also didn’t seem so keen to share a shower with me in the morning. The absurdity is that he went in without his fur on! The truth is that I shouldn’t have let him join me. Since we met yesterday evening, he buggered off with my Master Brewer and then returned without him. Either the Master Brewer is with H.R.H. The Queen now or Sky-Blue Giant has “put him in his pocket.” I use that phrase because whilst Sky-Blue Giant was sleeping, I heard him snoring and whispering the words, “Aaron, you’re in my pocket.” It seemed his gigantic pockets were the place to look for my Master Brewer. So, I snuck into his wardrobe. I’m good at opening sliding doors and latched doors. My secret is out now. I had a perusal of his pockets. No Master Brewer and no mystical Aaron, whoever or whatever that is.

Waking and sleeping

Sky-Blue Giant tucked himself in bed at 11pm. I believe that to have been most inconsiderate. I’d spent the previous two hours lounging around, checking out the comfy spots of my captor’s hideout. So, just as Sky-Blue Giant slipped into sleep, I checked between his toes, to see if there were any pockets. Not only did I find nothing, but I must have been a tad-heavy pawed and awoke the beast. After escaping his clasp and forced cuddles, I went on my way. I found some ordered paperwork of the Sky-Blue Giant. It made no sense so I rearranged it. Perhaps the pocket and my Master Brewer would be within. No such joy.

Today’s plan

My to do list today, is to make a to do list. I’m a cat. It took an awful lot of translation work via the good people of HubHao to get this far. Have you ever made a to do list, without opposable thumbs? I need someone to listen to me and translate the various purrs and meows perfectly. I also really want to climb the curtains…

 

12th May 2017:

Curiosity killed the cat, they say. Sorry to fool you. I’m a cat called Alexander the Great, that’s what I do… I play, play, play…

 

Day 2.

Still no word from Master Brewer. I’m not as hungry as I thought I would be. My captor, Sky-Blue Giant, has been slipping my sachets of Whiskas and some titbits from his meal last night. I do like a nibble on some fresh chicken. It seems I am also prone to a swipe of milk-covered Weetabix given the opportunity. To quote a great cat philosopher, “You snooze, you lose.” Master Brewer better be homeward bound sooner or later, but at this moment I am being fed reasonably well. Sadly, no lasagne, but times are tough being cat-napped, I tell you!

 

The gaol.

The prison, gaol and cell I am within is as far as I can tell, okay. There is a bedroom, a lounge, a kitchen with a secret door beyond it. The secret door is made of glass and doesn’t look so secret. Here a rain-making machine is housed and a small pool of blue water that Sky-Blue Giant won’t let me go near. It smells very clean indeed but he protects it like a deity. Between the rainmaker and the porcelain pool, there is a bowl where I can enjoy drips of cold freshwater. It seems a magical room, but certainly not secret. There are lengths of material hung from a rack. Or rather, there were, until yours truly decided to let gravity pull them down to earth.

 

It’s in the game.

Yawn. I was up late last night playing a game of FIFA (Feline International Football Association). I nutmegged the desk, slid a slide rule pass under the coffee table and chested one down onto a sleeping Sky-Blue Giant. For keepie-uppies, I kept him awake as much as I could. If Guangzhou R&F need a star striker, I have a mean meow that sounds like a car alarm in the early hours. I heard Sky-Blue Giant say something to the effect of, “Bleeding hell Mogwai, I’m trying to sleep, stop striking so well.” He should know my name is Alexander the Great, not Alexander Supertramp and certainly not Mogwai, whatever supposedly affectionate name that is!

 

Best foot forward.

I must admit to being unable to read and write. Please don’t think less of me for this. Illiteracy is a problem globally. Well, that said, so is literacy, judging by some other world problems. I’m thinking of enrolling in a forward thinking and international school to pick up some skills soon. I figured, I might as well because Master Brewer has left me here with Sky-Blue Giant and he can barely tie his shoe laces. Not that I can. However, I have developed a skill at shredding anything lace in format. Sky-Blue Giant’s shoes, for instance, are devoid of a pair of laces. Yes, my work.

 

Alex the Wonder Cat 3-0 Rubbish Bin

Honestly, I don’t know why he bothers? I upend the rubbish bin for a reason. The Sky-Blue Giant is clearly unware of why. He stands the rubbish bin up again and again. If only he could see why I knock it over! I am starting to think he is a fool or has an eyesight problem. Anyway, I need to stop dictating to my writer, because he’s only gone and stood the rubbish bin up again. That boys an idiot!

 

13th May 2017:

 

Hey there, “Meow”, greetings. I sacked my typist from yesterday. The title was supposed to read as The Fast & The Furrious 9 – a pun on the word fur but it wrong, and it actually resembled a real title. We had Vin Diesel call us and ask for the script. I’ve sent him two lines and some instructions for pouting. He’ll be alright. I included some polish for his abs.

 

As for Sky-Blue Giant, what an irritation he is, he comes in fussing me with those gammy-looking spade-sized hands. I worry that he hasn’t properly vetted the students at his school before he gives them a high five. Dog only knows what germs he is carrying before he touches my immaculate and flawlessly smooth fur.

 

There is still no sign of Master Brewer, but I heard Sky-Blue Giant say he landed in a far-flung land. This confirms my suspicion that he is indeed going to speak with H.R.H. The Queen about me replacing the corgi dogs – or at very least Prince Philip.

 

Last night, I assisted Sky-Blue Giant in retrieving his supply of straws, hidden here and there. I have positioned them all over the apartment-prison. I really enjoyed playing fetch with them last night. I didn’t get why a few teeth marks meant they had to be thrown in the rubbish bin. Whilst the rubbish bin has doubled up as a nemesis, it has failed to capture my precious straws. There are even some tucked under his duvet. Oh, how he’ll laugh when he rolls over in the night and find one tucked in his bottom-cheeks!

 

15th May 2017:

 

Meow. Wassup? Even in the cat world, Sunday is the day of rest. There was little need to write anything more than panic-stricken words about catching the WannaCry Virus. Thankfully, I remain uninfected. No need to do any panic urine marking and elimination habits on this occasion! Instead I’ll crack on with face rubbing the rubbish bin into submission and showing my body language to Sky-Blue Giant. I want my Master Brewer back. So much so, that 2am cat calls were needed. They were so load that even the neighbours awoke.

 

I’ve also found a new way into Sky-Blue Giant’s bed. He used to have a regular zip-up and close mosquito net. I’ve added some paw-sized ventilation holes and ensured going forward that the net has one zip less. I even tucked in another spare drinking straw. I did this after a spell of quivering my bottom and pouncing at Sky-Blue Giant as he slept. My captor deserves to be tested.

I’ve also discovered a lovely warm place to sit down, a laptop. It suits my higher-than-human body temperature. The keypad is a tad rough but the entertainment level isn’t bad. Cat videos are everywhere. I think Sky-Blue Giant is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to a ring of cat captors.

 

 

And the other thing about the internet, is he shares my photos everywhere. He never even asked my permission. Beware of my sinister green glowing tapetum lucidum. I like Sky-Blue Giant taking photos, I hope they spook him out before bedtime. Then, he’ll be softened up for my nightly swipes at his chunky toes.

 

Amongst my vocabulary there are many signals I pass on. Yet, Sky-Blue Giant meows back at me in the worst kind of way. My meows have meaning. His are utter gibberish. Proper offensive too. Whatever he is trying to say, I feel he is a fool. I wish Master Brewer was here. He’d sort him out with some proper language training. That said Sky-Blue Giant, with his 100 head hairs to my 130,000 per square inch is so inferior to me. He uses two wooden sticks to eat his food. I just use my mouth. The Plonker!

 

18th May 2017:

 

 

 

Hello there, it is me again, Alexander The Great, cat of the day, so to speak. Today, I am giving you the lowdown on some news sweeping the nation and globe. I’ve put down my differences with chasing the red laser and decided to help you get a clear and simple view of today’s breaking news. It is everywhere. Look here is a photo to show the world impact.

 

 

 

I for one, as a member of the cat family, do not like dogs so much. That being said, I do like a good old game of cat and dog chase. We’re like that. I’m the same with mice, but in that case, the mice usually end up as a gift for Master Brewer or a snack for myself. Not that I have ever seen a mouse! I’ve only seen one mouse on a documentary-drama about a clumsy cat called Tom and his problematic friend of a mouse called Jerry.

 

 

 

The problem of journalism, is like my meowing, what does it all mean? Where are the facts? It can be as hard as breaking through a mosquito-net at 4am in the morning to pounce on Sky-Blue Giant to wake him up. So, to help, here are some facts, followed by some questions, with answers. No speculation and no padding out for fun. I’m a busy cat, I have things to lick.

 

 


Dog Meat – The facts:

 

  • Nationally, it is illegal to sell dog meat for human consumption.
  • The Chinese Ministry of Agriculture have placed no quarantine procedures for the slaughtering of dogs.
  • Selling dog meat contravenes the Animal Epidemic Prevention Law.
  • Selling dog meat contravenes the Food Safety Law.
  • Eating dog meat (狗肉 gǒu ròu; fragrant meat 香肉 xiāng ròu; Earth mutton – 地羊 dì yáng) has been historically present for thousands of years within China, as far back as 500BCE.
  • Dog meat has been consumed in times of food scarcities, such as conflicts.

 

 

Why all the worry?

 

In recent times, many pet dogs have been dog-napped. Chinese Police have worked hard and have scored well-documented hits against illegal slaughterhouses. Chinese activists and friends, of pet dogs and cats too, have worked tirelessly with authorities to crack down on the trade of caged dogs and cats. In 2014, Police arrested and imprisoned 11 people for poisoning dogs and then selling the poisoned meat onwards.

 

 

Is this festival in the news a very old traditional affair?

 

Beginning on the 21st June 2009, less than a decade ago, the

Lychee and Dog Meat Festival (玉林荔枝狗肉节) started. It was started by local restaurants and the public. Not, as often mistakenly reported by foreign media, by the local municipal government. The festival lasts around 10 days.

 

 

Who has been helping to save the dogs and cats?

 

In 2015, one defender of the four-legged kind paid 7,000RMB for 100 dogs. This is a case replicated massively in the following year with news reports of thousands of dogs bought and rehomed. Also, Weibo (and globally on Twitter) net-based citizens cranked messages left, right and centre pushing to end the massacre of dogs and cats for food. The Chinese Minister of Agriculture has received a huge petition titled as per below:

 

“Do the humane thing by saying no to this festival and save the lives of countless dogs that will fall victim to this event – an event that will butcher, skin alive, beat to death etc. thousands of innocent dogs.”

 

 

 

Who are the Chinese Companion Animal Protection Network (CCAPN)?

 

They love pets. Who doesn’t?! They are made up of more than 40 societies. Their activities started up the road in Guangzhou, during 2006, and their movement has gained support nationally ever since. A local restaurant to the city, serving dog meat, since 1963 shut their doors in 2015. Others followed their lead.

 

 

 

 

Has anyone noticed animal rights are improving on China?

 

Jill Robinson, the 1998 founder of Animals Asia Foundation, was quoted as saying, “In many ways, the animal welfare movement in China is maturing far faster than it ever did in the West.”

 

 

 

In 2009, the Animal protection law of the People’s Republic of China came about. In recent years, celebrities such as Yao Ming (姚明) have supported a nationwide campaign to eradicate the illegal trade of rhinoceros horn and elephant tusks. Yao Ming is also an ambassador for elephant conservation. The Chinese government works closely with “Say No” Campaign with partners African Wildlife Foundation and WildAid.

 

 

 

​Many Chinese stars such as Jackie Chan and Lǐ Bīngbīng (李冰冰) have assisted too.

 

 

What could happen if someone eats dog meat?

 

The 2010 legislation included a measure to jail people for up to 15 days for eating dog meat.

 

 

Does dog or cat meat make you more fertile?

 

Torturing animals raises stress levels. Toxicity levels and harmful chemicals rise in the bloodstream. Good luck with that one. The meat has never been proven to taste better but has been shown to cause heart conditions in people… amongst a huge list of possible illnesses caused by dog consumption

 

 

So, there you have it, everything you needed to know

 

21st May 2017:

Meow.

 

I’m a cat. I cannot count. I’ve tried. Every time I look at my toes it is a reminder of all those red dots that have evaded me over the years. I also feel I am due a visit to my pedicurist. I keep swiping at various dangling things and Sky-Blue Giant knows it. Every now and then I catch a claw on some near-invisible netting. Ooooh the pain!

 

I’ve been munching on squishy meat in jelly and dry cereal since my captor removed me from the care of Master Brewer. I refused the fresh salmon offering Sky-Blue Giant put before me on principle. I have since weaved in and out of his legs in the hope of knocking down the giant. It worked for a bloke named Jack, star of the biopic, Jack and The Beanstalk, I think. If I don’t bring him down, I’ll hope that his sofa collapses as a result of my clawing at the material. The slow method may be my only hope.

 

With a view, from the door to this prison opening-up, I spotted a dog wandering by. The half-witted canine looked at me and yelped. He ran off. He could have at least assisted me in getting out of here. If it wasn’t for the super strong netting at the door, I’d be out. I watch the tony flies struggle in vain to find a hole in. What I need is a mouse to wander in, somehow. If I can pounce on it, decapitate it and show Sky-Blue Giant my capabilities. It’ll strike fear into his heart. He’ll sleep poorly and decide to release me. Oh, how I want to escape! Where are you Master Brewer?

 

Meow.

 

Alexander the Great

 

26th May 2017:

Meow.

Sky-Blue Giant is a sly one. Three days ago, Chinese scientists aboard the JiaoLong submersible accompanied by Xinhua journalist Liu Shiping, dived to 4,811 metres below the sea. I, Alexander the Great was whisked away in a basket last night. I could share sea stories about cramped conditions. As the scientists marvelled at “shooting stars” of Euphausiid plankton, I didn’t enjoy a ride in the back of a car. Those underwater explorers stared on at sweater, rocks and sea cucumbers. They enjoyed the company of a sponge and two starfish. I just had my tail and my mysterious second catnapper.

On arrival, I put my differences aside and embraced this Little Red Riding Hood of a catnapper. I suspect that Master Brewer will never return. He has probably left me for a younger kitten. If I catch that kitten, it’ll be despatched to the Mariana Trench. One way. Speaking of a good dinner. I hear American beef is making a return to China. Yes, after 13 years of absence, the U.S. Department of Agriculture said they are talking with China, and hoping have the first consignment over here by July the 16th… hey Little Red Riding Hood, fancy grabbing me a steak? Whilst China has written 117 pages as a wish list. I just demand the beef is tasty. This will add huge competition from Brazil and Australia for beef exports to China… my lips are firmly being licked.

Read more about beef at: https://www.agweb.com/article/china-writes-117-page-wish-list-for-us-trade-blmg/

Anyway, I have a new set of wardrobe doors to prize open. There are places I must flick my ping pong balls and laser lights to be caught. Today is a brief but important message. I’ll leave by sending a message to my new catnapper:

I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you are looking for cuddles, I can tell you I don’t have anything to hug. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long stay with Sky-Blue Giant. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let me go now, that’ll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will scratch you when you sleep.

Meow.

Alexander the Great.

 

#PrayForManchester

oyster28catcher (JRA)

Switching on my phone this morning, I rolled over and the messages started flashing up, “Sorry to hear of the news.” “Sorry about Manchester.” I counted them, ten messages but not one gave a clue about what had happened. I started to worry. I switched on the news via BBC’s website. A tear formed in my eye. A death toll and stark headline stared back at me. My family and friends are back home. I quickly established that my loved ones and friends were all safe. My sister Christina later told me she would pass Manchester Victoria station (next to, and above the M.E.N. Arena) on her way to Hopwood Hall College, Rochdale. Sadly, the targic news would mean that other families and friends would not have that same reassurance.

 

Manchester has always come together. My city has always been one of a multi-faith city,one full of strong philosophical mentalities and unity in eradicating hate. From the Manchester Village, to the Jewish communities to a vibrant diverse set of subcultures, from goths to Irish dancers to train-spotters, to sporadic parties of an epic scale. As a Mancunian overseas, a little love is needed to be shown, in any way possible. As an ambassador of my city, I must say don’t jump to conclusions, don’t hate and don’t let the cause of this atrocious event dictate how we live our lives, here, there or anywhere. No matter where we are Mancunians feel the love and support of the world. Miss Jiang, a senior teacher at my school, gave me her thoughts, for my home city, as I crossed the playground. These things matter. Love and respect ends differences. I may not be the Mayor of Manchester, a politician for my people or a superstar from the city where it apparently rains almost daily but I want you to know, Manchester has love for you.

 

Immediately, in the aftermath of the events, people donated blood, hotels opened their doors and soup kitchens supported Greater Manchester Police, the ambulance service and the fire brigade. Security staff at Manchester’s Arena could have been forgiven for fleeing. They did not. Mancunians never walk away from those in dire need. As blue flashing lights, sirens and helicopters skim overhead, my city is deeply in need of its people not to panic. Like attacks in Paris, Belgium, Boston and countless others, it wasn’t the first time and it will sadly not be the last.

 

Here at HubHao, Jodie Frain, our Content Manager is from north of Manchester, in a town called Rochdale. It is part of Greater Manchester. Manchester is often greater than its main city. It is a city mostly divided by red and blue football teams, but always comes together, and today more than ever. A city united today.

 

To celebrate the life of Manchester, I’d like to share some quotes with you. These sum up the spirit of the people of Manchester. The salt of the earth kind. We are strong and caring people, and community is at our core.

 

To my Mancunians, home and overseas, we are with you, no matter where we are. To those who want to be part of Manchester, we welcome you all. To those who have suffered loss, we show our condolences from the many people of Dongguan and beyond.

Facts about Manchester:

  • Marks and Spencer’s first opened a store in May 1894 in Manchester.
  • Emmeline Pankhurst, the leader of the Suffragette movement, was born andraised in Moss Side.
  • Manchester is the largest of the ten Greater Manchester Authorities with apopulation of almost 500,000 people.
  • More than 25 Nobel prize winners have come from Greater Manchester.
  • Greater Manchester has four professional orchestras.
  • Oldham was Sir Winston Churchill’s first parliamentary seat when he stood as a Liberal in 1900.
  • In Manchester, a Chip Barm is short for a Chip Barmcake, essentially hot potato chips on a bread roll.
  • Opened in 1761, the Bridgewater Canal was the first artificial waterwayfully independent of natural rivers.
  • Greater Manchester has the highest number of theatre seats per head of population outside of London.
  • Greater Manchester has six universities: the University of Manchester,Manchester Metropolitan University, the University of Salford, the University of Bolton, The University of Law and The University of Huddersfield Oldham Campus.
  • A car fuelled only by used coffee grounds made the trip from London to Manchester in 2010.
  • The 2004 remake of the film ‘Alfie’ was based in New York but some of the outside scenes were filmed in Manchester.
  • Greater Manchester county’s average annual rainfall is 806.6 millimetres compared to the UK average of 1,125 millimetres.
  • Oldham is the birthplace of the world’s first test tube baby, Louise Brown in 1978.
  • The Rochdale Pioneers opened the first Cooperative shop in Toad Lane in 1844.
  • Black Chew Head is the highest point in Greater Manchester.
  • Manchester has more than 500 licensed premises in the city centre which have the combined capacity of more than 250,000 visitors.
  • Wigan is home to the annual World Pie Eating Championship.
  • Stockport is home to the only dedicated hat museum and Edgeley Park football ground in Stockport is closer to the River Mersey than that of Liverpool’s Anfield.
  • Sir Robert Peel was from Ramsbottom in Bury. He was Prime Minister, founder of the Metropolitan Police and the Conservative Party.
  • The soap opera Coronation Street has been on TV continuously since 1960.
  • The world’s first railway station was built at Manchester in 1830.
  • Some well-known Manchester landmarks include: the Gothic style town hall, the Museum of Science and Industry and the Imperial War Museum North.
  • On 26 September 1916, Bolton was the target for one of the first aerial offensives in history. A Zeppelin of the Imperial German Navy, dropped 21 bombs on the town.
  • Manchester’s Arndale Centre, located in the heart of the city, is one of thelargest shopping centres in Europe. It has over 200 stores and attracts over 40 million visitors each year.
  • Two of the world’s most famous football clubs call Manchester their home – Manchester Utd. and Manchester City. Manchester Utd.’s nickname of the Red Devils was taken from a local rugby team who wore red shirts.
  • Manchester, it’s the British birthplace of vegetarianism. Look up Cowherdites.
  • Mamucium, Its Roman name meant “breast-shaped hill.”
  • The atom was first split in Manchester, in 1919.
  • Rolls-Royce Limited was created over a famous lunch in Manchester in 1904.
  • The first programmable computer was built in Manchester. The Small-Scale Experimental Machine, known as SSEM, or the “Baby”, was designed and built at The University of Manchester in 1948.
  • Manchester started the Industrial Revolution in July 1761.

Best laid plans.

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

Arriving at school today early, to find that the school trip had been cancelled could have worried me. It did not. So often is the case with respects to being ill-informed or a lack of information, that I just do as Oasis say and “Roll with it.” Yesterday’s school trip for grades 1-4 went successfully. Today’s weather is forecast to be, as the meterologists may or may not put it, “Proper grim.” A tad moist, like a Greggs Steak melt. Glum faces of students seemed conceded to the fact of no school trip, and possibly one to be held back by bad weather for some time.

In stark contract at Monday morning’s meet and greet around 7am, bubbly bright things bouned through the school gates. The odd student sporting sporting pink visors, and other wearing their best summer hats. Smiles replaced the usual Monday morning tired and weary expressions. Hellos were shouted in full voice and with venom. Excitement bubbled up as the convoy of coaches pulled into the school grounds. Each would cart a class to Foshan and a mysterious day out.

Whilst yesterday’s students and teachers enjoyed a fun day trip, today we are on a regular timetable. Sadly, mock exams have been slapped into place over my two morning classes in grade 5. My season-based class will have to wait. It can debut tomorrow. Today, all I have is the football VIP class in period 7 at 4pm. Should the expected storm arrive by noon, that could be washed off too. We shall see. Like I tell my students in football, “Stay on your toes!”

With respect to Plan E, having scuttled Plans A through to D, I have interviews lined up for jobs in ChangPing, Shenzhen and Guangzhou. The jobs vary from teaching in Dongguan to working between Blighty and China in various trades. That is on top of Plan A, not completely scuttled, just trimmed to work in alongside all else. Such is life. Best laid plans…

This weekend the UCI Track Cycling World Championships are in Hong Kong. I should be there. I have wanted to write more of late, but find life to be quite a distracting affair. Too many shony lights make my feline paw reach to swat the glimmering reflections. Before I get distracted again, here are my recent additions to HubHao:

In Brief – Track Cycling World Championships

Happy Birthday Ched!

No doubt over the last two years, you will have seen many wonderful, meaningful and happy snaps. A large proportion are down to one man. HubHao wishes Ched a happy…

Teaching with Tofu – Tips For The Classroom #5

Teaching can be rewarding, right? Teaching can be amazing, do you concur? Teaching is never easy, agree? Teaching is plain-sailing, sometimes? Writer John Acton adds a…

In Brief – Tomb Sweeping Day

Life is wonderful and remembering those no longer with us is part of life. Today is tomorrow’s yesterday. Today is the right time to remember the luck and fortune that…

Bar Review – The Ship (Houjie)

HubHao recently enjoyed a ship-shape outing to The Ship in Houjie. Fish and chips, beef wraps, and a full English Breakfast was had by all. Writer John Acton scribbles…

In Brief – Cabin Restrictions

As reported across many media outlets today (22nd March 2017) there are some important security notices – and we don’t want you to be caught out! “Electronic devices…

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

On the Saturday morning (prior to the 30th of March, when I started to write this), I sat down to breakfast with Maria, her mother and mother’s partner (shūshu or uncle, 叔叔). The kitchen was squat, old and wide open to the elements. As I tucked into my chángfěn (intestine noodles/rice noodle roll/ 肠粉), a small flash of brown streaked through the door and behind a cabinet. Seated mother of Maria spotted it too, she screamed, stood up and slammed the door closed. I personally would have kept the door open. In moments, her handbag was gripped alongside an umbrella, she chased the rat around the room, past me as I continued eating. Eventually it was cornered and a swift foot by shūshu ended its life. I spewed in my mouth as its brains squeezed outwards. Surprisingly, I lost my appetite. I did not finish the accompanying tray of noodles.

Whilst the weekend’s breakfast was a grim attitude towards life, it hasd to be said rats carry diseases and they make food dirty. I get why they are looked upon as little more than a hindrance. As recent as 2009, China sporadically reacted to rabies outbreaks with dog culls. Stray populations in cities were also for the grinder.

China has embraced local and international Non-Government Organisations in ways to humanly manage and apply methods to problematic dogs. By 2014, 320 staff were educated in 46 different cities. That has led to neutering and vaccination programmes, with even some cities imposing laws on abandoning or absing our four-legged friends. Charities to house stray dogs have appeared – and some are even government funded. The adoption programmed generally feature education. Coupled with media attention to dog meat festivals, animal rights have been a focus of media debates and issues. Conversation is growing. This is a fantastically non-political debate and one that may cause divide. Should we eat an animal that goes woof? Action has followed. Mindsets are opening up to debate about animal rights more and more. As each Yulin Dog Meat Festival has approached since 2014, I have seen more and more media exposure. Welfare groups, and groups of volunteers have brought this to the attention of the authorities. Some have rescued canines and felines. When people push the law to enforce the rules, this is a sure sign of positive action.

Since I moved to Houjie in 2014, I have seen the number of dog owners go from roughly, very, very few – where I would see a dog maybe once a week – to encountering dogs at breakfast, lunch and dinner, without having to go to a restaurant! They are everywhere, small terriers up to St Bernards and Border Collies. Even Yorkshire Terriers have found their way far east of East Riding. Even papers have been written in university and International Animal Law Conferences. Times have changed for dog owners here and there. Poodles, huskies, Labradors, are perfectly aligned to those who once had simpler Pomeranians, Papillons, or mixed mutts.

Dog genetics indicate that ownership started in Asia. There is far higher diversity in the gene pool. Pugs, for example, made homes in the time of Confucius, alongside the Chinese imperial household. Nobody else was allowed that little ugly doggy. Recently shepherding and security jobs have been assigned to hounds.

In Beijing, there is a strict rule, 一犬一户 (Yī quǎn yī hù – One Dog, One Household) on pooches. To Stephen King lovers’ delight, the capital city even houses a pet cemetery at Baifu. Each plot will leave your pocket around 20,000RMB lighter. But what does that matter if you invest in doggy fashion. Every pooch needs gloves, hat and a scarf in temperatures as low as 10°C right?

Over the years, I have had many pets. My dog Pup was accompanied by several Yorkshire Terriers, Nomaz, Suzie and West Highland Terrier by the name of Snowy. Pup being pure-breed mongrel, was part Labrador, Rottweiler and Kangaroo. Having looked after Charlie, a neighbour’s German Shepherd for many a year,

In the feline world, I was raised with Basil (like Jess, from Postman Pat, a black and white cat). Then there was Sparky and Tigger. Others have joined for shorter periods of time, due to Sparky not being neutered and the kittens being rehomed.

In the world of hamsters, Bright Eyes (a Syrian hamster – why does no one complain about this batch of furry pet shop refugees coming over to the U.K. taking the roles of mice!?), Stripe and Gizmo (Russian hamsters – have rodents had a Cold War?) )amongst other rescue hamsters and a whole clan of show mice.

Then, there was S.A.R.A.H. (Swift Arachnid Revenge Assassin Hybrid), a Chilean Rose tarantula.

Oh, and the Stick family, Indian Stick Insects. A skinny bunch. Pets are a wonderful way to embrace our complex world.

[The above is where I finished off on the 30th of March. I will not touch it again]

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

March on.

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

The frequency may have been reduced to one post every blue moon, but that doesn’t mean I don’t write anymore – of for that matter want to write nothing more. I have just been busy. Like a pretty busy bee, but taller, even if I do bumble just as much.

My right knee had some minor reconstruction to reduce a strained tendon and a knotted ligament. It is recovering. As such I haven’t played football for a while and will continue to avoid contact sport and cycling for at least three weeks. I am permitted to do none-impact sport. Cycling fits into that category, but on the roads around here, I will not be taking that chance. Instead all my stretches and physical activity is confined to indoors, like making cheesecakes and cooking tuna with pasta. That kind of thing.

School has been ticking over and classes have passed by as always. Some are great, others so, so. I always try to add a new zest each week. In one class, it works, then I try it through the other classes of the same grade. I’d say 1 in 7 classes enjoy it and it works very well. Class 503 (by far the noisiest and most disruptive class I have ever encountered) tear all plans to shreds. I don’t have teaching assistants in class, and seldom require them. The gremlins of class 503 need it. I ask. I bed. I plead. I demand. I explain the futility of trying to teach that class. I get mostly empty promises by Teacher Jack Armstrong that he will attend and observe. In fact, of the six classes, Jack attended two of them, and the students were amazing. A real life-affirming wow factor was felt. The competition levels shot up high to the sky and a positive perfunctory response to all tasks was had. Then, the week after the ruins of a conquered castle reappeared. I find some grade 8 classes to be a challenge, but this class in grade 5, are nemesis-like. They are all very smart but collectively they want the ship to sink. I shouldn’t get too worked up, because after all they are kids. Mostly aged 9 to 11!

Where have I been of late? Let me think. Shenzhen, twice, in two days. Mostly Dongcheng and Hengli. Not really, anywhere that can be considered exciting. I haven’t watched any music, seen any shows, or attended anything dramatic. But, life has been beautifully wonderful, on the whole. I think. Food has been had many times in Dalang and great sushi moments in Hengli. My City hat has been found safe and well, and wil be collected this weekend from Sam at Winner’s Bar (sadly, soon to close) in Hengli. The hat has a lot of sentiment. It is the third time I have lost it and t has returned. Granny Ivy gave me the hat a birthday gift once. There is also a City ski hat soon after with the same retro style crest. Although I can’t wear that hat in this heat!

HubHao writing has been continuing. But, even that is less so than usual. I guess the month in Nepal during January slowed up the writing. But, here are some pieces yet to be mentioned on this blog.

A Taste of Nepal

The written piece to accompany the Photographic Taste of Nepal.

 

Bar Review – Ziggy’s DG

In Bar Review – Ziggy’s DG, John Acton enters a world of great beer good food, billiards, darts, and KTV.   One sentence reviews would say, “Any bar…

 

Didi or Didi not?

Didi Chuxing, having recently acquired Uber’s Chinese venture, has announced an English smartphone application in on its way. The monopolist taxi arranging service…

 

A Photographic Taste of Nepal

Writer John Acton’s piece from February is accompanied by his photographs. He allowed HubHao a taste if the experience. Here are his favourite shots… The first…

 

Revolution @ One For The Road

Revolution is such a powerful word. Moving away from the political connotations of the word, I can mean a swift movement in cycling. Revolution, the band, in Dongguan…

Is March the bluest of blue months? It has been mostly grey of sky, devoid of spring flowers and greenery with the odd patch of dullness. I am fairly certain that every relationship I have broken up from, was in March. I also know March to be the time I felt the lowest back in the U.K. The seasonal affective disorder thingy would always be mentioned in the news and the Spring Equinox (it happened yesterday) barely mentioned. In the Premier League, it can prove to be make or break time, and as City sit 12 points adrift of Chelsea with ten games remaining, you’d be forgiven for not believing in a late title charge. If City deliever 30 points from 30, even then it is asking much for Chelsea to lose 4 games or draw much more! Still there is the Champions League League Cup F.A. Cup semi-final to go for! C’mon City! March on!

 

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Trust me, I am a professional?

oyster28catcher (JRA)

你好/ Ní hǎo / Nín hǎo / Hello / How do,

Trust. A small word with big implications. Do you trust every decision you have made? Do you trust those that you have allowed close to your heart? Do you trust you have learnt from your mistakes? Do you trust in your own ability and those that you work with? How much trust given is too much? Have you received so much trust from someone special? By its own definition, trust is placing a firm belief in someone or something. Believing that truth, strength, reliability, or ability is to be found within someone (or something). Having confidence assists with assurance, belief and gives conviction to certainty. Reliance in a faith. All mistrusts, doubts and distrusts should evaporate. Rely on, depend upon, bank on and be sure of someone or something. Earning trust and respect works both ways. I hope to prove myself in as many ways as possible.

The problem with trust, is that is heavily influenced by the past. By mistakes of your own causing, or that of others. Where security should stand, the pathways are locked hand in hand with experiences of negativity. They prise away at what should be a smooth journey of sailing, offering strong Atlantic winds in shallow waters lined with crooked-edged rocks waiting to swallow you whole. No matter what you feel, you either must give your all, or hold back. If you hold back, does that make the plant of insecurity grow? Or, does it allow you to make an informed decision? Only time can tell. Give your all, or give as much as you can. Trust works both ways. Trust can be both a lesson and a response.

再见/ Zài jiàn / Bài bài / Ta’ra / Goodbye

Kathmandu – a gateway to…

oyster28catcher (JRA)

I landed at Kathmandu’s airport expecting a lift as arranged with my pre-booked hotel. It never came. I tried calling the Parawar Hotel via the phone number provided on the Booking.com website.  o joy. Swarmed by taxi-drivers expecting an easy fare, I eventually fell under the waves of the sharks and opted to get a taxi myself. 700NPR to the centre of Thamel, Kathmandu later and we could not find the address or Parawar Hotel. After 20 minutes of walking around aimlessly I stumbled on Horizon Hotel, as recommended by John and Will. I immediately bumped into them, like an awkward unintended stalker. I checked in. The staff of Horizon Hotel were supremely friendly, helpful and bowed to my every need without question. They went out of ther way. The showers were lovely and warm. The rooms cosy and a balcony felt most luxorious. The garden was green and warming. I enjoyed a bowl of cornflakes outside and many cups of tea. A large bag of laundry was done for 210NPR. I had a lift to the airport arranged and used the hotel’s computers to print my flight tickets. If I return to Nepal, I will book this place in advance.

That evening we went for food at the Kathmandu Steak House Restaurant. It was good, the cocktails aren’t perfect but the Everest beer wasn’t bad. I recommend the steak selections, there are many to choose from.   Later that evening I grabbed some water on the way back. During the night I was sat on the toilet, almost every five minutes for hours on end. Time and time again. I drank more water, discarding the bottle purchased the night before. It looked like a re-sealed bottle with bits in the water. I hadn’t noticed. Tuesday the 24th of January was written off. Two small pieces of banana cake and a litre of pure orange juice made up my evening’s dinner.

The afternoon and morning of the 25th involved wandering on a private tour of inner-city Kathmandu, shown by Surnesh, paying only in food and provisions for his young family. It was most friendly and cooperative. I ate a Mexican breakfast at Northfield Cafe and even at dinner struggled to tackle the aubergine dish, as Will ate is Burger blend and John a delightful looking Thai curry at Frens.

Frens has an outside location that is quaint, warm and the staff are friendly. The food is good. The starters, mains of aubergine went down well. The Gurkha beer wasn’t bad.

My second breakfast in the city was at Northfield Cafe because quite-frankly the food was good. On entering Northfield Cafe, I was tended to, given a good seat and told to relax. I was guided to a seat beneath a patio window, I was told it was warm. It was. The sun shone above but not in my eyes. I was presented the menu and shocked to see such variety, many Mexican style breakfasts and simpler choices sat there. I ordered. In fact, I returned for two more breakfasts and one evening meal with live music from a band called Samundra, playing the wonderful Sarangi (think Erhu meets violin).

I visited three temples: Swayambhunath, Pashupatinath Temple (Lord Shiva), and Boudhanath.

I visited Swayambhunath, having strolled from Thamel on foot. After exiting the dusty streets beneath, the climb between giant Buddha statues was wonderful. A step for every day of the year led past the 200NPR entrance fee booth. I paid as a Rhesus macaque pair dashed over my feet, keen to get up the top few steps before me, no doubt. At the top of the steps, I turned left, through the stalls of shiny and plasticy things for sale. From this I met a man, who I figured worked in a store, but expected nothing and he shown me each point one by one. I explained I did not want nor did I need a guide. I had read much on the temple in advance. That said, he was blooming informative, very much like the Vajra thunderbolt scepter, he stood out. His crooked few teeth and big bold eyes, friendly and inviting. He explained how the valley was once a huge lake and Swayambhunath self-created into a central lotus. He was impressed by my knowledge and thanked me for not just calling it the “monkey temple.” I did comment how wonderful it was to see monkeys and man co-existing. He introduced me to a pair of friendly monkeys, from the 1500 that occupy the area. He said these particular two monkeys were young and kept coming to him to look at him. I said, with no disrespect, that they liely saw comfort in his facial shape. He had a monkey-shaped face. I said I think this is a kind and caring blessing by nature. He laughed. I don’t think he took offence. We carried on our tour, the tour I hadn’t booked.

Some of the temple looked rough, following lightning strikes in 2011 and the April 2015 earthquake. As I toured renovation work was under way at almost every quarter. The stories of a collapsed monastery on that site, were sad to hear and the rubble still visible.

Used by both Hindus and Buddhists, this site is truly wonderful. The domed peaked stupa is cubical in places, has Buddha’s eyes looking in four directions. Torans, shaped perhaps pentagonal, carry massive statues and engravings. Thirteen tiers stand behind these and a Gajur above that. The details on all are mind-blowing. Pure enlightenment in Buddhist symbolism and deep detail. All around the main stupa there are temples, such as the Ajima Temple, and more prayer wheels than I thought was possible to construct. For me this was a proud feature in the Kathmandu Valley World Heritage site. I’m not religious but I could feel the special and sacred connection of man with belief here. It didn’t carry any pressure, just like my impromptu tour guide. I visited his stall after my tour, on my own accord. I invested in two artworks as gifts for friends.

Dr. Strange was filmed in many locations all over Kathmandu such as these three temples. I was lucky enough to see a fan dressing up as the title figure of the movie, Graphic Novels, showing even Marvel movies etc can inspire the odd person to travel and see sights from flicks. This will be most beneficial to Nepal where tourism, especially ecotourism, can booster a country in need of the world’s support. Geek Pride!

I hated the tourist experience of Pashupatinath Temple. As much as I respect the religious aspect, 1000NPR for that experience (or should I say inexperience?) was steeper than the Himalayas. I saw little. Non-Hindus are not permitted in most parts. In fact even western-Hindus are not permitted in many parts. Without clear signage, expect to walk beyond the boundaries and get shouted at. It is embarrassing and shameful. If you open your doors to guests, be clear. I was massively curious and ultimately disappointed. I’m not religious and this was the equivalent of opening a Christmas present, only to lose the ability of eyes, hands and ears to know what the gift was. Also, for the whole of the paid experience, I was tailed by several beggars. I did not enjoy it.

For lunch that day, I opted for Fire and Ice Pizzeria. It was worth a try for lunch. Good portions, amazing homemade crisps and a good side salad with my panini. The gnocchi was also very good, but lacked flavour even though I opted for butter and herbs.

Having read good reviews about Blueberry Kitchen & Coffee Shop, I decided to treat John & Will from Australia. They were flying out that day and had been most hospitable and welcoming throughout my month’s trek in Nepal. We enjoyed the breakfasts, I opted for Eggs Benedict with a great Hollandaise Sauce. It was probably the best breakfast I have eaten in Asia, including Hong Kong and many good western restaurants. Full on two great cappucinos and the main breakfast, I bid farewell and promised to write a fine review on TripAdvisor.

If walking in Thamel, firstly, try to use landmarks based on say fish for sale, signs that are unique, names that stand out. Secondly, enjoy it, push away buskers and hawkers politely. You must be mindful of pickpockets and scams but relax as much as possible. The streets weave here and there and seem to lack roadsigns or names. There are shops, cafes, bars tour operators galore. Actually, almost every alleyway masks the odd tucked away temple, with doors far shorter than the people – ghosts cannot bend, so cannot enter.

With a rucksack, now almost empty, I went gift-shopping, opting for several pieces at a shop called Beni, a recycling cooperative that handcrafts items. Beni Ghale and her team collect rubbish from the streets, old rice bags, and bike inner tubes to create something fashionable. Mostly functional too. The money goes to providing work for women in need and raising environmental awareness. They even many sanitary pads from natural materials.

Throughout my journey I had learnt much. Scenery, history, culture, and adventure had formed one delightfully exquisite and awe-inspiring view of Nepal. There were days, I witnessed the underprivileged of the country, the fragilities of a country emerging from political instability and rising from the ashes of two tremendously devastating earthquakes, but the experience remained eye-opening in many ways. My batteries of inspiration are charged to full.

Sagamartha: Realm of wonders

oyster28catcher (JRA)

The next morning, I felt energised, I practically skipped back enjoying the wonderful views and stopping more frequent to take it all in. Wonderful. At Khayangjuma I stopped at Three Sisters Lodge for lunch and enjoyed talking with the owner. I bid my farewell and strolled on into the nearby Namche Bazaar. After a struggle finding lodgings, avoiding the Yak Hotel of my previous visit, I found the Kala Patthar Lodge. I checked in. No hot showers due to frozen pipes. I had only showered in Jiri, Sete and Bupsa Danda by that time. 15 days, 3 showers. They did however provide me with a bucket full of hot water. It was bliss. I felt clean again. That evening I talked with two Australian ladies hiking up the trail. I also invested in a new book. I ploughed through Jon Krakauer’s book, Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mt. Everest Disaster, inside 24 hours. A very good read.

My hotel didn’t have a recharge point for my phone. I opted for a cappucino, cake and a pot of black tea. The afternoon disappeared pretty fast in Sherpa Barista Bakery. I enjoyed plush leather seats and my book. I was the only customer and the two staff present were very welcoming.

I ate at Cafe de 8848 once and enjoyed good teas alongside wifi access for free. They show the Sherpa movie daily at 3pm. Well worth a gander. Very revealing movie. Lovely views from the balcony bar.

I clambered from my lodge up the pathway to Everest Base Camp. This time I opted for a lefthand spur, towards Khumjung.

Rising over the ridge, the land flattened, a plateau of sorts, with the odd boulder. The cargo airport, Syangboche (3750m/12,303ft) stood to my left. A Russian helicopter, lacking beauty in design, unloaded wood and busy Rai porters dashed back and forwards. Two red-beaked choughs dug soil and fed in the foreground.

I passed along a field resembling a golf course green and approached the Japanese-owned Everest View Hotel (http://www.hoteleverestview.com/). Part James Bond baddy lair, and part paradise, this hotel is state of the art. In 2004, the Guinness Book of World Records listed it as the Highest Placed Hotel in the world. The blurb online says, “With a view of Mt. Everest from every room, visitors can immerse in this mesmerizing scene in luxury.” That is impressive. I had a milky tea and steak sandwich, taking in the view. It truly is an astonishing location with superior unmatchable panoramic views of the region.

The monastery in Khumjung (3780m) was undergoing a refurbishment. The supposed yeti skull inside was not on public showing. My inner skeptic grew. Over the valley floor from the monastery, the Khumjung school was built by Sir Edmund Hillary’s Himalayan Trust in 1961 stood closed. 350 students share the limited classroom space from pre-school to secondary school. Some have gone on to university and studies overseas. The stone-walled village sits at the base of Mount Khumbu Yül-Lha. This 5761m tall mountain has never been summitted. Said to be a god, it is a fiercesome looking sharp and dry looking gargantuan crag. Bamboo spikes stand festooned in prayer flags honouring the overlooking god.

I trekked on towards Khunde (3840m). Sign posts pointed me to the  Khunde Hospital (founded in 1966 by Sir Edmund Hillary) and the Sir Edmund Hillary view-point. From here I went rock-scrambling down the valley into Phurte before hiking back to Namche Bazaar. Red and blue Himalayan pheasants, vultures, eagles, Himalayan Tahrs and a possible leopard footprint added much nature to a wonderful walk.

I entered Namche Bazaar’s horseshoe-shaped bowl from the western ridge, having climbed from the north-eastern ridge. The masses of mani stones, prayer flags and fading light made for a very spiritually powerful twilight. The following day I read several books and relaxed all day. I chatted with a convalescence group of trekkers. Eight trekkers had fell ill on various stages between Namche Bazaar and Everest Base Camp. Their guide group had sent them back with one porter to spend a few nights at Namche Bazaar’s Kala Patthar Lodge. A Bulgarian, a Costa Rican, a Newzealander and an Australian went into a bar… it was a very international.

With my flight booked from Lukla to Kathmandu for the morning of 23rd, I opted to try and hike the full path to Lukla the morning of the 21st. I managed as far as Thadokoshi, and chose the Everest Summitter Lodge, ran by a Sherpa family. I felt sick on arrival but put it down to hunger, I had skipped lunch, trying to make Lukla in one day. Two days hike in one day was optimistic at best. It would have taken nine solid hours trekking. I was an hour shy as dusk set in. Bunking down was a good idea. I needed food. I ordered food. Spaghetti with cheese and tomato sounded simple. Before the food arrived, I went to the toilet, and vomited several times. Very odd, I just felt tired. Nothing else. I washed my face and returned to the dining lounge. I drank some black tea and tentavily probed the food. I ate a few pieces. I could eat no more. I went to bed at 7 o’clock, devoid of hunger. The middlest of family’s three boys had been in the lodge playing domino-rally with business cards. Entertained in a world where toys are marketed and sold with aggression, by something so simple. He looked happy. I felt guilty of the days when I begged my Mum for the lastest Lego sets or Ghostbusters figures. In talking to him, I learnt he was nine year’s old. In Nepal, children often lose school before they are teenagers. His younger brother slammed a glass window shut and opened it again. He repeated this until it became white noise. Their oldest brother was 15 year’s old. A porter, lifting anything from the airport to whereever it was required.

After a breakfast of porridge, I left Thadokoshi for Lukla. At Lukla, I lodged at Lukla Lodge. I had lunch in the lodge, Yak steak, then explored the village. I stopped at Starbucks Lukla. It was a rip-off branded coffeeshop with a delightful sunroom and a vast array of birdwatching books. I slumped into the leather sofa there and enjoyed a very good cappucino.

I walked around the Sagarmāthā National Park conservation office, eyes on a path marked Red Panda area. Glancing back at Lukla’s Tenzing-Hillary Airport below. The short and steep airstrip’s tarmac twinkled in the intense afternoon sunlight. It had held the title of Most Extreme Airport for around twenty years. The 11.7% gradient, and dimensions of 527m (1,729 ft) × 30m (98 ft) and drop into a valley below at the southern runway end. The northern end being a mountain wall.

Friendship Youth Club F.C.’s field had to be explored. I left a bunch of Shenzhen Blues bags, badges and stickers there, with my SZB t-shirt. I donated all but a few of my clothes, supplies and boots to a Sherpa trust charity, figuring the materials will be of more use to local people than me in the sub-tropics of Guangdong. Later in the afternoon, John and Will rolled in from their trek, having reached Kala Patthar and Everest Base Camp a few days after we last me. Fair play to them! Their flight was scheduled 30 minutes after mine.

Tara, in Nepali means green goddess, in Hindi it means star, in Catalan or Italian it means defect, in Gaelic it means queen and in Welsh it means goodbye. Flight TA144 sounded a tad omnious for me.

I boarded the Twin Otter on the side area of the runway. Two flights had already departed. Those planes, a Dornier Do 228 and a Let 410, had looked much more modern. My aircraft had a more rustic feel. I guess with 22 aircraft split between 5 domestic airlines, not counting Nepal Airlines, choices are few and far between. Tara airlines have a history of crashes, 4 in less than 6 years. Two of their eight fleet are no more, and sadly 45 people perished in two serious crashes.

Everest rest restaurant

oyster28catcher (JRA)

Dropping down the valley to Deboche (3820m), passing a newly built lodge called Rivendell, drifting through low moss-cloaked trees, a plain to the left opened, beyond clumsily-stacked Mani stones. Inside a sign advised of a nunnery. It looked far poorer and less well-maintained than the monk’s residence at Tengboche Monastery. Perhaps this is a clear sign of inequality? The sign Parque del Retiro giving hints it was a home for those of later years?

After Milingga hamlet, I branched up the upper pathway into Upper Pangboche. I’d caught up with John and Will and they opted for the lower road into Lower Pangboche. My pathway swept amongst small Gompa after Gompa and Mani Stone walls, eventually reaching the village of Upper Pangboche (3985m). I passed around the walls of a square monastery, reported to hold a Yeti skull. I wasn’t allowed beyond the hall containing chanting and drumming, standing there admiring haunting sounds, “Oṃ maṇi padme hūṃ…” (唵嘛呢叭咪吽). The very same phrase being inscribed into Mani stones, prayer wheels, prayer flag streamers,

I passed Pangboche school as built by Sir Edmund Hillary’s Himalayan Trust in 1963. It stands at 4000m above sea level. Beyond this my path converged with the lower Pangboche pathway at Shomare village. I stopped for Sherpa stew and a sandwich, watching Will and John pass by on the lower pathway. Satisfied with my tomato sandwich, I trundled onwards. Next up, Worshyo, and into the broad and high-mountain surrounded Imja Valley. Rock falls and landslides marking almost barren terrain beneath the imposing beauty of Ama Dablam’s western and northern faces. Through huge empty plains and between mounds of loose rocks, over dirt trails and down a steep crevice, I crossed a bridge. Upwardly, the path became substantially drier and dustier. At the top of a valley-hugging path, the pathway cut inwards amongst debris of many mountains and their violent histories.

In the village of Dingboche, many lodges lined a stone-wall lane as wide as a car, yet without cars possible. Oh, and covered in thick ice. Exposed to the elements and at some stage flooded by flowing water, it marked a slippery pathway through a town. Thankfully the odd rock and patch of barren embankment stood out beneath the neatly placed stone walls (built after farmers simply removed obstacles to ploughing their fields). I walked through the village, noting most lodges as closed. After ten minutes, I heard my name; John and Will had opted for the Solukhumbu Lodge. I greeted them and met the owner, a Khambu Rai, a people from the Sikkim and Darjeeling Hills. He welcomed me and shown me to a plywood room. By now I was used to these sorts of basic rooms. The only luxury was a light switch. I rolled my sleeping bags out, prepared my torch and laid out clothes for the next day. It was only five o’clock in the evening, yet when night came in; light would be limited and the desire to get to sleep early, strong. Almost every night so far had ended in bed by 8 or 9 o’clock at night.

Sat eating pork curry, around a Yak-shit powered stove, with the Solukhumbu Lodge owner answering questions in a kind of politely curious interview of new acquaintances it felt cosy despite extreme cold lapping at the single-glazed windows. He told us how two men, porters, lugged and regularly lugs the slate base of snooker tables from Namche Bazaar (two days hike away). Each porter takes ten minute stints to lift the 150kg load before passing the load onwards. They rotate time and time again. 22km of carrying 150kg between two souls sounds as tortuous as climbing Everest’s peak itself! A sign had boasted “world’s highest billiard hall.” I hadn’t doubted that. They would earn 50NPR per kilogram for every item they lugged from Namche Bazaar to Dingboche. That was the standard rate.

The mule trains are only permitted as far as Namche Bazaar. Some yaks are okay here after, but not so many. Porters, human labour, make the bulk of anything. I ordered a Coca-Cola, priced 200NPR above the manufacturer’s recommended price. To pay five times as much, here, seemed justified. I’d seen people carrying crates of beers, boxes of Red Bull energy drinks, gallons of bottled water. If it was packaged or meat, it came from lower down the valley. Our pork curry’s meat came from a village south of Lukla, where the lodge owner’s family had moved from. They sought the busier tourist routes for their living, renting a lodge for the year and living off the income. His wife, two year’s younger than him, aged 27, sat on one side, breastfeeding their tiny chubby baby, massively-wrapped up in a down jacket and down trousers. The nearest school was Pangboche, 10km away, but they intended to raise their kid until old enough to be taught in Kathmandu, like most kids on the region. The Yak-shit oven crackled as the owner slid the lid open, dropping on dried yak turds. The lower oxygen levels make burning yak pooh quite difficult. It isn’t actually that flammable. Wood fires are not permitted, as they destroy forests – also at this altitude, trees are not present. Following a good natter, I retired to bed, with a 3L thermal flask of ginger tea.

I entered my room. It was freezing. Way below zero. Ice had formed on a sweat-lined ski hat I had left by my bed earlier. I dived into my sleeping bag, pulled up the zip high, placing an extra blanket in the room over my body. I wore my dust-mask and spare ski hat to sleep. Gloves on.

I have never had such a restless sleep. I needed to water the plants too often. I had an unquenchable thirst. Headaches squeezed my skull and seemed to strangle my thoughts. At 9 o’clock in the morning I took some paracetamol. I napped until noon. On entering the lounge dining area, warm sunlight beat through the window panes. John and Will had finished their breakfast and were playing backgammon. They were heading for an acclimatisation walk up to Chhukhung. I was not. My head, as much as I wanted to wander, was not right. My ears hurt, my nose and sinuses seemed clogged and unclearable. If I lay my head flat it felt much more painful.

Had I allowed my body time to adjust to reduced oxygen and changes in air pressure? I thought hiking from Jiri and two nights in Namche Bazaar was enough, having read numerous accounts and heard many pieces of advice. Above sea level, altitude sickness can occur at heights over about 2,500m (8,000 feet). The affects are mild usually. In the severe form, anything above 3,600m (about 12,000 feet) is possible. At 5000m, oxygen is at 50% of the level as found at sea level. I was warned that a loss of appetite and shortness of breath were warning signs. I had neither. I did have a feeling of unsteadiness and like I was going to vomit. But, it wasn’t so bad. I decided to rest. The dizziness of the morning swept away. I read a book and enjoyed the warm dining room, napping on the late afternoon to be awoken by the owner knocking on my door. It was almost seven o’clock when I awoke. I ordered spaghetti and tomato sauce.

The next day was not as bad. My head hurt a little and I would classify myself as having “reduced performance and coordination.” I packed my bag, brushing the thick curtain over the window, “Well, I’ll be damned!” I cursed out loud, to nobody. Two nights of sleep, with the window open. The outside extreme weather had been cuddling my breathing at night. Keeping me company, keeping me dehydrated.

With a slight freshness to my mind, I set off for Lobuche (4410m), determining I could make it. I would be okay. The cold harsh peak of Taboche loomed to my left. I thought, I could turn around if I did not feel better. Armed with excessive flatulation (I later learnt this to be a sign of altitude sickness), I soldiered on. And laboured. Really laboured. Sweating profusely in cold is not comfortable. Sweat freezes fast. I checked my hands for swelling. None. My feet were okay that morning, but now they felt unusually warm. Sudden fatigue, a wave of weakness, swept over my body at Dughla (Thukla). Standing at 4620 metres, my mind argued with itself. Go on? Turn around? The mountain pass suddenly felt a million miles away from life. A small hutted hamlet with little attraction. It was a place to pass through and not stay for more than a night’s sleep. I checked my pulse. It was rapid. Persistently rapid. My breathing had quickened and finding my resting level was proving difficult. In my lightheaded state, I heard the thud of a struggling helicopter coming from towards Gorak Shep. Another rescue helicopter. The fourth, I had seen that day. I was around ten kilometres from Kala Patthar and Everest Base Camp.

I decided to turn around. It was emotional. A really, really tough decision. I didn’t want my minor altitude sickness to become the reason for death by high altitude pulmonary edema (HAPE) or high altitude cerebral edema (HACE) or Monge’s disease. Kala Patthar would have to wait. My nausea was close to that of wishing to vomit. I hate the feeling of wanting to be sick, but being unable to trigger a splurge. I could feel paresthesia, pins and needles. My body needed more oxygen. Welcome to the world malaise. I about turned. Passing through Nauma, Pheriche, Jamdang, Somsobuk, and Orsho, the path along the Pheriche Pass went almost unnoticed. As I approached Lower Pangboche (3930m), I watched as a helicopter landed, collected a man clutching an oxygen-cylinder on a medical stretcher. Only now, did I feel I made the right choice. Turning around was probably the wisest move of my life. If I didn’t think of loved ones and friends, I probably would have pushed myself. Too far. Having dropped from 4620m to 3860m at Tengboche, I could feel myself relax. The headaches lifted. I lodged once again at the welcoming Tashi Delak lodge. The log stove burnt well, filling a small area with heat and allowing for comforting conversation with Rai and Sherpa porters gathered alongside me. A group of Taiwanese hikers had aimed to go to Everest Base Camp but fell ill at Pangboche. They sat reasonably quietly, immersed in their glowing mobile phone screens. After a large meal of a yak burger, cheese spring rolls and potato chips, I slipped into my sleeping bag. I slept like a baby. All altitude sickness had gone.

Edmund Hilary, “Being comfortable at being uncomfortable.”

oyster28catcher (JRA)

The lodge in Jorsalle’s dining room was long and rectangular. Freshly polished wood and paintwork leapt out at the eyes. In the centre at the foot of the dining room, a Buddhist monk sat. He sat all dressed in a maroon robe, and hat. An extra scarf and gloves, all maroon added to his complete maroon outfit.

The bedroom was ample and surprisingly spacious with a quaint window frame offering views of the river beneath. A solitary light switch again being the only technological advancement on offer. I didn’t mind.

After a short climb, fuelled by apple porridge, to Larja Dobham (2830m), I crossed a huge sweeping suspension bridge festooned by Buddhist prayer flags. Up the valley, snow-capped peaks of Lhotse and Sagarmatha towered above bands of yellow on brown sedimentary cliff faces. Sagarmatha is the Nepali name for the once named Peak XV. Deodungha is one of many local names, like Qomolangma (Tibetan name). Most mean “holy mother mountain” or in Chinese, Zhūmùlǎngmǎ Fēng (珠穆朗玛峰). Sadly, some British folk, around 1857, decided to name the peak after a Welsh surveyor Sir George Everest, who actually objected to his name being used. It cannot be pronounced with ease by many native Hindi speakers of Nepal and nor could it be written. The name stuck. In fact, nobody pronounces Everest properly; it should be EEV-rist /ˈiːvrᵻst/ and not /ɛvᵊrᵻst/! This was the beauty of the English language evolution in action.

Clambering up a staircase of boulders, treading lightly so as not to disturb and possible wildlife, I spied many grazing Himalayan Tahr. These beastly-sized wild goats, of the order Artiodactyla, clambered beneath me foraging from the steep-banked grasslands on ledges not suitable for my weight. The males, much stockier, around 70kg and the females around half of that, moved with agility akin to a Kung Fu master. Following a period of calm relaxation observing the herd, I moved on, crossing the most dramatic of suspension bridges, draped in prayer flags and looking up valley on Mount Everest and her neighbouring peaks. Here two ladies touted me to invest in fruit. I paid 300NPR for a couple of near-frozen oranges and enjoyed the majestic views of Everest and the Khumbu region. As I waited, I once again met Will and John. We cantered up the steep and strenuous climb into Namche Bazaar.

I joined Will and John for a wander, dropping off my laundry at a nearby laundry-house. A miracle considering no flowing water in the Yak Hotel prevented showers and sink water. After lunch in Everest Bakery, sampling Yak steak and eating pizza, I wandered the basin of the U-shaped magnet town.

A late breakfast of apple strudel and my first cappuccino of the year in Namche Bakery were followed up mostly by rest and relaxation. No walking. I acclimatised with ease to the altitude but sought some time to read and enjoy the sunlight. Hiring a down jacket proven to be the most exercise I had that day. Cafe 8848 was a pleasant place to sit and write for a few hours.

The Yak Hotel, complete with a marauding Yak-cow hybrid outside, as if for display, was lovely and warm. No heating, just great insulation. Power points in the room allowed me to recharge my phone. The 500NPR Wi-Fi service and lack of showers (frozen) were luxuries I opted against. The first night, I ate in the dining lounge. Tough meat in the Sherpa stew ruined an okay dish, accompanied by a good potato rosti. I was told the room would be 100NPR per night, and found that 300NPR per night was charged for my two nights. The breakfast was basic and the staff, a mixture of good (one Sherpa man) and rude or disinterested (one Rai man). I came back to Namche Bazaar on the way back but opted not to stay at the Yak Hotel again.

Namche Bakery was recommended for good cakes. I sampled the apple strudel on three occasions. It could be argued that they make the best apple strudel outside of Europe. The cappuccinos are also very good. The sun-kissed windows look out onto an amazing picturesque view that could make your jaw drop.

On my first visit to the Everest Bakery, I had a sizzling yak steak and shared pizza with friends. A wonderful pot of black tea was supped. I returned to try it again, opting for a different pizza and a cake. Very good food indeed, with interesting walls coated in sports team memorabilia from Norway, the UK and beyond.

One night in Namche, I wanted to message some special friends and family. I was in a far-off place, they deserve assurance – and I craved a familiar vice. The hotel’s Wi-Fi was off.  I went towards other end of village to see if two open bars had Wi-Fi, but two stray dogs snapped at me. I thought that they wanted to play, but in dark, I can’t risk getting bitten. I retreated. Then I had to dart between free-roaming yaks in the narrow village pathways.  They scared the now snarling dogs away. I arrived back in hotel, safely out of the cold too (-15C outside).

 

My acclimatisation was going well. Signs of altitude sickness include a loss of appetite (I’m famished an hour after eating), and breathlessness (my recovery rate is actually impressive). I avoided overexertion (my planned routes are a day behind and I’m monitoring the distance and time trekking), drinking more than I usually would too, going higher each day, but sleeping lower. I was without facial or hand swellings, no headaches, which was odd because I nutted a door in the night going to the toilet, in Sete. I bled a bit.

Happy to be free of the Yak Hotel, whilst warm and comfortable, the food was terrible and the service equally poor. On amending my bill to something akin to proper and not the figures they quoted, I skipped on. Darting sluggishly between ice-covered staircases and sloping pathways, I reached the top of Namche Bazaar. An army helicopter thundered as it lifted off, coating all around in a thick matting of dust. I covered my eyes and throat to protect them from obliterating dust. Soon it passed. I was back on the trekking trail. Here were views of the 6,812m tall Amal Dabble, meaning “Mother’s necklace.” As beautiful mountains go, this is one of the most scenic peaks I have ever encountered. Pure artwork in nature.

Lhotse Shar, Taboche, Kang Talge, Selawa village, Phunke Tenga’s prayer water wheels, Tengboche Monastery and a panorama liked no other on arriving at Tengboche (3860m). . On the ascent upwards, I really needed to urinate. So, finding a quiet point, I darted behind a tall recycling bin, whipping out the necessary body part to eject the toxic yellow fluid I needed to expel. That surprised the young South Korean girl squatting behind there, doing the same. I almost hit her. I missed. The pressures made us wee in unison and avoid eye contact in embarrassment. I finished, glanced her way, said sorry and bid her a good day.

I clambered up the steep zig-zagging dusty footpath, opting for a rest at a tree that inspired a climb and held a natural seat-like branch. Here, I ran into John and Will again. We pushed on the final ascent to Tengboche, before sharing dinner and tales of this amazing trekking route. The largest Gompa in the Khumbu region stood bold amongst the village reflecting the beautiful moonlight of the night.

Tengboche Monastery has been rebuilt several times. Lightning strikes and multiple earthquakes haven’t managed to end its long history. At the top of a juniper-filled valley, it sits on a dusty plain with roaming yak-cow hybrids called… Possibly stray dogs sleep in the sunlight of the morning. The monastery looks almost mediaeval. It was actually built in 1923. I don’t know why they chose the jutting flank of land teetering over the Imja Khola River but they in essence selected one of the greatest Himalayan panoramic views in doing so. The Lhotse ridge, Ama Dablam, Everest and many more mountains star in a 360-degree view of brilliantly unique picturesqueness. Littered by wintering rhododendrons, bare of flower, and patches of ice it certainly had a feel of magic.

Toils and rewards

oyster28catcher (JRA)1 Comment

I’d seemingly been walking for ages, when I grasped my watch. Three hours had passed. I stopped for tea at Goyam, height of 3220m. I had ascended 645m. It had been arduous. A real slog of slow steps, one foot in front of the other. One at a time. Ever. So. Slowly. At a tea shop, a toddler sat beneath a sign advertising Yak cheese for sale. The toddler, joined by a thin grey cat, played and smiled. I tucked into garlic soup and yak cheese potatoes, quickly cooked by the owner. Across the path a series of flattened houses and following my meal, I would see several houses up the path, equally as destroyed. A soulful reminder that nature rules these mountains and the people here are guests clinging onto the edge. Immediately after leaving Goyam the trail seemed to steepen more than I thought possible. Was I climbing or trekking?! The beautiful primordial Rhododendron forests became sparser. The odd lightning struck tree flanked an otherwise trench-like path. Was the path formed in a riverbed or did the summer monsoons strip the earth away? It felt like I was in Tolkien’s Rivendell. A beautiful stray mongrel, part wolf-like, part-Labrador like followed me for several hundred metres. Every now and then I skirmished to the side of a path to allow cattle, mostly yak-cow hybrids to bundle by. Their heavy weight shook the loose pathways as I perched precariously on a ledge just inches above.

Since leaving Sete, I had been regular passed and overtaken by a young pair of children heaving 20kg of potatoes. The 12 year old girl and her 14 year old brother had stopped to talk with me several times. They rested their sacks of potatoes and commented on my weight load and walking pace. These local Sherpa children were polite and invited me to their parent’s lodge for the night. I politely declined and stated my end point of Junbesi. Eventually their strength and experience allowed them to zoom ahead of me as I rested and took in the panoramic scenery. Several Kathmandu to Lukla flights passed lower in the valley beneath me, rising to fly over Lamjura La pass and mountain. This was my aimed route, over that curving ridge way off in the distance. The plants and trees became bare of leaves and greenery. Even the mosses and lichens dulled in colour. I started to tread on ice and snow. It lasted seemingly for several kilometres. I reached a Stupa and several closed lodges. Looking up at higher ground, I placed my rucksack down and looked at the towering boulders and scattered Mani stones, scrolling prayer after prayer. I turned around to be greeted by something grim. A blizzard.

The clouds, thick as ash, grey as the darkest of skies, and swelling with tumbling snow and a menacing amount of local wind. I turned forwards, aware that inside ten to twenty minutes that storm was going to hit me. I took in my surroundings. An open creaky wooden toilet was not adequate. I had to keep going forward in the hope of finding a lodge. I stumbled between two large and saw an open door set inside a wooden single storey building. The sign, Lamjura View, bellowed out, hope and sanctuary. A Sherpa man gestured me to enter. We talked and drank black tea. He said I was lucky to avoid the raging blizzard outside. In the corner the teenage boy and girl I met on my trek sat talking. They were the man’s children. The mother had died in the devastating earthquake. The family, strong and very together, ran this lodge and farmed potatoes lower in the valley. To some they live an idyllic life in a mountain paradise, but to those with open eyes, a harsh lifestyle with nature battling all odds was clearly in play. After maybe thirty minutes the storm dissipated and disappeared completely. I stepped out of the hobbit-hole like door, thanking my hosts and wishing them all the best.

Immediately after leaving the lodge, the crest of the mountain pass folded away. On the steep descent, after only a few short metres the snow line ended. Green primordial trees towered high and strong. Thick orange-brown trunks crammed the slopes and a path wound tightly beneath them. Each tree blanketed in moss, a coat of rustic pubic hair belying that of the ancients.

Large steps downwards, occasionally showing a dusting of snow that had breached the thick tree canopy overhead. The sky disappeared above, hidden by foliage. Still air and an eerie lack of sound pinpricked my ears up, alert, listening for any discernible sounds. Few came. Not even birdsong. The climb to 3736m, along a ridge that hit 3300m and finally 3530m had been relentlessly tough, on icy slippery paths with a sheer drop far below. The descent started as a welcome break. It ended almost on tears. The downwards path seemed to go on forever. Down, down and down like listening to Radiohead and mulling over personal depression on a grey autumn day, faced with a long cold winter ahead. A massive downer. Down. Seemingly eternally cast downwards.

A shriek of an eagle came from my left. I looked up at a cloud covered peak and cliff-face. I suddenly felt extremely small, like an ant looking up at a tree. To my fore, a broken patch of land emerged from trees. Ruins of a once glorious looking alpine-style lodging scattered across the ground. The damp looking wooden timbers, long rotten and rock walls draped hitherto and with no order.

My legs dragged as I walked the final kilometres downhill, slipping slowly into the valley surrounding Junbesi. Few lights twinkled between trees and from the village below. I sought a lodge. Between dark trees, I found a row of lodges. I opted for Apple Lodge, despite my dislike for Apple products. To my surprise, I linked up once again with Will and John. We compared thoughts on the day’s trek. They had arrived earlier than me, having departed from Sete much earlier too. My twelve hours up and up, gave me good reason to go to bed earlier. That and the cold. I found my room pleasantly warm. I pulled my sleeping bag shut and drifted away into a peaceful sleep.

I opened the curtain. The view looked out onto an apple orchard. In the distance, I spied a new roadway from Salleri, south in the valley, stretched up the long deep crevice of valley into Junbesi. This was a sign of modern times and a connection to the outside world, likely welcome that would advance the region’s prosperity. Maybe even bringing silence to busier villages between Jiri and here. Many jeeps from Kathmandu travel to Salleri now to allow Everest Base Camp – and other popular wanders in the region – treks to save money compared with flights to Lukla. Yesterday’s 15km of apparent endless up and down walking.

The day would involve 17km ending at Nunthala village, 2194m. I departed without breakfast and arrived two hours later at Phurteng. The lodge proclaimed to all, “Everest View” as a name. It was accurate. The Himalayas beckoned up the valley. Sure enough, there it was, to the left, a pyramid-topped peak with clouds whipping from the summit. Pure beauty. This was the fifth day of trekking and I had already seen the world’s tallest mountain, above sea level, with my naked eyes. I ate my Sherpa stew and Tibetan bread, satisfied at this special moment. Scaling Taksindu Pass and passing Taksindu monastery complete with helicopters buzzing back and forward to assist with construction work, I descended to Nunthala, along slippery muddy and mule-dung strewn pathways. A trio of Lammergeiers (Bearded Vultures) glided overhead. This is a beautiful bird with around one metre of long narrow pointed wings and a stocky tail. Their underbodies light in colour and black underwings a light coloured heads. Having seen Himalayan Serow, deer-like mammals that day by a waterfall, and also Siberian Weasels, it had been a most pleasant nature day.

I arrived in Nunthala, checked into a pleasantly warm lodge, ordered a Yak cheese pizza which was 90% cheese and 10% base. No tomato or vegetables. It was brilliant and crispy around the edges. The sound of mules passing by with bells tinkling one by one reminded me of days spent by Welsh harbours enjoying the sound of boats gently rocking on calm waves, with the sound of cables rattling on metal masts. Most relaxing. I chatted briefly with a Canadian couple, only the fourth and fifth foreigners I had encountered in eight days of trekking.

Will and John stayed nearby in a different lodge. Our leapfrog casual way of bumping into each other was becoming part of the trail. We marvelled at how fast the French man, Vincois moved. He always set out later than us, smoked a chimney’s measure of cigarettes and managed to beat us to every end-point. Not that it was a race. Trekking is all about managing your own pace and not rushing. You take in your surroundings, manage the weight you carry and your body. Your feet need tender loving care, as does your meal management and nutritional requirements. Energy and comfort is the key to performance, aside from hydration and mental belief.

Leaving Nunthala, 2194m, with contrasting views of the Himalayas, cold and icy beyond fertile hills and mountains, the morning mule trains carrying freight to and fro, passed by, bells ringing gently and softly. The odd yak train interrupted the passage of mules to give a continual hazardous flow of passing footpath traffic. The paths generally being no more than a metre wide, meant for a tight squeeze often and regular brushes with cargo ranging from gas canisters to cement to wood and occasionally polystyrene blocks as high as the animals themselves. Passing through Chhirdi (1500m – the river crossing of the mighty Dudh Koshi Nadi glacial river), Jubhing (1680m), Kharkikola (1985m) to reach Bupsa Danda (2340m) resembled a Tour de France stage with a mountain finish. This was the least tough of all the trekking days today, a gentle meander with a climbing at the end. From Jubhing to Kharikola, a patchwork of gardens and some well-maintained ornamental pathways gave a tropical feel. Banana plants, flowers and other tropical fruit mixed with higher altitude plants. One tree even had an umbrella on top. The mystery as to why remains unanswered but it did make me laugh and raise my spirits as school kids skipped by on the way to their mountainside education places. Gumba Danda at the foot of the climb to Bupsa Danda was very busy and queues to pass a packed suspension bridge held me up for twenty minutes as mule trains passed over and over again. On stalking the steep trail to Bupsa Danda, it immediately became apparent that this village had far more hostels and lodges than previous villages. The spur of a Lukla to Tumlintar trail and a higher concentration of hydro-prayer wheels and monasteries are the probable draw.

At Bupsa Danda, I stayed at Sherpa Guide lodge, overlooking a valley with the Dudh Koshi Nadi glacial river passing way below. The walls of the lodge were covered in summits that the Sherpa leader and owner had reached. 14 of the top 20 Himalayan peaks were there! Two children including a toddler who ran through a wall (MDF panel, it may have been) played around the room. I spoke with a Sherpa guide, Lakpa Nuru Sherpa, on a week’s holiday from his home village of Namche Bazaar.

The Dudh Koshi Nadi glacial river is fed by glacial run-off from the gargantuan Cholatse and Ngozumba glaciers. It thundered deep in the vale below. The morning walk involved something more serene, Orange-Bellied Himalayan squirrels, chipmunks and many unique birds accompanied me on my stroll skirting Kari La at 3080m high. In Paiya, I stopped at Dreamland for a late breakfast and met Will with his father John. We discussed the trail and John, being a former Nepal tour guide from over 15 years ago told me of how the trail used to be bustling with porters, guides and much more freight feeding the lodges from Jiri to Everest Base Camp and Namche Bazaar.

Having a late breakfast at Dreamland, with their penned motto of, “Come as a guest, leave as a friend,” I mulled over my thoughts. Nepal is like a distant, yet loving brother, one who has gone through the best and worst of times, together and apart. Seeing Siberian weasels along the route connected me with nature, seeing fish painted on buildings reminded me of the high levels of illiteracy. Many political parties favour symbols to gain votes, because words simply cannot be understood. Amongst the scuttling Highland shrews, the pathways were clean, save for the odd lonesome horse going to the bathroom. At stages I had been followed by faithful-looking dogs, perhaps looking for scraps of food or simply as a guide through perilously precarious passes.

Stood by the river Dudh Koshi Nadi, rapids crashed against rocks and solid mounds of pebbles. The glacial blue water, deep and powerfully displacing all water flowing beneath it. Ice lined the rims of calmer shallower pools, set back from the main violence of malevolent torrential channels. The sounds resembled that of Viking god Thor crashing an iron hammer in the sky. Passing through the villages of Muse, Chheplung (2660m), Nurning (2492m), Phakding (2610m), and Monja (2835m) before reaching Jorsalle (2740m), the river kept me company. Ever present, ever powerful. I walked against the flow of the river, safely dry and up bank from the crushing waters. Missing posters of a trekker, who fell into the river in November, issued a stark reminder of the dangers of those waters. The water flowing was equally relaxing. I felt like Clark Kent when he walked and formed his fortress of solitude. Awakened.