March 2004 Archives

On the occasion of the implementation of the smoking ban, I decided to knock this one back up...

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A while back Elimare made a suggestion that I should (aswell as bitching, moaning and complaining) draw readers attention to people who are doing some good in the world. I think it's a great idea. And besides the vitriol is giving me an ulcer so the change will be nice. Ok so. A deep breath and here we go..

Kudos to Minister Micheal Martin. That's right kids, I'm actually saying something good about a Fianna Fail minister. I know: who would have thunk it?

My reason for this is due to the fact that Minister Martin has stuck to his guns regarding the introduction of the smoking ban in Dublin. I believe this to be a courageous, bold and innovative piece of policy. More than that, I hope that centuries from now (global) historians will look back on this moment and identify it as the first step that society took to truly tackle the staggering power of big tobbaco. Throw in the fact that Martin is recieving enormous pressure from the hugely influential Vintners Association (lovely people) and his audacity and resolve are impressive.

That's not to say that the minister is top of my love list. Au contraire, the medieval state of the Health Service is a disgrace worthy of a tribunal. Also, we still have some time before the ban comes fully into effect - so we'll have to wait and see if it is enforced...

However, just for now Kudos to Micheal Martin.

Oh and: at the time of writing, I'm a smoker.

Hmm. So Tony is to be seen shaking hands with a former enemy of the War on TerrorISM. A former member, no less, of the second circle of the axis of evil.

Now why, I ask you, why is Tony suddenly so friendly with the man who was President of the Nation that supported, protected and possibly ordered the Lockerbie bombing, which was until the 11m massacre in Madrid, the largest terrorist atrocity on European soil since the 2nd World War? Anyone else curious?

Is it just me?

Well. Let's consider some simple statistics (courtesy of the Guardian) shall we?

"For both the UK and US, an energy crisis is looming. The latest BP statistical review of world energy predicted that UK proven oil and gas reserves will last, respectively, only 5.4 and 6.8 years at present rates of use. It has been estimated that by 2020 the UK could be dependent on imported energy for 80% of its needs. The US energy department has calculated that net imports of oil, already at 54%, will rise to 70% by 2025 because of growing demand and declining domestic supply."

Oh dear. It's curtains for the UK and US Oil industry, eh?. But Hark! It's ok. Even if we can't get the oil out of Iraq until we've shot every last pesky towel-head with an attitude problem, we can still rely on Uncle Daffy. To quote:

"Libya produces high-quality, low-sulphur crude oil at very low cost (as low as $1 per barrel in some fields), and holds 3% of world oil reserves. It also has vast proven natural gas reserves of 46 trillion cubic feet, but actual gas reserves are largely unexplored and estimated to total up to 70 trillion cubic feet."

Fuck it. Let's have an oil bath.

Guardian commentary

BBC report

So. The Presidential elections (in Ireland) are oozing their way towards us. And how shall we choose this time? Shall we choose to elect the incumbent merely because she has 'Mary' as a first name and because the lowlifes at Abject Fianna Failure have told us to, or are the opposition going to give us something else to have a gander at?

Well, here and now, I am going to nail my colours to the mast. There is only one man who I want to be President of Ireland: Senator David Norris. 'Is he qualified?' I hear you ask. Well take a quick look at the stats:

• Council of Europe Travelling Scholarship;
• Walter Wormser Harris Prize;
• First Foundation Scholarship in English Literature and Language;
• Gold Medal University Philosophical Society;
• Silver Medal, University Philosophical Society;
• 1st Class Moderatorship TCD;
• Nominated for European Human Rights Prize.

There's plenty more where that came from too. Have a quick glance at his website and see for yourselves.

If you would also like to see Senator Norris run for the Aras, then for God's sake let the man know! Mail him at the following address:

Find out more about Senator Norris at his website »

Arf,

'As been an insane seven days. Twas fallas, the fire festival. That basically involves small terrorist children chasing me all over the city carrying the kind of explosives usually seen in baghdad. the city is insane. for six days and five nights, they party, eat, smoke, dance and never sleep. i mean that, they do not sleep. every ten seconds the air is rent in half with a deafening explosion. and i don't mean no farty little pops here, we're talking windows rattling in panes and fillings in teeth. This was like downtown Kabul on a rowdy friday night. all this, with fireworks, street parties, marching bands, more fireworks, food cook-offs in the street and then some more fireworks. i can honestly say that i got about 20 hours sleep out of a possible 48 or so. I had the time of my life, but I never want to go through that again.

Have you guys seen the 25th Hour with Ed Norton? God's bollocks but it's the best movie I have seen in years. Hands down. No Contest. This is of the calibre of the Shawshank, Band of Brothers and Die Hard. Epic, truly awesome cinema. No cash. No props. No budget. Nothing. Except some of the best acting I've ever seen.

Anyhoo, crawled back into work today to face the dreaded kids and that all too small classroom. Yeeha but I had a hoot. After seven days on the lash, the first thing I needed to see when I walked back into work was my most delightfully unplesant student sporting a dashing new set of titanium-sparkling braces. Christ, I didn't know where to look and whether or not to pity the poor sod or burst out laughing. Make no mistake, teaching can throw some strange ones at ya. I felt as though someone had flung a curveball made of deep fried shit. Sometimes, it really is hard not to laugh.

Right, I'm off to bed.

The following are, in no particular order of importance, some of the things I have seen over the last seven days or so in Spain:

One
Tuesday: Whilst coming out the front door of my apartment I was greeted with the site of a large lump of shit on the ground, with a very large firework sitting in it, the fuse hissing towards the explosives. I ran. The shit, quite literally, was flying.

Two
Friday: An estimated 1.2 million people cram the city centre, silently moving in droves upon droves. Hands painted white. Black ribbons on shirts. Banners calling Aznar, Bush and Blair, liars, murderers and war criminals. When you consider that the city has a population of less than 1 million people...

Three
Saturday: A crowd of 8000 angry Spaniards stand outside the PP office (the office of the Popular Party) screaming at the top of their voices, demanding that Aznar stop playing games and give the people the information they want concerning the atrocity in Madrid. Previously that day, it had emerged that Aznar had telephoned the editors of the four largest newspapers in Spain assuring them that the bombing was the work of ETA and not Al Qaeda. In addition, the state run television channel had changed their mid week movie to a film concerning ETA.

Four
Sunday night: Whilst having dinner with friends a phone call arrives telling us that the unimaginable has happened. The PSOE socialist party have won a spectacular victory, ousting the Aznar government. The following morning I meet a Spanish friend of mine in the street who hugs me and begins chanting "Ista! Ista! Ista! Espana Socialista!"

Five
Monday night: 40,000 or more Spaniards standing beside the riverbed, dancing to the sound of Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus". On the dot of ten, every street light goes out and for the next twenty minutes, I witness what looks like a small nuclear war in the sky above me as Valencia begins Fallas, the fire festival.

Six
Tuesday morning: After having been celebrating a local Falla (community centre) and witnessing first hand the building of a Falla (a huge, incredibly detailed scultpture which has taken six months to design and build and which will be burnt in three days) I awake to what sounds like Armageddon outside my window: a huge cacophanous fireworks display. It is 8 a.m.

Seven
Tueday afternoon: Spanish women stand in the street, singing, laughing, drinking red wine and cooking Paella. Around them stand children, men, policemen, beggars, bums, hippies looking for a free feed. Everyone is welcomed.

There's another five days of this lunacy to go...

I have been out all last night. I'm dying. I've been drinking, laughing, listening to music, cheering in streets. What was most remarkable about all of this is that only three days after the worst European terrorist atrocity in almost twenty years, the streets were full with people celebrating too. I was with Spanish, Irish, Scottish, American and French people. Car horns were blaring. People sang out of windows.

Why?

Well, a large part of why a quiet Sunday night drink became something else is because the PSOE, the left wing socialist party, have stunned everyone and won the Spanish General election, ending eight years of conservative domination.

A country which was openly weeping two days ago, tonight looked like a country standing, stunned with a drink its hand, having been told that the previously unimaginable has transpired. The unthinkable has become thinkable. If Spain can get rid of the President that commited the country to a war which the vast majority did not want, then so can any other country.

It frightens me that it took an atrocity of the scale of 11M to prompt a higher voter turnout; but it has done. In a sick twist, the darkest act of terrorism has brought a Pro-war, Pro-Bush government to its knees and expelled them for four years. Ironic? Yes. Something to smile about? Maybe...

But I think Spain deserves a smile.

Rather than turning on itself, the population of Spain was allowed a unique opportunity to pass a rapid judgement on its politicians. Kneejerk? Most definitely, but bear in mind that this was the country which was 95% anti-war, to the point where women sat in the streets banging dustbinlids in protest, months after the war had started. But tonight, according to the words of a Spanish friend, they have taken Spain back.

Tonight has been a great night. I feel better tonight than at any time for the last few days. Viva Espana.

Despite the fact that this morning has seen a dramatic announcement by somebody claiming to represent Al Qaeda, assuming resonsibility for the 11M massacre, there are still some very worrying questions to be answered.

One of the most vexing concerns the technology used in detonating these bombs. Specifically, the bombers appear to have used a mobile-phone detonator system. While the details of this are rather unclear, one thing is unmistakable: this is a technology used by and invented by the Real IRA.

According to a report in today's Sunday Independent: "The Real IRA perfected the mobile-phone bomb, which it tested in south Armagh in late 2000. A highly-sophisticated bomb using two mobile phones linked to each other - to avoid electronic jamming by security forces - was discovered in Derry in February 2001. The mobile-phone bomb in a parked car was to have been detonated as a police patrol passed by. " (http://www.unison.ie/irish_independent/stories.php3?ca=9&si=1145344&issue_id=10585)

ETA have never used these bombs before.

In addition, security reports indicate that members of the Real IRA are supposed to have met with members of ETA in recent months. Israeli forces claim to have found these devices in Palestine and American forces have discovered them in Iraq.

So if it is ETA, then some very, very serious questions need to be asked in our Dail. If it was Al Qaeda, then God only knows what we have become involved in.

So. I have bored you with tales of how to get qualified and how to make an arse of yourself. So what of the job itself?

For the most part, my work consists of one-on-one classes in companies. Now this can be good and this can be horrible. As a positive example, I have classes most mornings in the Ajuntaimento (the local government) which are absolutely fine.

They start at 8.30 am and generally last about 1 and half hours. I like doing them as the students are quite relaxed and fun to get on with. Indeed, the class which I have first thing on Fridays is my favourite, as this is with Jorge, a 38 year old senior civil servant. Classes with this guy are not like classes at all. It's more like meeting a mate for a chat each Friday morning. Frequently we just go for coffee, talk about football, movies and his pet favourite subject, international politics. I'm actually learning quite a lot from this guy as his knowledge of the subject is extensive to say the least. He is also just as cynical as I am.

On the other hand, I have to teach at a furniture company on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I fall short of the words needed to descibe just how much I hate this. A large part of this, is due to the student in question: a small, bespectacled, troll-like creature (who shall remain nameless) who is, to put it simply, stupid. I hate the very sight of him. His clothes, his voice and his smelly dank office. Teaching this individual is akin to pulling teeth with a rusty pliers. I hate it, hate it, hate it.

I also have classes with groups of adults and groups of teenagers. The adults are a doddle and fun to teach, but I have had spectacular problems in recent weeks with one group of kids which led to me instigating a reign of terror in the classroom. This includes a yellow-card, red-card system for discipline. After getting in three sets of parents regarding the behaviour of some students things seem to be better. Still, that doesn't stop me from entertaining fantasies where I pick a student up by his feet, swing him around and dash his brains out upon the classroom wall.

Previously on the adventures of Senor Birdbath and his harem of spanish ladies, I had been ragaling you with tales of teacher training. Riveting stuff indeed.

As I had explained, the course is a month long and constitutes every form of abject humiliation and cringe-inducing terror that you can imagine. Ack, no. It's not that bad really.

However, on to some local details. It is, in a word, stupendous. The majority of the time I have been gorging myself on Tapas. Tapas, for those of you not in the know, are small dishes of varied foods. The idea is to order about four plates of something that you cannot even pronounce, never mind translate, and make an arsehole of yourself as you tentativley shovel the unknown substance in to yer gullet, all the time wincing under the murderous glare of a waiter who is thoroughly enjoying your distinctly 'fish out of water' grimaces.

My favourites include fried squid, black pudding on hot bread, patatas bravas (chips dipped in rose sauce to me and you) flaming chorizo sausage (see the picture), cod croquettes. All served with liberal quantities of beer and bread. Cheap, quick, tasty, healthy and fun - I could get to like this.

Then of course there is the Paella (pronounced 'pie-ella'). The Valencians are mighty proud of their Paella and rightly so as they invented it. A rice dish, comprised of garlic, rabbit, chicken, green beans and assorted herbs, this is one meal which I have immediately fallen in love with. There are seafood variations, but the rabbit/chicken combo is the most common.

The percieved wisdom is that the only good Paella (according to Valencians) is in someone�s house and not in the restaurants, whcih cater for fat bovine British tourists. I�ve had both varieties and enjoyed success with both. Yummy.

On the whole, food is cheap, healthy and tastes fucking great. That's a pretty heavy compliment coming from me.