have yourself a merry little christmas

There’s something about the last day of term that fills me with Christmas spirit. I don’t know why it is but I’m pretty much humbug up to this point. The best attempts of corporate society to fill my waking thoughts with everything yuletide are wasted on me until the last few hours of school.

I’m good at hiding it. I play Christmas music in some of my classes – though I tend to favour cheesy Christmas jazz over cheesy Christmas pop - I smile and reciprocate when people wish me seasons greetings; I bit my tongue when Ballymena Borough Council put up their Christmas lights in early November; to all intents and purposes I appear to join in fully. The truth, however, is that I’m just not feeling it.

Today, though, I am feeling it. I look at the kids arriving for the Christmas disco with tinsel in their hair and presents in their hands and it warms my heart that they are having fun. I look out across the frost covered houses surrounding the school and I dream of snow drifting slowly on a crisp Christmas morning. Isn’t creation wonderful? I sit here and think about what Christmas represents and what it means for the future of the human race and suddenly I crack a genuine smile for the first time in ages.

I don’t know if I will be adding anything here between now and Christmas day. If not I would like to take this opportunity to wish you a joyous and blessed Christmas, it truly is a magical time of the year.

good will to all men

The last week of school – traditionally film week. Some teachers have been letting their pupils watch films since the end of last week but I’ve been holding out until today. This is mainly because I only have three movies they’d actually want to watch. I’ve often thought of introducing them to Kieslowski’s finest works but I’m worried they’d think the subtitles were an attempt to make them do work surreptitiously.

Sub teaching is a tough job at the best of times, but at this time of year it really is a nightmare. Imagine facing thirty angry teens who have no intention of doing what you ask them to do. Imagine the look of bemusement, nea, amused disbelief on their faces as you start to hand out their books, the snorts of indignation as you begin to write on the board. Imagine the howls of protest that drown out your instructions… It really isn’t worth the hassle, nor the stress headache which accompanies it. I want to make it to the holidays in one piece.

I remember with fondness the days I took small groups of pupils. I used to introduce them to the joys of scrabble and chess; partly to exercise their logic and vocabulary and partly because playing novices gave me a chance of actually winning occasionally. My less than noble motives were soon foiled as most of the kids became extraordinarily good at these games in a very short time. I’m not convinced I could use the same techniques today. I’m not sure I’d be able to pacify thirty sullen teenagers with board games and cries of “well done. You win again.”

Which is why I am writing this in semi darkness while my class watch ‘Ghostbusters.’ At least it’s educational – sort of. They mention scientific stuff sometimes and that’s good enough for me. But before you judge me please take a moment and consider the alternative.

where have all the blogs gone?

I've been feeling a bit bad lately. I've been letting this blog slide in an alarming way. It's not really a sudden thing - I've been slowing up for a while now. I remember when I started I wrote the first 100 posts by the end of November (a little under 4 months after starting) It was another 11 months before I reached 200.

I did feel bad - that is until I noticed that I'm not the only one. Practically everyone I read appears to be taking a break. Some for a week or so, some for months - even Dave hasn't added anything for ten days (of course in that instance it may be because he has better things to be doing right now)

Where are you all and why have you stopped? Has the blogging bubble burst in your life? Have you run out of things to write about? I sometimes feel a bit like that. Recently I have been putting all of my creative juices into writing a play for my year nines to peform and thinking of witty comments to put at the end of my marking. What's your excuse?

Please stop trying, stop trying, and stop trying again

And Robert the Bruce was inspired, or so the story goes. It had been a hard time for him by all accounts. He's watched his army suffer horrendous defeat time and time again to Edward I's english rabble. He'd seen three of his brothers murdered, his wife imprisoned and he'd been forced to run away and hide in a little cave. Locals here will tell you that the cave was on Rathlin Island, just off the Antrim Coast.

As he sat in the gloom he found himself watching a spider - well there wasn't much on TV back then. He watched the spider intricately weaving its silk into a beautiful pattern and then as it tried to spin the web across the space to the other side of the cave - surely impossible Brucie thought. And so it seemed; for the spider failed miserably. "A bit like me Army" thought Bruce. However, instead of giving up and hiding in a cave somewhere the spider had another go - and failed. Again the spider tried to cross the gap - and again it failed, and again and again and again. But then something incredible happened. On its seventh attempt the little brute managed to reach the other side of the cave. Its persistence filled RTB with a new spirit - one which cried out 'Try! Try! And try again!' So inspired was he that he immediately set about rebuilding his army and led Scotland to a famous victory against the English.

I, on the other hand, am not so motivated by this little story. So, will someone please tell the spider hiding behind the wing mirror of my car to give up already! Twice a day I have to clear the mess away so I can actually see the mirror. Sheesk!

200 not out

Post number 200 - and I can't think of anything to say. Typical!

...and sliced bread was some teacher!

mr sam campbell, the best teacher since sliced bread and i will miss him but he isnt giving anything away in his profile so i am sconered waiting for information from anyone.

Aw, some people say the sweetest things sometimes. And I didn't even offer to pay him. Thanks DM, Davo, Munch head, TTOASWAS, or whatever you call yourself these days, keep the blogging rolling - some day you'll be famous.

reverse liberalism

An odd thing happened today while driving round Ballymena looking for a parking spot. I was on an errand - should have been an in-out job, should have been on my way home in two minutes flat. However, I hadn't reckoned on the Ballymena traffic; nor had I reckoned on inconsiderate disabled drivers.

I cannot believe my reaction to the fact that, after eventually parking and having to walk half a mile, I spotted that the car parked in the space directly outside where I was going had a disabled parking permit. It was taking up that space despite the fact that all around were much better placed, wider, and (most importantly) vacant disabled parking bays.

I cannot excuse my thoughts at that point, but for a moment - just a moment - I was overcome with the injustice of it all. I was late, I was out of breath from having to run in my work shoes and suit, and I felt an anger similar to that which i feel when I see able-bodied drivers parking in disabled driver bays. I cannot understand it, I cannot justify it, I cannot explain it. To all my fellow bleeding heart, sandal-wearing, Guardian reading liberals, I apologise, I've let you all down.

image is nothing

I took a PSHE class today. We were looking at drugs - handy really since I also teach a drug awareness course at BB - two lessons prepared for the price of one.

We're told that modern kids are a different breed. That they're not as naive as we were when we were their age. We're told that they grow up faster than we did, that they're streetwise. We're sold an image of a teenager who has grown up surrounded by new technology, who is media savvy and who knows everything there is to know about drugs.

And yet here I am, in a school not five miles away from what is known as the drugs capital of Northern Ireland, and I am astounded by some of the misconceptions these sixteen year olds have about drugs. What they don't know about controlled substances could be written in a... well, a sixteen part leather bound volume of scientific research. They know very little.

A few of them know someone, some even have family members, who have been convicted of possession or supply of narcotics, yet few of them could tell you the difference between cocaine and crack cocaine. They're able to recite lists of class A drugs without any bother but can't think of more than a couple short or long term effects. On several occasions during the lesson they mixed cannabis up with ecstasy (in their heads - not literally.) It all worried me greatly.

Is there a risk that we've let the image of the all-new-teen (fortified with six added vitamin and extra grownup-ness) mask just how immature and vulnerable they really are? Is it like the bravado of a fighter who knows he can't win a fight but doesn't want to lose face? Or perhaps it's like a politician who knows he can't win an election but thinks he can avoid it by giving out the image of someone who can? I don't know. But I do know that, where young people are concerned, we can take nothing for granted. There is far too much at stake. Image is nothing; thirst is everything.

Word of the Day (Part 2 in a 73 part series)

kakistocracy kak·is·toc·ra·cy (kăk'ĭ-stŏk'rə-sē, kä'kĭ-) n., pl. -cies. Government by the least qualified or most unprincipled citizens.

[photo of our current cabinet for illustrative purposes - obviously in no way related to this post]

there goes all our dignity

Big financial news in the UK where Richard Branson and a bunch of friends have decided to have a go at taking over Northern Rock.

A consortium led by Sir Richard Branson's Virgin Group has put forward plans to take control of Northern Rock. Under the plans, Northern Rock would keep its stock market listing but would be rebranded as Virgin Money.

This is all very well but surely it can only be seen as bad news for us Newcastle United supporters. If our club's sponsor is taken over by Richard Branson does that mean we'd have to go to the matches in shirts with Virgin written across the chest? Like we don't get made fun of enough already?

when i open my curtains

A gratuitous shot of the sunrise from my window ... because I think it looks good and because I can.

that crushing feeling

Is it just me or are classrooms getting smaller?

I've just spent an hour in a 20ft by 10ft box teaching thirty kids. It amazed me that they all managed to fit themselves in, they are obviously well practiced. The difficulty arose when the 6ft teacher tried to move around the room to see how they were getting on with the work. It's easier to climb Slemish than it was to scale the mountain range of school bags and PE kits piled high between the desks.

Ten minutes into the lesson I noticed another problem - the heat. The radiators were on full and there was no way to control them. That, along with the combined body temperatures of thirty post-PE teens soon made the room unbearably hot - even with the windows open.

And don't get me started on the smell!

who's laughing now?

Every-so-often I start to worry about where all my money is going. I sit down and mentally add up all my regular expenses, look at my exceptional outgoings, check with the rate of inflation - and then go and make a cup of coffee and try to forget all about it. Every time I do this I come to the same conclusion - my biggest expense by far is my car.

I drive about fifty miles a day (not taking into account the occasional diversion) yet by the time I've filled the tank (€70 - its cheaper in Donegal), paid the tax (£115), sent a cheque in for the service which showed up that my brakes needed completely replaced (£323) and paid for insurance I'm out a fortune.

Insurance is the one that gets to me. I have never claimed, I drive a sensible(ish) car, It is rarely parked on roadsides or in less desirable areas and I tend to keep it between the hedges at all times. Yet I pay extra because I live in Northern Ireland. My premiums would be almost £60 cheaper if I lived in some leafy town in the south of England. What annoys me most is when I sitt filling in the online forms - giving every last detail, double checking the vehicle details, hitting submit... only for the screen to tell you that the insurer only covers mainland UK. It's discrimination, that's what it is.

Still, it could be worse. I'm a teacher, and apparently they rate quite highly on the safe drivers list. I think maybe only Bank Managers pay a cheaper premium. Apparently the worst thing I could be is a footballer or a comedian - then I'd be paying (on average) over £300 more! I understand the footballer thing but what have comedian's ever done to deserve this kind of treatment. Are they being victimised because the Insurers are insecure about their public perception - perhaps they feel unloved and want to take it out on someone.

The moral of the story is that if, next time you are pulled over by the police, and after making a sarcastic comment are asked "What are you, some kind of comedian?" the answer should always be "No!"

i'm confused

Will someone tell me what to believe. I want to know what to think about our latest Prime Minister but wherever I look I get a different impression. "I'll see what he has to say in his conference speech" I thought, "That'll tell me all I need to know about him." So I listened to his speech and I thought he did all right.

NOT HIS FINEST HOUR
the Sun

But then I read in the Sun that it wasn't his finest hour. The Sun correspondents seemed incensed that he hadn't spent the whole time making promises that Britain will NEVER surrender to those pesky europeans who are attempting their boldest invasion plan since 1943. And if the reporters were bad the readers were worse.

How dare he just brush over something as important as the future of our country! Thousand of people fought for our country, who would be turning in the graves... if the unions stopped funding this ignoramus he would address the issues rather than continuing to deter from the issues the people want answers for...empty words Brown which has left this country crime ridden, swamped by immigrants. Make way for a better party that does care about Britishness...My thoughts on this lying, traitorus bunch are well known. Now he yet again shows utter contempt for us. Another labour promise broken. Do NOT vote for these lying traitorus scumbags again! Labour OUT

There's nothing I like more than informed politcial debate. So now I'm thinking that Brown is a bad bad man who wants to bring Hitler back from the grave so he can hand over the keys of Britain. Boo hiss.

LIFTING THE HEARTS OF THE NATION

the Mirror

But then I read the Mirror and they don't seem so worried. In fact I get the impression they had a lump in their throat and a tear of pride in their eye as they listened to his stirring words.

Mr Brown proved yesterday he's transformed perceived weaknesses into his greatest strengths. To be a serious politician in an uncertain, insecure world is precisely why the British people are flocking to the Brown banner.

What a lovely man; though I must admit that I'm worried what the Sun readers might be flocking to Brown for. He might want to increase his personal security. All of this has done nothing more than confuse me further. Who should I vote for in the possible psuedo election that might or might now happen later this year? It makes me yearn for the Liberal Conference and fundraisers involving raffles for autographed Cheeky Girl merchandise.

tch! the state of education today!

It makes me weep just how bad our literacy levels are at the moment. Take for instance the email I received today from "The Royal Bank of Scotland." It's not the immoral attempt to get me to send my banking details to some scammer sitting in front of a computer screen that gets me. It's not even the fact that they called me sambucci. What really gets to me is the pitiful grammar and vocabulary on display.

And it's not just email scammers that have me shuddering; this morning I listened as a Rugby World Cup pundit struggled to think of something to say live on air.

What gets to me is their lack of ideas. They had no ideas. It was as if. All
over the pitch. No ideas. Any of them. Just a complete lack of. Ideas.

Now I don't claim to be an expert on the language (one look at the spelling mistakes I've made in this blog over the years will show you that) but even I could have thought of an alternative for 'ideas' without the need of a thesaurus.

In the email scammers' case they may be excused slightly - as surprising as it may seem, that 'hyperlink' does not send you to a secure area of the Royal Bank of Scotlands headquarters in Gogarburn; it doesn't even take you anywhere near Edinburgh. It takes you to some domain called lopfroriif in China. Shocking. But at least the fact that english isn't their first language excuses some of their mistakes. It doesn't, however, excuse the distinct lack of imagination, the slap dash design (not even a logo!), the lack of attention shown to detail, an obvious absence of research, the constant repetition of 'request', an amateur...

gratuitous sunsets

A gratuitous shot of a sunset from the back of the house... because I like them and because I can.

supermarket sweep

There must be some sort of record for what I managed tonight.

After fiddling round with the camera I bought yesterday I decided that I should get some memory so I could actually take some photos. This realisation occurred quite suddenly (as my decisions are apt to do) and there and then I decided to go and buy some.

The problem being that it was fourteen minutes before closing time for the supermarkets in Coleraine.

In seconds I was in my car and on route to the nearest stop - Asda.

Those five miles seemed like an eternity as I overtook a multitude of tractors and learner drivers (always sticking to the speed limit of course) but I got there in good time and began searching the electronics section for Compactflash. Of course they keep the Compactflash in the seasonal goods section - where else would they keep them? They had cards but all on the small side.

So back in the car, across the Bann to Sainsbury's. They don't keep memory cards in their electronic section either; they keep them in those little miscellaneous bits at the end of aisles. They were sold out of CF so it was back in the car and across the Bann again to Tesco's.

They keep their memory cards in their electronic section - but they don't sell CF cards. They sell mulitiple sizes of multiple brands of every other format under the sun - but not a single Compactflash card.

So it was back in the car once more and across town to Asda again. Back through the electronics section, past the clothes on route to the seasonal goods. Behind the small cards I found a decent sized one that I was happy with, bought it and was out the door as they locked it behind me.

Four supermarkets in 14 minutes. Never again.

smile please

Finally. It took a couple of weeks and some frantic phone calls to the delivery firm but finally my new camera arrived. For over a month I scrimped and saved; I sold all my old photography stuff on ebay, (as well as an old camcorder, computer stuff and anything else I spotted lying about) but now it has arrived it was worth it. My new Canon EOS 400D.

I fell in love instantly. I'd done research of course - looked at a range of digital SLRs (mostly well out of my price range) - so I knew it reviewed well. Because it's a Canon EOS I knew my old lenses would fit it and parts and accessories will be readily available. But that first moment when I held it in my hand and felt the weight of it, when I powered it up and looked through the viewfinder for the first time, when I squeezed that shutter... I love that camera.

Of course, it begs the question - if that's my new camera on my knee, and I sold the old one on ebay... what am I using to take the photo of it?

Le James Joyce

I didn't know what to write about today. Truth be told it's so long since I sat down to type something I've got out of the way of it. I was here this morning trying to think of something but soon gave up, jumped in my car, and drove to Donegal instead.

As I drove I listened to the radio - and suddenly I was bombarded by a barrage of potential topics. They were coming at me so fast I knew I'd only be able to recall a small sample by the time I got home. Here are just a few:

1. The eccentricities of Donegal drivers and the bizarre methods they employ getting from A to B. In particular the invisible middle lane where they get to practice playing chicken with traffic coming from the other direction.

2. The funeral of the late opera singer Luciano Pavarotti in Modena. The way he was one of the very few singers who crossed the divide between opera and mainstream, and the way he transcended cultures with a graceful ease. And yet, listening to the tributes on the radio, you'd have thought he only ever sang one song, entitled 'that one he did for Italia 90.' Apparently Nessun Dorma is tough to remember for the average soccer fan.

He lived the songs, his opera was a great mash of joy and sadness; surreal and earthy at the same time; a great volcano of a man who sang fire but spilled over with a love of life in all its complexity, a great and generous friend.Bono

3. Osama Bin Laden's latest change of image; and why the UK/US intelligence agencies weren't watching 'This Morning' when the make over was taking place. They should bring Philip Schofield and Fern Britton in for some very intensive questioning - preferably in Guantanamo Bay.

4. Moira Cameron becoming the first woman ever to work as a Beefeater at the Tower of London - and the obvious weakness women have when undertaking the role - the inability to face forward when required... and quite possibly grow facial hair.

5. The Rev Ian Paisley announcing today that he wasn't going to stand for re-election as moderator of the Free Presbyterian Church. Now, obviously, one man does not a church make, but when I picture the Free Ps I tend to think of Big Ian at the helm - it will be odd not making that connection. Maybe this should be the topic I choose to write about in the blog, I usually have plenty to say on the good doctor, he's always good for a bit of religious/political/cultural satire - yet oddly I have nothing more to say - I'm speechless. Really speechless.

No, the topic I chose to comment on occurred to me while listening to the build up for the New Zealand v Italy match in the Rugby World Cup. I'm not sure of all the details as I missed the start of the item (my attention was momentarily concentrated on attempting to swerve in order to avoid a battered Renault flailing down the middle of the road) but John Inverdale seemed to be interviewing an English Rugby fan (ex player maybe?) who was travelling round France watching the various matches. He had been in Paris for the France v Argentina game. He told Inverdale that he watched it in the James Joyce Pub. Apparently James Joyce, he informed us, "was some kind of French Philosopher."

Hmm. Yes, some kind of.

Ah, the ignorant english. Très amusant.

sometimes I despair

Take a look at the photos below. What do you see?

It's beautiful, isn't it? I love where I live - The grass is green, the sea is blue, the hills are beautiful, the North Antrim Coastline is jutting out like a classic Hollywood jawline and all is well with the world.

So why? In the name of all that is honest and good, why? Who would drive up to a natural vantage point from where you can look down across the Bann Valley to the Antrim Plateau, where you can look out across the ocean over Mussenden Temple, where you can watch the sun setting behind the rugged hills of Donegal - who would go there to dump a dirty great bin bag full of more underwear than anyone could possibly own. Why?

governmental revolving door

US Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, embroiled in a row over the sacking of eight US attorneys, has formally announced his resignation.

And so President GWB delivers his daily tribute to another departing ally. If the White House gets any emptier the Youth Hostel Association would be advised to see if they can't make use of some of the space.

President Bush said he had accepted the resignation reluctantly. He praised his old friend as “a man of integrity, decency and principle” and complained of the “months of unfair treatment” that preceded the resignation. It’s sad,” Mr. Bush said, asserting that Mr. Gonzales’s name had been “dragged through the mud for political reasons.”

Mr Gonzales left under a little bit of a cloud - rumour has it that he tended to sack federal prosecutors for political reasons - who doesn't? oh, and rumour goes that he lied under oathe - I often oathe under my lies. Then rumour has it he authorised secret phone tapping - but then all phone tapping should be secret, it's more effective that way. Then there's that other rumour that he wrote a memo to GWB suggesting that the war on terror was a special one that didn't need to pay too much attention to something as old fashioned as the Geneva Convention - oh, and theres the rumour about how he adjusted the rules governing prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. I have to admit I don't think Mr Gonzales is someone I could have made polite conversation with over a pint.

Having said that, as someone who also finds himself out of work, I can highly recommend a wide range of daytime TV. Perhaps Donald Rumsfeld, Karl Rove, Paul Wolfowitz and the rest of the guys can drop by and form a daytime poker group. Just one thing though, would the last one out of the Bush administration please turn off the lights.

painting the world green

I was just checking up on my progress in the world domination thing. It seems I’m doing ok but there are still huge areas of white out there. I know the holiday period is almost over but if anyone does happen to be visiting Africa, Greenland or Russia – perhaps you booked a romantic weekend in Argentina, or a relaxing fortnight in the Middle East - pay this blog a quick visit while you’re there. A greener world is a happier world.

found guilty of first degree snobbery

I was out shopping today. It’s not something I often do for pleasure but I was at a loose end and I was passing Junction One Retail Park so I dropped in. I didn’t actually buy more than a large Soya Latte and an orange muffin but it was a pleasant enough time.

As I was making my way out of Starbucks I literally bumped into two rather short, stocky, hairless young men with strong Belfast accents. They each had identical Barönjon suit carriers in their hands and my first thought was “I wonder which of them will be in the dock” It is an appalling stereotype that a Belfast man wearing a suit must be on his way to court but I am ashamed to say I couldn’t help myself.

Of course I immediately rebuked myself – out loud – much to the amusement of a teenage girl smoking outside the adidas store. I can be such a snob at times – a flaw in my personality I would love to be able to remedy. The fact that they were buying matching suits could surely, and more likely, be because one of them was getting married and the other was to be the best man. Maybe they were just good friends who enjoyed shopping together and who shared a love of nice suits.

Of course just because something is a stereotype doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I reckon 9 months, suspended because of the nice suits

I’d recommend pleasant

Don’t you love little coincidences? Tiny little details that make you wonder about the pattern of human existence. Maybe that’s reading a little much into them – but they make us smile and so must be good.

Today I was passing an enjoyable hour or two watching old movies. I’m a big fan of Stewart, Grant, Hepburn (both of them), Bogart, Tracey and the gang. In my opinion if a film was made in black and white (due to necessity rather than choice) it cannot be a bad film. It can be quirky, offbeat, eccentric, unique… but not bad.

As I laughed my way through a film from 1950, Harvey, one particular quote struck me. It struck me as being a little old fashioned – but also struck me as a little bit true.

Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, ‘In this world Elwood, you must be’… she’d always call me Elwood… ‘In this world Elwood you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ Well for years I was smart; I’d recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

This is where the coincidence occurs. As soon as I’d finished the film I popped into Ballymoney to buy a newspaper. As I got out of my car I met a young man wearing a t-shirt bearing the slogan, “I’ll be a bit nicer if you’ll be a bit smarter.”

So then I really started thinking about the philosophy of these quotes. These days we get so caught up in the pursuit of happiness that we have little time to work on our niceness. You see it pays us to be smart – we get good exam results, we get good jobs, we can feel superior to people who don’t operate on the same intellectual plain as ourselves, make fun of people who don’t understand the basic concept of grammar – it’s good to be smart. Being pleasant, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to benefit us at all.

Harvey and I sit in the bars... have a drink or two... play the juke box. And soon the faces of all the other people they turn toward mine and they smile. And they're saying, "We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fella." Harvey and I warm ourselves in all these golden moments.

I like to think of myself as pleasant. People who know me and have witnessed me being cruel, nasty and plain rude may differ but in general I try to be a decent fella who’d do whatever he could for whoever needed it. Sometimes I do go out of my way to help people. Sometimes people think I’m being taking advantage of – that I’m sacrificing my own needs for people who really don’t appreciate it. The thing is… well, I don’t think I am. I like helping people. I don’t do it to feel appreciated, I don’t do it to further my image somehow, I don’t even do it as some kind of karmic exercise. I do it because I enjoy doing it, and I enjoy feeling useful, and I enjoy the feeling I get when I am able to make somebody’s life a little easier.

And I’m not the only one. There are many people out there who go much much further than I do. I know lots of them. I know a lot of people who are both smart and pleasant. They have the best of both worlds but seem to appreciate the value of being… well, nice. I consider several of them friends and, despite occasionally being nasty to them, I admire them.

There are people in the public eye as well. Take that movie, Harvey. Another of my odd little idiosyncrasies is the way I’ll pick out someone in a film, a small character who may only be on screen for seconds, and need to know what happened to that actor. In moments like this I thank God for IMDB.com. While watching Harvey it was Nurse Kelly (Peggy Dow) that caught my attention. I can’t remember seeing her in anything else. It turns out that this is understandable as she wasn’t in very much else. Despite showing huge promise and acting range Dow dropped out of the limelight after making only four or five movies. She dropped out voluntarily to marry and start a family.

This promising 1950s Universal contract player had so much going for her - beauty, brains and talent - to go the distance, but she came up far short after deciding to retire for domestic life.

While other members of the cast were going on to win awards and critical acclaim for film after film, Dow was in Tulsa raising her five sons, babysitting her twelve grandkids and doing a lot of charity work. She did get an award herself – she was given an honorary degree from the University of Oklahoma for her devotion to improving health care education and cultural events in Tulsa. I would love to meet the woman. I want to know if she felt she would have become as successful as she did if she’d chosen the popular route. I would love to ask her if she felt it was nice to be important, or more important to be nice.

Always Fresh

People often ask me what I miss most about Canada. It’s one of those questions you ask in the midst of inane small talk – and one that is very difficult to answer. The obvious response would be the people – some of the friendliest, most caring, genuinely interesting people I know live above the 49th parallel. Another possible response might be the weather – it isn’t always raining and I, for one, love snow. I could say I miss the physical size of the place – the fact that it goes on and on beyond what the limits of my imagination would allow me to perceive. One thing I never thought I’d miss was the coffee. I used to hate that weak, cream laden tasteless muck they served in vast quantities.

I’ve just spent a few days travelling round the West Coast of Ireland with a good friend. We saw many sights, walked many walks, ate many meals and talked many talks. There are numerous tales to tell from such a short time but that can wait for another time. What occupies my mind right now is the fact that, as we were setting off to drive home, we passed a filling station – and in this filling station was something I haven’t seen since I left Canada some six years ago – A Tim Hortons Coffee Counter.

I used to work night shift in a Tim Hortons Coffee Shop on the corner of Northfield and Weber in a little place called Waterloo, Ontario. Not the most prestigious job I’ve ever had, nor the best paid – yet it was one of my favourites. The characters you meet in an all-night coffee shop are incredible. It is a unique experience. I loved it so much I still have the hideous uniform I had to wear. I’m not sure why I kept it – I’ll never fit in it again; I’m not sure I ever fitted in it back then. I also have an unopened tin of the coffee grains and a mug I never use. I am a hoarder – I admit that. Despite this I have an annual clearout where nothing is safe from my wrath – nothing except that coffee tin, that mug and that uniform.

It’s odd what forms your affectionate memories. I wish for me it were more earth shattering events. There are some major ones in there as well – I’m not that dull. But right up there are my memories of dipping donuts in chocolate, baking the bagels and serving large double doubles to the night shift crew from the nearby factories at 3am. The thing that I remember most, though, is the smell. The unique smell of Tim Hortons coffee that drove me sick at the time, but now I remember it as fondly as I remember the big yellow duck on wheels I used to run around with when I was a toddler. So when I walked into that filling station and my nose filled with that familiar odour… well, it’s a moment I’m not sure I can describe.

flashbacks

my little black gate

By weekday a teacher; by weekend a gate painter extraordinaire.

Do you find it odd that I take such pride in having painted the gate to a small field of potatoes a very dark brown colour? I'm not really sure why it feels so good myself - it just does.

It took far longer than I had anticipated, the paint is some evil concoction that is refusing to leave my arms despite lashings of turps and soap and it involved sitting in a rather large puddle of mud - but it's done and I think it looks good.

The sheep seemed impressed, and they ought to know their gates pretty well - they've escaped through them often enough.

Happy Birthday

Some 365 odd days ago I sat down to write my first ever blog entry. It feels like a lot more. I have to admit that I only did it so a friend would stop pressuring me – It’s good to have friends who not only suggest new experiences for you but actually force you into them. I fully expected to write three or four entries, get bored and stop. That’s how things usually work with me; I have a short attention span. For years I kept diaries and journals – I still have them. In some cases I actuall made it as far as February, in others there’s a six month break before a couple more pages are added. That’s me – the king of good intentions.

But here I am after a year.

I realise that I haven’t written everyday – I know that, in some cases, I went weeks without adding anything; but I have written 174 entries, almost 64,000 words, of sometimes asinine, sometimes juvenile, sometimes irrelevant, sometimes completely misguided comment and opinion; that for me is an achievement. Consider my other current writing projects: A screenplay of which I am ridiculously proud; I completed scene 6 this week, I started it in 2003. Then there are the many lyrics I’ve written waiting for music and the music I’ve written waiting for lyrics. And there’s my novel, I just about have the title sorted. Oh, and my autobiography which I began when I was in 2S at Dalriada School (aged 12) – I have the first chapter sorted.

You get the idea.

This blog has amused me, I have enjoyed writing it – the biggest surprise to me is that there are people out there who read it. I know the vast majority of my readers stumble upon it during some random internet search (The search phrase that has brought the most visitors from google is “foot vasectomy” – there are people out there who want information about vasectomising their feet and they find my site! I can understand about all the men searching for revealing pictures of Sammy Winward and Kate Silverton – I even understand about the ones looking to join the Free Presbyterian Church, but foot vasectomies? As for the people who found me by typing it “Macosquin UDA” and “qualifications to become an astronaut” – they must have been severely disappointed. My personal favourite is whoever it was who came to this blog by asking “Where do I buy stab proof hoodies in Dublin?” if anyone sees them let them know I have a contact who’ll do them a good deal.) but I’d like to thank you all for dropping by.

This year has been an eventful one for me and the world. I’ve met a lot of awesome people, had some awful times, seen some amazing sights, given up all hope of ever owning a house, moved out of a job. One of my favourite moments of the year is actually related to this blog. It was when the Guardian quoted my comments on the death of Steve Irwin. Now I know a lot of you will be underawed by that but the idea that thousands of people could possibly have read something that I wrote - even if it was only two sentences - made me feel quite special. Will I still be writing this in a years time? I have no idea. Where will I be in a years time? Will I have the perfect job? I have no idea. All I can say is (DV) I will be talking about my 345th irrelevant post and my 128,000th asinine word.

the scenic blog

I live in a particularly beautiful part of a particularly beautiful country. It is a part of the world of which I am immensely proud. I can’t think of anywhere that I would rather have been raised. The north coast of Northern Ireland is a stunning place and a joy to behold.There are, as always, advantages and disadvantages to living in the middle of an area of outstanding natural beauty. One of the advantages – Often when I wake up and open my curtains I stare out at the Antrim Plateau and its beauty fills me with awe of creation and makes everything all right in the world. One of the disadvantages – After I’ve been filled with awe (and juice and bagels) and showered and dressed and looked at the time and then panicked and then run to my car shouting to no one in particular that I am going to be late for whatever, I pull out of my drive and into a queue of traffic caused by some tourist slowing down to 20 mph so they can fully absorb the wonder of creation as they drive along the scenic route.

The problem is that all the routes around me have suddenly become “scenic routes.” Originally it was just the Coast Road and that suited me down to the ground as I could avoid it if I was in a rush – now all of a sudden that road has been extended right up past Coleraine, Castlerock and on. The Causeway Coast will soon reach the whole way round the Island I think. Then the roads round the Bann became Bann Valley Scenic Routes – there are at least three separate Bann Valley Scenic Routes. Everywhere I turn there is a new brown sign telling me that the road on which I am currently driving is a beautiful route, and that if I turn left I will be on another beautiful route, and that a bit further on, to the right is a beautiful route, and, oh yeah, didn’t I think that route behind was pretty?Now I am always late because, wherever I go, there are tourists. I can’t wait for winter. Maybe the rain and grey skies will mask some of the natural beauty and the scenic routes will be a little less busy.

sportsman, statesman, gentleman

A statue was unveiled in Coleraine this afternoon. Created by Ross Wilson, it was of a local football player who died two years ago. Bertie Peacock played for Northern Ireland and Celtic, managing his country (and Colerine) in the 60s. He was a legend – but not in the way that ‘legend’ has come to be defined.

Think of legends in the modern era and names such as Beckham, Zidane, Ronaldo etc come to mind. These are men who have made a fortune out of the game, married famous, beautiful women (in the case of Vicky B that’s maybe a matter of opinion, I’ll maybe substitute famous and rich women in her case) and live their lives under the intense glare of media scrutiny. Modern “legends” often appear more often in the gossip sections of the tabloids than in the sports section. It could be suggested that they have sold their souls to the devil that is celebrity. I, of course, would never make such a sweeping judgement, but it could be suggested by others perhaps.

Perhaps the most famous local sporting legends, George Best and Alex Higgins, were undoubtedly amazing talents. They could be, irrefutably, described as geniuses in their respective fields. They could also have been described as having major flaws that, again, led them to appear outside the sports pages. We love them for what they were able to do, we loved them because they grew up in places we recognise, but we pity them for what they allowed to happen to themselves. We feel admiration for their rise to fame and we feel pity for their decline into infamy.

The concept of “legend” has certainly evolved through the ages. Which brings me back to Bertie; a man who doesn’t fit either of the previous definitions. He was a naturally gifted player who became an immensely respected leader who went on to leave a legacy to his profession through the founding of the Milk Cup, an international youth football tournament in Northern Ireland.

According to historical references (my dad and the maths teacher from across the corridor from my previous classroom) footballers in Peacock’s day were a different breed. They travelled on the bus to the matches, hung around for a drink with the fans in the local, got stick from their mates at work on Monday morning if they’d played badly at the weekend. They talk fondly of a time when the players of Coleraine football club were a local bunch – born and raised within a few miles of the ground. They lived among the fans – they were fans themselves. Now I know Peacock can’t claim to have been born and raised among the fans when he moved to Celtic – but I know the fans in Glasgow took him as one of their own and respected him as much as we did over here – of course it helped that he captained them to league and cup glory in his time there.

I didn’t know the man personally (The thing for which I most admire him, leading Coleraine to their only league title, took place three years before I was born) but I know enough people who consider him a close friend and who can think of no bad thing to say about the man to know that he was truly special. As far as I can tell he didn’t marry a super model, didn’t own a super car, didn’t get Christmas cards from film stars. Yet I’m glad they unveiled a statue of him in Coleraine. In the way that Joey Dunlop represented greatness in Ballymoney and was rightly remembered and honoured by the town, Bertie Peacock embodies qualities that the residents of Coleraine could do worse than to use as an example. Just look at the base of the statue for examples - sportsman, statesman, gentleman.

Will you be much longer?

"That's two hours of your life you won't get back." I think if I were ever interviewed in one of those 5 minutes, quickie interviews and I was asked what phrase I use too often this is what I'd reply. I use it when I've managed to persuade friends or family to sit through one of my am-dram performances. I use it when I've just sat through Newcastle United succumbing to another humiliating defeat. I use it when I’ve had to teach a particularly boring topic and I know some of the pupils are losing the will to live – I know teachers are supposed to make everything new and exciting and fill their pupils with zeal and enthusiasm for everything they teach. But realistically there are topics out there that we can’t enthuse ourselves about, and if we’re not excited how are we expected to excite others? Of course we do our best but sometimes, just sometimes, we fail to fill our pupils with the fever that we normally do – I use it because I feel bad that I have either persuaded someone else, or persuaded myself to waste a chunk of their life doing something when they would really have been a lot happier and feel more constructive doing something less boring instead.

A lot of our allotted time in this life is seen as wasted. You’ll find no end of statistics online showing that we spend two weeks kissing, four years doing housework, twenty-four years sleeping, six months sitting on the toilet… I could go on but I only have so long to spend on the internet – I need to catch up on my nine months spent in traffic jams.

Last night, as I was about to fall asleep, I heard a new statistic. Apparently British men spend, on average, a year of their lives waiting for their wives and girlfriends. This time, apparently, includes twenty-two weeks waiting outside the changing rooms while their partner tries on clothes. Apparently six out of ten men say it drives them mad that they spend over a week waiting in their car to pick up their girlfriend, who is currently spending that week walking around telling everyone individually that they “must catch up again soon.” One of those six men will, it appears, leave their partner for this very reason. How appropriate it is that they begin married life by keeping the groom waiting at the altar while they take an extra drive round the block.

I got to thinking about how I don’t currently have anyone to wait on. I started to wonder what I should be spending that year doing. I could learn a new language, finish the screenplay I started in 2002, watch the complete back catalogue of Scrubs… the world is my oyster.

Then the bad part happened. I started to think of all the times I’d kept people waiting. Including the plays, the (incredibly few) boring lessons, and the football matches, I have wasted an awful lot of people’s time. On top of that I have a habit of being late. I generally turn up twenty minutes later than I had previously arranged. I like to think that people who know me take this into account when they make the arrangement and spend the extra twenty minutes constructively; but what if they don’t?

So I apologise. To everyone I’ve kept waiting, I’m sorry for the valuable years of your life you spent at Train Stations, Airports, Coffee Shops; I’m sorry for all the plays you sat through for my five minute cameos; I’m sorry I forced you to sit through James Cameron films just so I could talk about how bad they were; I’m sorry I made you read through this blog to the very end. That’s five minutes of your life you won’t get back.