ug

It’s official. I am to car maintenance what I am to the art of seduction – with similar results.

Perhaps that is why my first car died on route to a concert and spent a weekend lowering house prices in the posh part of Aghadowey before being put out of its misery. Perhaps it is also why my third car needed to be towed home from Bushmills, having exploded impressively in a cloud of blue smoke, and embarrassingly, in front of some ex pupils. This, just 10 minutes after I had performed a clever piece of DIY at a junk yard to “fix” that annoying radiator leak. Could this also be why my fourth car would only start following a complicated procedure involving switching on and off lights in a particular order and no small amount of prayer?

You’d think after experiences like these I’d leave any repair work to the professions – especially since, for the first time, I’d spent more buying my car (number seven I think - let’s see, the Chevette, the AX, the Colt, the Astra, the Metro, the 306 and now the Bora – yeah, seven) than I did on the stereo I put into it.

Of course I should call in the experts, but of course I don’t. I am a man; and as we all know men are born with an inherent, almost supernatural, ability to fix anything – especially if it involves using a power tool of some kind. It’s right there on the Y chromosome next to the internal sat nav and the common sense suppressant.

So, when the trim broke off the sliding cover of the ashtray in my centre console I immediately went into problem solving mode. By pushing the cover in and down I should be able to realign the trim with the cover – and if I push hard enough I should even be able to break both of them off their runners and lose them inside the console forever – oops.
Not to worry. If I loosen the screw at the bottom of the ashtray that I just spotted it’ll release the console cover and I’ll be able to reach inside. Except it was like no screw I’d ever seen before. I needed to get a new screwdriver – so I did – and it was no good. That screw loosened the cover of the gear stick unit. But look. Two more screws.
Once they were loosened I had managed to reveal the internal workings of my air conditioning control unit. A few minutes, and half a dozen screws, later it seemed like the entire electronics system of my little Volkswagen was lying in bits on the passenger seat, I had practically removed my entire dashboard, and bought three new speciality tools I didn’t even know existed before – but no ashtray cover.

In despair I gave up and began to put everything back together. This turned out to be more difficult than I had imagined it would, and required a couple more new tools, some blu tac, and another hour of hard graft. Eventually I got it all stuck back together correctly. I know it was right because I had that single left over screw that you always have when you’ve done the job right.

It was only once everything was together that I spotted the solitary screw in the wall of the footwell, the solitary screw that, when loosened, allowed the ashtray cover to fall out of the console onto the floor. It was also the solitary screw that allowed my ashtray cover (with newly reattached trim) to slide easily back into its proper place. One lousy screw!

Oh well, my hands are scraped and bleeding, I have four blisters and seven hand tools that I am never likely to use again, and part of my dash board doesn’t quite sit right – but my ashtray slides smoothly. I am man, I am happy.

and... pause

If ever there was someone for whose death a moment of silence was appropriate it was Harold Pinter. He was the king of the pause and I loved him for it. His death, at 78, after a long battle with cancer of the oesophagus has prompted tributes to pour from the theatre world and press. So let me add my little effort to the flow.

A playwright, an actor, a director and a political activist; he said things I didn’t always agree with, wrote things that I didn’t always like very much and, at times, while studying theatre theory, I cursed his existence. But having been in two plays that he created I can’t deny the artistry and the insight he wielded. They were both the most challenging and enjoyable productions I have been involved in.

Fiercely protective of the people with whom he worked, he often appeared sour, occasionally bitter. That was a shame because the words he wrote in creating ‘The Caretaker’, ‘The Birthday Party’, and ‘the Homecoming’ suggest that of his many layers, the sour ones were the shallowest.

Much has been made of the fact that he had a word coined to describe his writing style. Pinteresque. An all new theatrical device.

Pinteresque: adj. in the style of the characters, situations, etc., of the plays of Harold Pinter, 20th Century English dramatist, marked especially by halting dialogue, uncertainty of identity and air of menace.
Chambers English Dictionary

I had a university professor who loved pauses. He often told us that more happened in the pauses than in the rest of the dialogue. I would personally question that statement but there is a lot to be said about what happens during silence. The discomfort silence creates can bring new levels of meaning to conversation. In a world full of noise there is nothing modern humans can deal with less than complete silence. I should know – I’m typing this upstairs in a coffee shop filled with bustling shoppers rather than in the complete peace of an empty house. And can you deny the fact that you are never so connected with someone than when you can share a meaningful silence with them?

When I was doing plays I loved using pauses. It was ok at university when we were doing heavy dramas – but now the plays I do with local groups tend to be comedies and farces – they don’t like my unnerving pauses in those – they assume I’ve forgotten my words. Our prompt hates me.

As a teacher I use pauses to great effect on my classes. It’s a well known truth that a well timed bout of silence will get the attention of a rowdy class faster than a world of shouting – and have a much better effect on blood pressure and voices.

I have written 29 plays and I think that’s really enough.

So Harold Pinter, we’ll miss you, we’ll continue to produce your work and we’ll continue to lap up those dramatic pauses. This is for you… … … … … … ... ... ... ... ... rest in silence

let me compose myself first

I’m not what you might call an emotional man. I don’t know whether it’s the north antrimer in me, seeing emotion as weakness, or whether I just don’t feel as strongly about things as most people. But recently - as in the last couple of days - I have suddenly taken on the emotions and mood swings of a heavily pregnant woman.

Evidence 1: Yesterday I was reading in class. Private Peaceful. I knew how the story was going to end. I had been preparing the pupils through plot prediction and text indicators – but when I got to the final page, after the firing squad had done it’s duty, and the narrator described how the other soldiers came out of their tents slowly and stood to attention – I choked. I don’t think anyone noticed, and if they did they seemed to see it as part of my reading style - but it was definitely there.

Evidence 2: This morning, in assembly, the Principal told the school of an accident involving a pupil from another local school. There had been a crash as he was making his way to a school formal and he had died. Now road accidents are all too common in this country, especially at this time of year; I didn’t know the pupil personally, had never even heard of him until that moment – but hearing that news hit me much harder than similar news had ever done before.

Evidence 3: This morning again. My first class on a Thursday is my year 12 literature class. I have always loved the classes I have with them because they are a lovely bunch of people. Each very different. This morning, however, I slept longer than I should and then managed to puncture a tyre on route to the school. I was 20 minutes late and someone else had taken them to their classroom. When the bell went I was standing at my door as one of the class arrived, fixed me with an icy stare, and said “I think I’ll wait till the rest get here.”
As the rest of the class arrived one by one I actually felt terrible. It’s not as if I could have avoided missing the lesson but the fact that they were all coming to tell me off about it made me feel so disappointed in myself – why? It’s something that happens all the time. Ok, I missed the final lesson before the holiday but it’s no biggy – I’d never missed any of their classes before. So why did I feel sooo bad?

Evidence 4: They weren’t coming to tell me off. When they were all assembled outside my room one of them produced a card. It seems they think that, as their regular teacher may come back from illness after the holiday, they wanted to thank me and say goodbye properly. They stood for a while wishing me well and individually thanking me – partly I imagine to get out of part of their next lesson, but still.
And when they finally left so I could start my year 10s’ class it happened again. Huge waves of emotion crashing as I took a sneaky look at the comments. I loved the fact that they had forced in literary terms. Sure they'd used a lot of them incorrectly and completely out of context - where's the harm?

My unreal English skills are derivative of your unreal teaching... An UnB elysium lad... simply the epitome of the best...

I was a little worried, though, that one of them had chosen to illustrate 'bathos' with a drawing of a bath. Then two returned ten minutes later – this time almost certainly to waste a bit of their Biology class. It was sweet – but not so sweet that I should feel overwhelmed.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me? But it’s catching. I’ve seen three people in tears today - for varying reasons. My classes have been hyper – manic even. One minute over the top with enthusive joy, then next in the depths of despair. Is there something in the water? Either way it’d better be fixed soon – goodness only knows how embarrassing I would be if I won an Oscar.

how did we know what to do before them?

Article 1.
All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights.They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

Today the Universal Declaration of Human Rights celebrates its 60th anniversary. This is good news for me as it gives me the excuse to get my year eights to write the universal declaration of twelve year olds’ rights. It’s also, in my opinion, good news for the human race – but then I’m a bleeding heart liberal so you expect me to say that. For many, while the sentiment is admirable the implementation of these rights causes problems.

Article 3.
Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.

The European Court of Human Rights comes under a torrent of abuse on a regular basis from large sections of the British press. It is seen as a set of rules that allow terrorists and criminals to operate on the same basis as the good, hard working, tax paying, church going, bread baking people of the world.

Article 4.
No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms.

It isn’t the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights they are directly attacking. Over here it is generally the much more recent Human Rights Act (2000) that faces criticism. And the European court of human rights regularly makes front page news when it finds against public opinion. Jack Straw, ironically the British Home Secretary when the Government brought in the Human Rights Act, recently admitted that the Act was seen as “a villains’ charter and promised reform.

Article 5.
No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.

The Conservatives have been calling for massive changes for a long time. And the right wing press have been unrelenting:
“It has given prisoners rights to drugs, and foreign hijackers the right to live in Britain. It has given gipsies (sic) the right to squat, and enabled the rapist Anthony Rice to get out of prison early to murder an innocent woman.” said Anthony Brown in the Daily Mail last year, “It allowed the killer of London headmaster Philip Lawrence to live near his widow because it was against his right to family life to be deported to his native Italy.”

You see the problem is that, while we like the idea of human rights, we’re not so keen on the universal aspect of it. It’s all well and good protecting the rights of the masses to practise religion in a free and open way but we don’t like it so much when that religious message turns against the type life we’ve been living so comfortably for so long. We applaud the right to free assembly but we’re not so happy when groups of people we don’t like come marching down our roads dressed in drag.

Article 9.
No one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest, detention or exile.

It was a moment of delicious irony last week when the same politicians and newspapers who regularly vilify the Act found it supporting them. The English Police lost a case in the European Court of Human Rights that sees them have to destroy DNA records of innocent men. For years the Police have been building and storing records on suspects whether they went on to be found guilty or not. They claim it has helped them catch people who, despite being found innocent of one crime, go on to commit another one. I claim it was a worrying precedent – and the European Court of Human Rights agreed with me.

Article 18.
Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance.

I can’t, and won’t, claim that the Human Rights Act is a leak-proof guarantee of liberty and equality. The British Human Rights Act, the European Convention on Human Rights, and even the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights are far from perfect – I’m not sure it’s possible to enshrine something like human rights on paper. But I am sick of hearing people blame the woes of our society on a list of articles; most of which are common sense. The fact that it doesn’t prescribe responsibility with the rights does not invalidate the rights themselves. Why should it? Why have we become so incapable of taking responsibility for our own responsibilities. In one of my classes recently we stumbled upon the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law. Is it not sad that in searching for gaps in the letter of this declaration we miss out on the immense spirit that shines through it. It is simply, as it claims to be, “a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations.”

Article 19.
Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.

So I will be raising a glass to that little list today; for when I read through the UN Declaration of human rights for the first time a couple of weeks ago it reminded me of Thomas Jefferson’s magnificent words, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Article 26.
(1) Everyone has the right to education. Education shall be free, at least in the elementary and fundamental stages. Elementary education shall be compulsory. Technical and professional education shall be made generally available and higher education shall be equally accessible to all on the basis of merit.
(2) Education shall be directed to the full development of the human personality and to the strengthening of respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms. It shall promote understanding, tolerance and friendship among all nations, racial or religious groups, and shall further the activities of the United Nations for the maintenance of peace.
(3) Parents have a prior right to choose the kind of education that shall be given to their children.

For a full list of the articles that make up the declaration go here.

last chance for one last dance

Of all the music that I use in my lessons the band that seem to evoke the most sustained concentration and inspiration is Nickleback. Specifically their song “Far Away.”

I have no idea why Nickelback. Complete blank. I’ve tried all sorts of music on them. From the Beetles to Beth Rowley; from the Stones to Scissor Sisters; Mozart to the Monkees. Some of them were good – Sigur Rós produced excellent results, and there was one stunning poem written while listening to Amy Winehouse – but nothing compared to what I see after using Chad Kroeger and his little bunch of Canadians.

Coincidentally Nickelback have a new album out. You may not have heard about it – the band have decided not to do any interviews in papers or magazines. Apparently they’ve had bad experiences in the past. The New York Times once said that the band had "the worst rock lyrics ever recorded" and later that the band were known for "undeniably pretty melodies with literal, wildly unimaginative and often insipid lyrics."
I think that’s harsh. The fact that their last album was in the US top 30 for over two years suggests that I’m not alone – if it is insipid and unimaginative clearly the masses like insipid unimagination. Although the Daily Mail disagree: "Millions of people buy Nickelback albums, but millions people once voted for George W. Bush too. Both facts are equally baffling." – an imaginative comment, but it doesn’t really tell us much – I mean two and a half million people read the Mail everyday and I don’t judge them (well, actually I do)
I won’t be rushing out to buy “Dark Horse” but I will check out the tracks on Itunes and if there’s any that might have a similar effect to “Far Away” I’ll buy it faster than you can sing the chorus of Rockstar.

I don’t care what other people think; I have seen such good work created by pupils while listening to them that I am thinking of asking if they’ll do a live set during our exams. We already have a stage in the exam hall – what else would it be used for?

where'd it all go?

The first proper snow of winter! Hurrah! I’m a big fan of snow. We don’t get enough of it anymore.
I’m sure I remember long periods of time filled with snow related fun when I was a child. Daily snow ball fights, snowmen that seemed to last months, death defying toboggan runs that had been honed to perfection over the course of a week. We built an igloo at primary school once. I remember carving out the blocks of snow, hardening them, stacking them, packing them and polishing them. I don’t remember actually going inside though – it didn’t look very sturdy and I wasn’t that brave.
Now we never seem to get big quantities of snow – and any we do get never seems to hang around long. There is no longer a big thaw in February; instead we get lots of little ones after each fall of snow throughout the winter.
I don’t know whether I can blame it all on global warming but it’s a convenient rationale so I will anyway. Cause and effect. We ignore all caution in some kind of development race – ergo – we lose all that’s good about winter.
But today is looking good. What started as a few stray flakes drifting down has become a steady curtain of white in the time that it has taken me to write this. The world will be white in the morning – it’ll be glorious; it’ll be pure; it’ll be clean; it’ll make my journey to school over the mountain a bit interesting – oh dear.

Update: I woke up this morning to find that the snow had all disappeared overnight. Thee wasn’t a single sign that it had ever been there. What did I tell you! Although, on the plus side, it did mean I didn’t have to set off for work half an hour early

there's santa waving

“Look! I see Santa! He’s waving!”

A highly improbable assertion made by the small child sitting behind me on the plane to Edinburgh on Saturday. He was of course kicking the back of my seat, making inane conversation and being annoyingly childlike for the majority of the journey. Normally this would have spoiled the flight completely. But for once I am willing to forgive.

It was a journey filled with enlightenment all round. For instance I had already learned that, even on a short thirty minute flight, it is possible for the fairly tiny women in the seat in front of me to order and down a triple vodka with tomato juice and just a little gusto. A short time after the waving Santa incident I would be watching, with some awe, the woman beside me intricately applying make up during the descent and even the (extremely bumpy) landing without pause or mistake – how is that even possible?

But it was when I glanced out the window to see if I could spot Father Christmas flying his reindeer alongside that I made my favourite discovery of the flight. For immediately I saw what the kid was talking about.
Looking down, the darkness was interrupted by a definite image of a rather fat man with a beard and braces made up of the street lights from a small (clearly strangely shaped) town. The main entry route formed his crooked “waving” arm.

I started looking around at all the other little settlements – trying to find images in the illuminated patterns below. Have you ever sat flat on your back on some grass and gazed up into the sky looking for pictures in the clouds? Well I suppose it’s kinda the reverse of that. I looked down at ground from up in the clouds for an eternity. I concentrated, hard – I saw racing cars and angels, Christmas trees and bobbles; Elizabethan actors and Budweiser bottles; old fashioned steam engines blowing smoke rings… these are a few of my favourite things…