Steve Jobs 1955-2011

‎"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."
- Steve Jobs

don't tell me the score

I'm a Coleraine FC fan. I'm not obsessive - I don't have a CFC duvet and pillow set; I don't even have a season ticket. I simply go to a match or two each month and keep an eye on their scores and league position. I am the only one of my friends who ever pulls on the blue and white stripes to go shout at a bunch of footballers in the rain at the showgrounds - so I was more than a little surprised when a friend asked me if I fancied going to the game today. He is the least likely football fan on the planet - he had very recently gone and got himself engaged so I just assumed he was in a weakened mental state and, thinking this was not an occurrence likely to happen again, bit his arm off.

We set off - I in my retro 1960s CFC jersey with the big red number 6 on the back - he in a sports jacket (refusing to wear the blue and white striped scarf I brought specially.) It turns out we weren't just going for the match. A project involving local children and our resident world renowned artist, Ross Wilson, had culminated in a piece of art being unveiled at the showgrounds before the match. Lots of different agencies/organisations were involved. Coleraine Rural and Urban Network, Coleraine Borough Council, PSNI... sometimes I worry that things like this involve more committees and subcommittees than the young people they are actually designed to help. But that isn't to devalue this particular project - it actually involved young people in three areas of the town. Each group identified a sporting legend, three heros who embodied something special - positive role models. Each of the legends were to be immortalised in pieces of public art - which brings me to why I was turning up to the Coleraine Showgrounds, two hours too early for the match.

A group of young people had chosen Paul Gaston as the subject for their mural. Unless you're a Coleraine fan you may not know a lot about Gacky but for me, and apparently those young folk, he is a modern legend. He made his debut for Coleraine in 1989 and was still playing for them 600 games later in 2007. My personal favourite memory was watching him play in the cup final in 2003 - the year Coleraine took the Irish Cup home from Belfast. A player who embodied pride and loyalty for his club - a firm fan favourite if ever there was one.

Ross, I'm sure I've mentioned before. This wasn't his first connection to Coleraine FC. He was the artist who created the statue of Bertie Peacock which stands in the town centre. The man is steadily making his way through my list of footballing heroes. If I had my way he'd be creating murals of each of Coleraine's players from history. Take a look at the depressing corrugated metal wall at the back of the terrace in this photo. Imagine each section covered with a mural for Bertie Peacock, Des Dickson, Victor Hunter, Felix Healey... Can you imagine how inspiring it would be for the young people of our town - the disenfranchised, the disillusioned young people - to look up when they're at a soccer match to see themselves surrounded by role models who understood the concept of overcoming difficulties, learning from failures, striving to succeed and fulfil dreams? Even as I write this I can feel how twee it all is - and yet I want it to happen all the more.

So what do Coleraine football club do? They take this mural of a loyal servant to the club - someone who gave his heart and soul for the Coleraine fans - and they stick it on the end of a stand in the corner of the ground so people can only see it if they crane their necks round. It is a crying shame that they don't take more pride in someone who showed such pride in pulling on their colours every week for eighteen years. The people that run the club should maybe try to remember what it's like to be a fan again sometimes - I think that their lovely smart crested blazers and ties suppress the memory occasionally.

So onto the match. That's what I was there for - well that and to get the opportunity to have a chat and grab a photo of Gacky. I sat through the speeches - I endured the pleasantries - I forced down the finger food - all because I was going to watch the Coleraine v Portadown match from the posh boxes at the back of the stand. I was looking forward to it. Unfortunately my friend had got his calculations wrong and informed me that we were due to meet up with his sister and her family and that we were late. It was okay, I assured him, I didn't mind; it'd probably be a pretty dull match anyway. And off we went just before kick off. It felt odd leaving the stadium as everyone else was arriving but I didn't mind. It was only a football match...

It was only the football match of the year! Twice Coleraine came from behind before scoring in the closing moments to win 4 goals to 3. A match packed with goals (including one that travelled from within Coleraine's own half of the pitch), sendings off and all kinds of excitement. I could have been watching it from the posh boxes. Instead I left before it had even begun. I won't hold it against Dave though - he's getting married - that's punishment enough.

get your cupcakes - get your cupcakes here

How often do you look at someone doing a different job and think, 'I could do that. I'd be good at that. Why am I wasting my life away teaching when I could be a train driver... a traffic warden... a park keeper... yes, I have had occasion to envy each of these professions - don't judge me - and today I am a cupcake seller. I love it.

It's not my first time. I've helped a friend on and off with his american cookies and cupcakes business. When he's overstretched and can't be in three places at once I help him out. I also spent a glorious part of my life working night shift in a Tim Hortons coffee shop. That was the best time of my life - no question.

Don't get me wrong, I love teaching; but sometimes it's easy to get a little jaded. Sometimes the pressures involved take a little shine off it. Sometimes it's easy to feel underappreciated and unloved. Selling baked goods just makes me happy. People like you when you sell them cupcakes. They smile when they see you; they are genuinely happy you exist in their lives. I'm not sure that can be said of all my pupils as a teacher. I love the cut and thrust - the banter - the twinkle in the eye - a bit of charm - a bit of a flirt (I can't be doing that as a teacher either) - give the customer a smile and an extra cookie thrown in, since they've been so nice.

I should probably come clean at this point and admit that, personally, I don't even like cupcakes. They are generally a sickly waste of the planets resources. They have no reason to exist (Though it has to be said that my friend, Nathan's, cupcakes are a pretty special waste of Earth's resources - truly the lightest, fluffiest, smoothest tasting waste available.) But do you have to like something to sell it? I certainly don't have to like silly iced pieces of fluff (sorry Nathan, delicious silly iced pieces of fluff) to have a great time selling cupcakes. I'd hate to think how miserable it would be to teach a subject I didn't love myself. There are teachers out there - teaching subjects they have no love for. I am so incredibly lucky to love what I teach.

Could I really leave education to sell cupcakes or donuts full time? No, of course not. I would soon get bored. I'd miss the dramas and challenges of the classroom too much. But for today I am not a teacher - I am a purveyor of cupcakes. So if you happen to be in Coleraine and feel the urge for a little drop of sugary happiness, come and say hello.

the narrow path to the super highway

It's an image thing I know, but I like to see myself as someone who travels the path less trod when it comes to popular culture. I always have done. Aged ten I was in a primary school surrounded by Manchester United and Liverpool football fans - so I support Newcastle United. In secondary school all my friends supported the Ulster rugby team - I chose to follow London Irish instead. At university I started watching a new american sitcom, rather uninspiringly called 'Friends.' I quite liked it, until everyone seemed to be watching it and I lost interest. The same thing happened with the West Wing, and so on and so on.

And now I'm in a quandary. I was browsing the shelves of my local second hand book school when I happened upon a little orange paperback that looked like it hadn't been read at all. Intrigued I took a quick scan, checked the blurb, and eventually bought it thinking I might have found another hidden gem.

A few days later my sister was talking to me when she spotted the book lying on my desk. "Ah" she said, "You're reading 'One Day'"
"I haven't started it yet. Have you heard of it then?"

And so it turns out that my little orange paperback is not so much a hidden gem as a glittering jewel that's been on display in a national museum for the past two years. It has been extensively reviewd and garnered mainly positive write ups. It was the best selling british novel in 2010 and has sold over a million copies. According to the Times "it is only a matter of time before you read 'One Day'" And to make matters worse a screenplay version of it has just opened in the cinemas this week.

How can I be so far behind the Zeitgeist? You've all heard of it - so how have I missed it? When did I wander off my little less trod path and veer onto the slip road for the M1?

So you see my dilemma. Do I ignore my image issues and become the 60,141st person to read it this week; or do I return it, spine unbroken, to a little secondhand bookshop somewhere. Dammit! That's already been done!

music in the (open) air

I think it has become my music venue of choice - the Cornmarket in Belfast, Arthur Square. It's not a grand concert hall with pristine acoustics - in fact the acoustics are horrible. It's not an intimate little basement venue where the artists can truly engage with their audience - in fact 90% of the audience only pause briefly to listen before continuing to go about the daily business of existence. It's not a space filled with music history, where legends have belted out crowd pleasers to their adoring fans. It is simply a junction of five pedestrianised street in the city centre, and a rather odd sculpture.

And yet on three separate occasions I have found myself abandoning plans to sit in mesmerised awe as a musician or group entertain the shopping masses free of charge. Well, for spare change anyway.

Most recently it was a latin jazz group over from Edinburgh. I sat for an entire afternoon as they performed the most unlikely covers - who would have thought 'Jenny from the Block' would work so well cuban style? And as for 'Come Together' ... I don't say this lightly ... better than the original. Absolutely incredible. I've never been as moved by a Lennon/McCartney song.

They're called Tequila Mocking-bird. A collective of music students from Edinburgh University. I was on my way to a first date. I may have been a little late. But it was their fault. I was in Belfast in plenty of time - I'd even had time to do a recce of the location. When I was wandering round Belfast city centre and heard the music I checked - I had time to listen to a couple of songs. Maybe a couple more... Everytime I got up to move on they would kick in with another salsa beat and I would be glued down. I ended up staying until the very end of their set and chatting to them briefly. To my horror they were just coming to the end of an Irish tour and were heading back to Scotland the next day. Even worse - they had played a gig only five miles from home the day before. I bought a cd of their new composition and promised to keep an eye on their list of upcoming live performances. Then ran to the pub, trying to think up a suitable excuse for being late. Great first impression.

I thoroughly encourage you to track them down and listen to them live if you get the opportunity. They are a talented bunch and ridiculously young. Attractive young things should not be allowed to be so talented - blessings should be shared around all of us a bit more. I look forward to hearing them again - for they will return - and I will not miss them next time. If it means rearranging dates or bringing the date along; I will see them live in an actual venue - not a street corner.

On the subject of the date - you may be wondering why this isn't in the 'reasons why I'm single' series. Well, actually the date went pretty well - but better yet - she got caught up in work and turned up even later than me. Guilt free tardiness and a free music performance... does life get better?

I am the best teacher you never had

Don't take my word for it - I have a plethora of testimonials from pupils I never taught as evidence. Indeed it's an astonishing fact that pupils I haven't taught are statistically much more likely to rate my teaching ability than those I actually taught.

Recently I was asked about privately tutoring a couple of pupils from a previous school. I mentioned it in passing to the teacher I'd been covering back then. "Oh yes." she replied, "They thought you were a great teacher. Apparently they were hoping you'd take over their class when you were finished covering for me."
I didn't know these kids. I'd never taught them - and yet somehow they see me as their path to GCSE success. So much so that they are prepared to ask their parents to pay me for it. None of the pupils I taught came looking for private tutoring - actually, that's not true. One did; but she fell out with me over an exam mark.

I bumped into another pupil at the gym. I say bumped into, but it was really more a case of him bounding over with a hand thrust out, shouting, "Sir!" I didn't recognize him - I'd never taught him. He told me how much the school (he was speaking for them all?) missed me; and how, in the run-up to his exams, would I consider helping him out with a bit of private tuition. How did he get such a positive impression of someone who he'd never seen teach. At least if he had it would have been of me covering a single lesson in science of something weird. I thought maybe he was asking me because I was the only available English teacher he knew of - but his mother told me my style of teaching had impressed him. It must be good to affect someone in a classroom at the far end of the school. It didn't seem to affect the ones in my actual classroom as much.

For the record none of this is as much of a slight against my teaching as it sounds - we all know I'm an awesome teacher. It's simply that my awesomeness fades a little with familiarity - that's natural. It's easy to be that teacher when you're popping in and out of their educational lives.
One quip about how they're not to laugh when I bang my head on the hanging board light - because it will happen; or that I got my accent from extended exposure to Due South reruns on daytime TV, and they're putty in my hands; they want to like me.

It's when you find yourself responsible for ruining their weekends by making them do coursework, or ruining their lives by giving them a less than impressive mark on their less than impressive exam paper; that's when the gold loses a little of its glister. And heaven forbid, if ever you give them anything but glowing praise at a parents' consultation - you will be dead to them. Dead.

So I'll take whatever adulation I can get - and keep on not teaching most of the world so that almost everyone will love me.

Now excuse me while I "accidentally" bump my head on the board light.

I'd be cynical about this, but I tire of it

If I have a flaw - well, one that stands out above the rest, it would be that I am infected, and filled with a cynicism that shames me. I wish I didn’t have it – I wish I could at least control it better – but it’s always about there somewhere.

I have a good friend who hasn’t a cynical bone in his body. He is devoid of cynicism and when we are together it makes me all the more aware of the skepticism, the suspicious and sneering smog that floats around me. I mock his naivety and make knowing smirks when he refuses to see the bad in someone. I mock him but I envy him – I envy him so much.

Let me tell you a little story about something that happened a year or so ago. I was on route to Church one Sunday morning. My dad was driving my grandparents and I, as he did most weeks. And, as most weeks, he was listening to the Priests as he drove. (For those who’ve never heard of them, The Priests are a classical musical group made up of three Catholic priests all from Northern Ireland who have been singing together since they boarded as students at school in Garron Tower off the north coast)
It’s a short journey and quite soon into it the Priests began to sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ That’s when it began.

It started with a quiet humming, then gradually my grand father began to softly sing along; then my father; then my grand mother. As I listened I was surprised to hear four voices – I was singing too; picking out the bass line. There we were, three generations of Campbells belting out ‘How Great Thou Art’ in some form of four part harmony. It was a beautiful moment, a spontaneous moment, a hallmark moment, if you like. And then I ruined it.

As we approached the Church I thought of how people there would react to the spectacle. It was all okay when the only witnesses were the cows in the fields we passed out on the open road – but at the Church there would be actual people – people who knew me. They would stop and stare; they would think we were odd; they would point and laugh and commit the image to memory so they could bring it up in conversation with their family over the Sunday roast. From now on, any time they saw me they’d remember me as one of the motorcar choristers. That could not happen! I stopped abruptly. And immediately I wished I hadn’t. Quite honestly I wished people had seen me – I wished they had known me as one of the Motorcar Campbell Choristers – because I know it would have been with the affection that they always held us; not matter how strange we sometimes were.

I have just arrived home from taking my Dad to a Priests concert at Glenarm Castle (not too far from where they met at Garron Tower) They didn’t sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ but it was a wonderful experience to see them live, and it brought that Sunday Morning drive back to mind.
My grandfather passed away a month ago. There will never be a chance to relive that moment. I have committed it to my memory, not that I bring it up over the Sunday roast – but when I think of it I am reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am with the family in which I was placed. My grandfather was immensely wise, immensely gracious – he quietly lived a life filled with understanding, faith and love. If I learn anything from him it should be that a cynical attitude, while more and more prevalent, is not compulsory. It’s not even the default setting. If I am to make the most of this beautiful creation I need to start trying to see it through untainted eyes, and see the best in everything around me. My good friend and my family seem to have known that secret all along.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art.

we love it!

The Sun has a slogan - "The Sun. We love it!" and once in a while they do something that makes me think that they might be right. Today they were thinking of ways to enliven the process of page layout and came up with this little gem. Whoever it was that placed the photo of Cameron and Obama above the ad for New Look footwear must have been bored. A bored genius.

changing ties

I don't know whether it's a sub conscious thing or just stupidity - but I have developed an unfortunate habit when it comes to choosing which tie to wear to work.

I used to hate wearing ties. As a pupil, and then as a young teacher I found them restrictive and conformist. I wanted to teach in a knitted turtle neck and Che Guevara beret. I railed against the idea that a piece of fabric tied, noose-like, across my adam's apple somehow illicited authority or respect. It appeared unfair to me that female teachers seemed able to wear whatever they wanted while male teachers (excluding PE staff of course - but then can they really be considered teachers?) were required to wear a shirt and tie. I didn't see the point.

I still don't see the point. Honestly I don't. I will fix anyone who claims that we instinctively imbue people in ties with more authority with an icy stare. It isn't about the tie - it's about looking smart and professional. Whether I'm wearing a tie or not is immaterial.

But I'm bringing back the tie. Not only do I wear one with a suit to work, weddings, church, going to court - I've started wearing them on nights out and soon I hope to introduce them to my day-to-day attire. I'm not doing so to appear sagely or mature - in the same way a tie can't overcome my inherent untidiness it could never fool anyone regarding my levels of maturity. I'm doing it because I've come to see value in wearing something pointless.

Everyone needs to put on something that serves no purpose whatsoever - not because they have to, but because they can. Go on. Wear a cravat, a flower in your hair, an elastic band round your wrist, a broken pocket watch, an empty briefcase, a key chain full of redundant keys; carry an umbrella - but never open it.

In the meantime I will wear a tie to school because it is expected of me. Which brings me back to my unfortunate habit. As I look at the pupils in front of me it occurs that their ties look awfully familiar. The shade of green, the red diagonal stripe, the black accents - I'm wearing a tie that is almost identical to the school uniform tie. Vaguely embarrassing coincidence maybe - except I have form. This has happened before at two other schools. So far the pupils here have been too polite to mention it. The pupils had no such coyness in one of the previous schools. In that case the pupils took only seconds to ask with massive grins, "How come you're wearing the school uniform?" They continue to remind me any time they see me in the real world - three years later.

It's only a matter of time before someone does comment, so I better get my excuse ready - maybe something about the value of doing something for no reason?

shapes and sounds

What is the most powerful thing you can imagine? Nuclear weapons? Stars? Planets? Emotions?

It'll come as no surprise to anyone when I reveal that I truly believe there are few things as powerful as language. It's the kind of thing I'd say in a job interview, but it also happens to be true.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God.

John 1: 1-2

I love language. It fascinates me, it intimidates me, it terrifies me. Many of you already know this - so why am I describing my fixation all over again? Well, shocking as it may seem, not everyone shares my view. Some people actually see truth in that old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me." But why?

In my opinion it has a lot to do with the diet of limp, flavourless drivel we are spoon-fed and which we spoon-feed those around us. Honestly, I am no language ludite wishing we still spoke Jacobite english. I recognise that language evolves and I embrace the fact. It shows that language is an organic thing - and something living is always more powerful than something inert.

As a teacher I can see the reason behind simplifying language and what can happen when people use language to exclude certain members of our community. But I also see the need to constantly challenge our understanding of the world though increasingly complex questioning.

For everyone who partakes only of milk is unskilled in the world of righteousness, for he is a babe. But solid food belongs to those who are of full age, that is, those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern both good and evil.

Hebrews 5:13-14

The more we simplify the language the more we remove the colour and the power of those words. Let me give you an example from the world of education. Take a look at this monologue. You may have read it before; it is the moment Romeo first sets eye on Juliet - a moment that changes his character profoundly:

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!


It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night 
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, 


As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. 
The measure done,

I'll watch her place of stand, 
And, touching hers,

make blessed my rude hand. 


Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! 


For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Now read the modern translation from a text book I picked up in a classroom this morning:

Oh, torches look dim beside her! She embellishes night time like a rich jewel in an Ethiopian’s ear – too beautiful for everyday use, too valuable for this world. She stands out like a snow-white dove amongst the crows.

Once the dance is over I’ll see where she stands and make my rough hand blessed by touching hers. Did my heart know real love till now? My eyes need look no further: I hadn’t seen true beauty till tonight.

I do understand why it is helpful to simply the language for young students (and atleast this translation didn’t cut most of the speech completely the way Baz Luhrmann did in his film version.) The most common complaint I hear in school about Shakespeare is that they “don’t understand what he’s on about.” It is testament to the power of the language that they, without perhaps always understanding the meaning of every word, could still experience the control and power contained in them.

And therein lies the evidence for my views of language. The power contained is threefold – the message carried, the knowledge shared, and the very living words themselves. You must surely agree with that if not with my final assertion that the greatest of these three powers is the third. I won’t force you to believe that the shape of words, the sound of words, this is where the beauty lies as much as in the message. In fact you are more than welcome to disagree about the power of words at all. I will happily consider your argument – as soon as you work out how to present it without language.

reasons why I'm single (part 4 of a 78 part series)

I admit that most of the reasons in this series are to do with my social ineptitude; but once in a while it isn't my fault. Every so often I get to blame someone else's social ineptitude.

I went on a blind date a short while ago. Until recently the very idea of that statement would have brought a little sick up in my mouth - but I've given up worrying about these things now and I was at a loss for something to do.

I say it was a blind date but actually I had met the woman before. I knew her to be incredibly intelligent, attractive, complex... unreliable. So when I arrived at the restaurant right on time I wasn't surprised to receive a text from her saying she was running late and I should just go on in and wait. That's never a good look - the sitting at a restaurant table by yourself knocking back glass after glass of sparkling spring water; so I didn't. I checked at the desk to make sure the table was in order and, since it was a pleasant evening, waited outside for my date to arrive.

While I was waiting I people watched. There are three restaurants very close together at that end of Coleraine and they were all really busy. I watched an arguing couple arrive and make their way into one of the restaurants - the wife ordering her husband not to make a scene "like the last time." I watched a little old lady, so stooped that her face seemed inches from the ground, struggle to get out of a volvo - the young driver (her son?) making no effort to help her and seemingly growing impatient at her difficulty. I watched a car arrive at some speed and cruise round the car park looking for a space. There was only one and a mercedes in the next bay was over the lines, making the available bay tight - maybe too tight. The driver thought it worth a try anyway and began to squeeze into the space. 'She'll never make it at that angle' I thought aloud. She didn't - but that didn't stop her trying. Seconds later there was a gut wrenching screech as her black car scraped along the metallic silver paint job of the Mercedes.

There was a pause. Then, instead of pulling out and trying a better angle, the driver pushed further forward and the screeching started up again. My teeth were on edge just watching it from 20 yards away. Eventually the driver gave up and pulled out to change the angle. It was then that I noticed I hadn't taken a breath for a while - so I took a quick gulp of air. The driver changed the angle and went in for a second attempt. And got it completely wrong again. The screeching began even sooner than the previous attempt and sounded, if anything, louder and more painful. And there was no pause this time. The driver pushed on through until she had squeezed her little car completely into the space - and left a huge scar in its expensive neighbour.

The stooped old lady had witnessed the whole thing, and with a look that suggested she may know the owner of the Mercedes, took off surprisingly quickly to inform them that their car had been abused. In some cruel, twisted way I was enjoying the spectacle and began to hope my date would be a bit later so I could see what happened next. What did happen next was that the driver of the little black car was clearly spooked by the old lady sprinting for the restaurant, and pulled out of the space, scraping up the side of the Merc one last time - in reverse - before taking off round the back of the building. Seconds later a large, red faced man came running out of the restaurant and practically began to wail when he saw the side of his car. The old lady was at his side and was looking around, searching for the black car. I too looked to see where it was hidden. It was then that I saw it, parked round the side of the restaurant, and my date was getting out of the drivers seat.

With barely a flick of her hair and a deep breath she made her way to the restaurant, her long elegant strides seemingly effortless, even on some of the highest heels I'd ever seen. As I met her by the door she proffered her cheek for a kiss and apologised for being late, saying she'd "had a little trouble finding a parking space."

I was dumbstruck. We went on to have a lovely meal, full of incredible conversation - and all I could think of was what she'd done to that car - and just how easily she was able to act like nothing had happened. There is no doubt that she is an amazing person, and whoever she chooses to share her life with will be one incredibly fortunate man - but I knew there and then it wouldn't be me. How could I go out with someone knowing that the more I saw her the more chance there'd be that the car beside the only available parking space would someday be mine.

three observations about losing weight

There are three observations I would like to give you in terms of weight loss if I may.

Over the course of the past four months i have been trying to shed a few pounds in an effort to take some control of my health and raise a bit of money for charity in the process. I just about managed to squeeze past my target of 20kg and it was an amazing feeling.

It has to be said, however, that I did become somewhat addicted to the supportive/flattering comments I received from those around me. I'm worried how I'll deal with the inevitable slowing down of these bite-sized ego boosts over time. I must find something to fill the void - suggestions welcome.

My new found vanity expresses itself in many forms: I definitely spend more time looking in mirrors; I walk with a straighter back, simply because my chin looks better that way; I tuck my shirts into my jeans - just to show I can.

It would be trite and overegging to describe the past few months as life-changing - but personality changing they have definitely been if nothing else. And actually not all good changes. I am certainly proud of achieving my targets - the fact that it was such a struggle makes the pride all the sweeter; I am certainly more positive about my self image and indeed my health; but, sometimes when I catch myself studying my reflection in a shop window, I pull up short and wonder what on earth was it all about.

In my mind I am 100 times more attractive, but I am certainly no looker even now. In my mind I am 100 times healthier, but my published ideal weight is still a good 20kgs further south. In my mind I am 100 times fitter, but I still struggle to run more than a mile.
I have a long way to go yet and, if anything, these next targets will be tougher than the last. I want to succeed. I want to be able to buy fashionable jeans rather than any that happen to fit me. But I don't want to feed that ego any more than it needs fed.

So, before I forget what I'm doing, my three observations:
1) Targets are always easier to achieve when they've been set by someone who knows you better than you know yourself. They are also easier to hit when you keep your eyes open.
2) Water costs nothing, is sugar free, and if you drink enough of it you start to like it. On the other hand coke is actually ridiculously expensive, has more sugar than Jamaica, and (much to my amazement) when you return to drinking it after a break of four months it tastes utterly repulsive.
3) Encouragement is important - but fawning flattery is destructive. Learn to listen to compliments with a discerning ear.

Having said that, don't stop with the flattery. I'd miss it.

not in my name

The death of Ronan Kerr, a year 25 year old man from County Tyrone, rocked Northern Ireland on Saturday. When a bomb exploded under his car in Omagh the news sent a shudder down the spine of the country that I haven’t experienced for a long time.

When I heard about it I was on a film set sixty miles away near Ballynahinch. During a break in filming I took out my phone to check the BBC website and saw the headline “Policeman killed in Omagh car bomb attack.” Immediately the words 'Omagh' and 'bomb' were enough to bring back awful memories; and then when I continued to read the story it shook me for a moment. I debated whether or not to tell the rest of the cast and crew there and then or wait until filming had ended for the day. It all seemed a bit raw and close to the bone.

It was something of a dreadful coincidence, you see, that around four o’clock – about the time the bomb went off under Constable Kerr’s car – I was playing the part of a policeman in the RUC during the troubles. I was surrounded by people who were, or had been, directly affected by the traumas imposed on the Police back then. One scene in particular involved me being filmed checking below my car for a bomb. To me it had been a little bit of screen business to carry out twelve times from four different angles – to the officers back then it was a routine that could be a matter of life and death.

Do we really want to return to such a time of paranoia and fear? Where lack of trust makes us suspicious of strangers? Could we really feel proud of a society where our police officers have to check below their cars before every journey – where they have to walk down streets in pairs – where they carry rifles and wear body armour if they leave the confines of police stations fortified by huge security walls and netting? Do we feel the need to return to a time where random searches and check points are needed?

I remember those times, and not with a nostalgic smile. The idea of returning to them – or anything like them – fills me with dread. However it seems some others (who may not even have been born at the time) don’t have those same memories. Perhaps they have built up some kind of idealistic, glamorised view of the past – minds filled with causes, and honour, and calls to arms. Surely if they had lived through it they’d know just how little honour there actually was back then.

This action and those responsible for it must be totally rejected. I am calling upon those involved to stop, and to stop now.

-Gerry Adams – Sinn Fein President

So it was with relief that I saw just how much outrage there was over Ronan’s murder – from all sides of the community. As politicians, public leaders, church leaders, sporting figures, journalists, celebrities, bloggers… everyone, united against the people who carried out the killing; as social networking sites lit up with messages of support and condolence for his grieving family; as GAA players and fans (not known in the past for their love of the police force in Northern Ireland) observed a minute of respectful silence for one of their own who also happened to be a police officer; as rival politicians united to speak out in support of the peace process… I allowed myself to feel a glimmer of hope that this young man’s death would not be in vain.

The people of the Bogside are angry this morning [about the graffiti], they have been angry since Saturday, just like the rest of the north. They do not deserve to be tarnished with this and the good name of PC Kerr does not deserve to be tarnished like this.

-Pat Ramsey SDLP MLA

If those who planned and carried out this young man’s death (and those ignorants who daubed the sickening graffiti lauding it in the Bogside area of Derry) realise that the rest of the population don’t see them as plucky little underdogs fighting against the malevolent colonial oppressors, but as a pariah, an evil, backward anomaly in a society that is trying to move forward. If they see that then I hope Ronan’s family can take comfort from the fact that, in his death, Ronan changed attitudes and helped lasting peace take a foothold in our troubled little province.

It is difficult to comprehend how a young man with the best interests of our community at heart, and who contributed so positively to our community, could be attacked in this way. His death demeans humanity and is detrimental to the development of a shared future based on mutual respect.

-GAA statement

Today we finished filming, and my time as a policeman came to an end. It’s a decent little movie – touching and quite thought provoking – but I doubt many, if any, of you will ever see it. And I doubt it will change society greatly. Today Constable Ronan Kerr was buried – I pray that his courage in life and in death will leave a much more important and lasting legacy. Actually, call me an optimistic fool but I have a feeling it just might.

--

image is nothing - thirst is everything

In today’s society, young people care more about external appearance than inner character.

A year 12 class I’m covering have been set this as a discursive essay title. It’s not bad as titles go – plenty of material to work on. But if I’m honest, the whole experience has scarred me a little.

The discussion we had about the issue was extraordinarily enlightening, slightly depressing, and intensely terrifying. Kids today – these ones at least – are completely obsessed with image, to the extent that they don’t see the need, nor want of looking any deeper. Everything you need to know about someone can be gleaned without delving any further than dermatologically deep.

I explained to them that their attitude worried me – that, if personality and character didn’t count in the world, I was screwed. It got a laugh, but I was only half joking.

In a class of eighteen girls and two boys the criteria for dating was ‘hotness’ (fair enough), for friendship was 'attractiveness' (hmmm), for career success was 'presentation' (could be argued I suppose), for success in life – 'appearance' (oh dear.)

I found it sad that the popular set were putting their successes down to their looks; and sadder that the rest put their status down to lack of looks. Maybe that’s the crux of it all. Maybe it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. Conceivably a perception of attractiveness could lead to greater confidence, in turn helping to achieve success. And on the other side of the coin, a lack of confidence resulting from a perceived lack of attractiveness could be a stumbling block on the road to achieving potential.

As the discussion progressed that was the conclusion the group seemed to reach anyway. They went on to explain that it’s not about what you’ve got, it’s about what you do with it – a statement vague enough to worry me for a moment. I chose to take a positive message from it.

So maybe I shouldn’t despair of modern youth culture just yet. Maybe there is hope for them yet. Maybe there are hidden depths that will work their way to the top with time and maturity. Maybe these teenagers will come to rate the true character traits and values as much as the packaging in which they come.

The conversation was certainly becoming much more reassuring – right up to the point where one of the girls looked at a builder who was erecting a security fence outside the window, and exclaimed loudly,
“Oh! He’s hot!”

everywhere's different

It’s always completely different. Every time I start in a new school I always feel surprise at how dissimilar schools are. As communities. The most recent two schools I’ve worked in are geographically close – less than a mile as the crow flies – but in every other way they are poles apart.

I take memories from every school in which I teach; (all eight of them now) even when, as in these two most recent, I was only there a day or two. In the last one it’ll be the way a senior pupil walked into the classroom halfway through a lesson I had with a junior class. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and watched me teach. Now the fact that he appeared to be paying more attention to my teaching than the year eights notwithstanding, I was confused and a little intimidated. He was huge and somewhat terrifying. He wore a uniform, of sorts – he’d ripped the sleeves off his shirt, presumably to show off his muscles and numerous tattoos; and he wore his tie around his shaved head, Rambo style. On his left arm was a ragged looking cast with various anatomical sketches and badly spelt swear words. I started to ask if I could help him with something but something in his swagger, his confident stance, his bulging arm muscles, and his assorted scars, told me he was in confrontation mode, and it’d be a confrontation he wasn’t going to lose.

Luckily the school VP walked in that very second to speak to me about something administrative. My saviour. When he saw the teenager he paused, looked a bit nervous, and said,

“Darren? What are you doing here?”

“I was in Ms Clover’s class but it was boring so I took a bit of a walk. But my leg’s hurting so I thought I’d come in here to sit down for a while.”

“It wasn’t hurting when you were kicking young McKeown around the playground at lunchtime.”

“Must’ve been how I hurt it then.”

“Well, if you’re not doing anyone any harm…”

With that he slinked out into the corridor leaving me with a look of astonishment and an extra pupil (one who clearly runs the school.) The whole thing troubled me greatly.

Another thing troubling me greatly is what I’ll remember about the next school – the one in which I currently exist. This is my first time here. It seems nice enough – the pupils are polite and attentive, the staff are friendly and helpful. But why? Why in the name of all that’s right and true? Why are the rest of the teachers in the English department dressed in costumes? We have here a ghost bride, a gothic witch, a fairy princess, someone who looks like they’re straight out of Little House on the Prairie…

They want me to come back tomorrow; but to be honest I’m not sure if my Robocop costume still fits.

mr c goes global

Today I almost crashed into a Google streetview car. I was just turning onto my road when it came round a corner in the middle of the road. That road is hardly wide enough for two cars at the best of times but it's especially difficult when one of them is in the (non-existent) middle lane and the driver of the other is staring at the weird black column on its roof. In a short while I fully anticipate providing a link to a street-view image of my car at very close quarters - hopefully with my terrified face blurred out.

Of course as soon as I'd parked for a few seconds to regain my breath, I did what any self-obsessed narcissist would do - I took off after it to make sure I appeared as much as possible.

If any of you have tried this you'll know how difficult it actually is. Those drivers have obviously been trained in the bank-robbery-getaway school of driving. He took turns I didn't know existed (and I've lived in the area for 34 years.) I found myself guessing his route - and failing miserably. By the time I had tracked him down properly he was clearly finished for the day - parked up with his camera laid flat on the roof of the car.

I am now determined to find as many Google cars as I can in the next few weeks. I am going to own Google North Antrim/Derry. I'm going to make sure that whenever you type in Cloyfin, or Blagh, or Craigahulier, or Beardiville - who knows? you might someday - you will see my little silver VW with a slightly scared looking teacher behind the wheel. How proud you'll be to know me.

take a tab

O'Brien ton helps Ireland shock England

Brilliant Ireland Shock England

bbc.co.uk

I sometimes wonder what it is that makes me so anti-English. Some of my best friends are English or live in England. I have several English relatives - my dearly beloved brother married an English woman and my equally dearly beloved sister lives in Derbyshire. Most of the people who read this blog are English. And yet every time I see a headline like that one up there it fills my heart with joy.

There is an element of patriotism - living on a wee island like this we rarely get to savour sporting success. It is also partly because little Ireland took on the mighty English at a game the English invented and won. I imagine it also has something to do with having a preference for the colour green over blue. But mainly I just like it when England lose at something - especially to the Irish.

They've not done anything to deserve my vitriol. Okay, they didn't exactly behave particularly well towards the Irish in the 18th Century - or various points since; they could have probably conducted themselves better to put it mildly. But mass evictions, national persecution and a decidedly cruel stance during famines aside - they've never done anything to me personally.

But here I am, grinning like a loon. All because I watched England take an unassailable lead in a cricket match - only to have it assailed by a courageous bunch of amateurs in green. As I watched Ed Joyce - the man who had been Irish, only for the English to poach him, only to become Irish again when the Englanders grew bored of him, rack up 32 runs I smiled. As I watched Kevin O'Brien score the fastest century in World Cup history (113 off 63 balls; he hit the 100 mark on his 50th delivery) I positively beamed; and when John Mooney smashed the ball for four to win the match with five balls to spare I was delirious. And I don't even like cricket that much.

Forgive me my unjustifiable prejudices. I accept I have them and shouldn't - but I just don't get to air them very often.

writing takes time... and preparation... and time

I started back at fiction writing today. It's been ages and I needed to get back into the way of it. It's not that I have anything pressing to write about - I am lacking inspiration as much today as I was in dry mode yesterday.

When I was teaching more regularly I tended to set assignments that I wanted to do myself - that way I got to write a short story "as an example piece." I feel I may have mentioned that before one time - See how lacking originality I am right now? Rehashing earlier posts.

Anyway, for a short time there I forgot just how much I love the whole writing thing and it's about time I got back to doing what I love - even if I do churn out a lot of old dross warming up.

When I say "started" writing - of course you know I mean I took out an old notebook, ruled a few margins, covered it in vinegar and brown paper, reinforced the corners and the spine, gave it a splash proof second covering, stuck a few blank post-its in random pages, re-ruled a few of the margins... you knew that though. As soon as I find a suitable pen I'll begin.

noddy's post

Have you ever seen anything so out of place in its surroundings, in current society, in rational thinking, that you just have to know its back story?

Who is Noddy? Why has he a telegraph pole dedicated to him? Why is it in the middle of nowhere? Just what kind of person climbs a wooden pole to hammer a random sign to it? And why has it been there for so long without someone removing it or defacing it or firing an air rifle at it?

Actually, you know what? I don't want to know the back story. It would inevitably be a disappointment compared with what's going on in my imagination.

who turned off the lights?

I discovered this entry that I had written out on paper but never published. For the sake of completeness I am adding it - but I can't remember when I wrote it. I do remember the incident and given that I last worked in that school about a year ago I'm going to suggest it was sometime in March 2010 - but I can't be sure. I give you 'Who turned off the lights!?!"


"Sir. That was you turned the lights out, wasn't it?"

This morning in Junior assemby we had a lovely rendition of "I'm Special" by the year 8 choir. They're a surprisingly numerous bunch who regularly serenade us with popular worship songs in the Assembly Hall.

The Headmaster had just warned the pupils that their full attention was required, that they could only appreciate the experience fully that way.
The choir finished the first verse, the accompaniest played the bridge, the angelic voices lauched with gusto into verse two, and every eye was trained on them.
Suddenly
BAM!
The lights went out. Pitch black darkness all around.

The music continued hesitantly but the singers were struggling to read the words in their hymn books and as our eyes became accustomed to the dark it became apparent that every eye was not trained on the choir anymore - they were trained on me - and my elbow.

In my defense I need to point out that I only wanted to lean against the wall for a second. I didn't know the light switch was there - and it's an easy mistake to make. Something in the headmaster's eyes told me he didn't agree.

but what is it?

Facebook's a funny thing, isn't it? In five years it's gained 600 million users, been involved in several court cases, become the subject of an Academy Award nominated movie, and filled many a page of the Daily Mail. I have a facebook account, most people I know do - not many of them use it very often, but they have one. But it's an odd thing, isn't it.

Take today for example. I have a little over a hundred Facebook friends. In the past hour three of them have updated their status message - and each showed up in my news feed - look at all this jargon! I'm down with Zuckerburgspeak!
This is what my friends had to say on Facebook today.

1. Stop calling Bisto "proper gravy". It's not.

2. woo woo! going to the pub. It's FRIIDAY!!! (sic)

3. i am one of the proudest Egyptians that are filling every inch of Cairo & all of Egypt right now celebrating their freedom for the first time! I love you all and i thank everyone that believed in the revolution and supported me throughout my life.

So based on those what would you suggest Facebook is for? Observational comment? Long winded ways of saying TFIFriday? Orchestrating political revolutions? I really want to know.

Because it better be something worthwhile. From what I see it, and twitter, and the rest, have stiffled creativity more than created it. For every piece of original thinking there are three hundred inanities. And any piece of original thinking is quickly copied and pasted so copiously that it soon loses all sense of originality. For every reuniting of lost friends there are thirty other friends sitting neglected in some list on the left hand side of your screen. For every meaningful connection there is a flurry of one click pokes - what do they mean?

Recently I was seeing someone I didn't know a huge amount about. Facebook became a handy stalking device to find out a bit of background knowledge on her - see if we had any mutual friends, see if any of our friends had mutual friends. I would have felt worse about it if I didn't know she was doing exactly the same thing on me. It was useful. It was handy. It took all the joy out of learning about each other in an organic (slow) manner.

People with something to say used to develop it in blogs all those, oh two, three, years ago. I used to read amazing opinions and conversations and expositions over the course of a five or six paragraph essay, followed by pertinent and sometimes conflicting comments from interested readers. Now we are so busy squeezing it into single paragraphs (or Twitter's 140 characters) that we've lost something very important. "But it's a skill - being concise." Yes it is - but it's a skill not many people have apparently. And it's also a skill being complete - and I miss those days. I want to get in contact with all those bloggers I respected so much who have since disappeared. I want to get them to come back. I want to read their thoughts - not their thoughts condensed into a "what are you thinking" paragraph.

As I started using Facebook I know I started to lose the attention needed to write blogs. My entries became less and less frequent to the point where I was writing one every few months. Does that make me a hypocrite - perhaps. But I blame Facebook for it.

So. What was my Facebook status update today? On this world changing day that will go down in Egypt's history forever? How did I sum up all that was important to me?

I just made my first authentic tagine - in an authentic tagine. And it wasn't poisonous. In fact it was really good. Now just need ten or fifteen people for the leftovers - may have got the quantities a bit wrong.

The people of North Africa will be so proud of me.

soup wars - who'd have thought it

I am so confused.

You may remember a rant I had a little over a year ago about the loss to our supermarket shelves of the famous Campbell's Soup tin. It seemed a strange decision to rebrand an iconic company with a less than iconic brand. A little further investigation (reading the BBC website) threw a little light on the situation but still didn't make a huge amount of sense to me. See if you can make something of it.

Basically a company over here bought the rights to make Campbell's Soup in the UK. A group called Premier foods (you may have heard of some of their licensed brands, Mr Kipling, Hovis, Birds, Oxo, Crosse & Blackwell, Angel Delight, SunPat, Sunblest, Smash, Lyod Grossman, Ambrosia, Bisto... etc etc etc.) They bought the rights to make the soup but not the rights to use the brand. So they make Campbell's Soup using the Campbell's Soup recipe, but can't call it Campbell's Soup - hence the rebrand to Bachelors Soup (or Erin Soup in Ireland.)

Still with me?

Meanwhile in the US they still have good old original Campbell's Soup, by the same recipe, in the same tins as they always had. They just can't sell it in the UK - well, not for another 5 years at least when Premier's exclusive license to make it in the UK runs out.

So why am I confused? Well, I've just been shopping and found a Campbell's logo at the end of aisle 30 along with an "introductory offer" It turns out that, while Bachelors have the license to make the tinned condensed soup, it doesn't cover instant or dried versions. So a company up in Leeds, Symingtons, have developed a dried version, got the ok from Campbell's, and have started selling cup soup, simmer soup and (rather confusingly) pasta & sauce and savoury rice. What makes me laugh about this is the remarkable similarity to existing products, (respectively) cup-a-soup, Express Soupfuls, Pasta n' Sauce, and Savoury rice - all made by... guess who. I'm just waiting to hear the annoucement that Campbells will be bringing out Campbell's Supa-Noodles.

So we now have Bachelors making a product that is intrinsically linked to Campbell's. Meanwhile Campbells are bringing out products that have always been best associated with Bachelors... Now can you understand my confusion.

I've just sent an email to Campbell's telling them to make sure they bring out a tinned soup as soon as the licensing allows. If you get a chance do the same and then wake me up in 5 years.

word of the day (part 7 in a 73 part series)

Euphonics alt Phonaesthetics (‘yü-fǝ-nē) n. the study of inherent pleasantness or beauty (euphony) or unpleasantness (cacophony) of the sound of certain words and sentences. euphony n

Don't you love it when words actually work? When they look and sound the way they mean? People always comment on when it goes the other way - you know the stuff - Why is "abbreviation" such a long word? Why is the word "invisible" so prominent? Why is “infinitesimal” so much bigger than “big”? Why is “eternal” actually shorter than “momentary”? Why isn't "monosyllabic" monosyllabic? Why are there no other words that sound like homophone? Why isn't the word "phonic" spelt phonically? Shouldn't a "palindrome" be spelt the same backwards as it is forwards?

You've heard them all a thousand times before. So join with me in joy to celebrate Euphony - a word that does what it claims to for a change.

Friday the 14th - Or reasons why I'm single (part 3 of a 78 part series)

I will begin this post by pointing out that I actually don't believe in luck. I honestly don't. Sometimes I tell someone I've been unlucky, or sometimes I wish someone good luck - but when it comes down to it I believe things happen for reasons known or unknown. Life can be easy or sometimes life can cruel - but never lucky or unlucky.
Even if I did believe in luck I was under the impression that Friday 13th was supposed to be the unlucky one.

But let me tell you about Friday the 14th.

It is the most horrendous day ever conceived.

On Friday the 14th January 2011 I...

a) got caught speeding less than a mile away from home. I had been meeting up with some friends from a previous school and was on my way back when a speed camera in a white van caught me doing 50mph in the 40mph zone. I wasn't in a rush to get anywhere - I'm not a fast driver normally - I have no idea what happened or why I was speeding - I just was. Just a day earlier I had been giving my girlfriend a lot of stick about the fact that she had just been caught speeding. I boasted about how I've never had any penalty points on my license and how I don't speed. I guess that's what they call divine retribution.

b) got a lovely letter from the Inland Revenue informing me that they would be looking over my tax and income details with a view to me paying more tax. I don't make any money! How can I owe more tax?!

c) got another lovely letter from the Inland Revenue (a different department though) asking for nearly £200 of National Insurance I owe them because I didn't tell them that, because I don't earn over a certain level, I am exempt from paying the extra NI contributions. Technically I am exempt from the extra charges - but I needed to tell them that. And I didn't. So could I just send them a cheque and make everyone happy.

d) Found out that my girlfriend's ex had turned up on her door that morning at some unearthly hour declaring his devotion for her and showing himself full of remorse that he hadn't known just how ready he was to commit to her after all. Oh what a fool he'd been not to see that they were meant for each other.
Oh what a fool I looked as she decided she needed to give him another chance and waved me goodbye.

I hate Friday the 14th. Money issues I can deal with - well to an extent. The speeding thing is a set back - but I'll survive. But I took the whole being dumped thing quite badly. As any of my friends will tell you.
I suppose I just thought that, for once in my life, I'd actually found the one. She seemed perfect - not that she was perfect, just that she was perfect for me; meaning that her imperfections fitted mine in a good way. If you know what I mean.
A day earlier I been getting cold feet. My commitment-phobia started to kick in. But I pulled myself together and realised - much like her ex - that actually I could see a future with her - and it looked good. Unlike her ex though I am incapable of the big romantic gesture - and unlike her ex, she didn't choose me.

So I'm back to being single again. And this time I'm blaming Friday 14th.