beckett

Never mind. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

£3 clothes £7 a month

What will it ever take to remove the blinkers that we all seem to don when out shopping? Its all well and good to talk about ethical shopping in a lovely middleclass way while we choose our fair trade coffee just after we've filled our trolleys with bananas and oranges that have been reduced to unbelievable prices and just before we pop off to Primark or Matalan for some £3 jeans. We can be really selective in our crusades, can't we? And at the end of the day, if we knew for sure that a product was produced in sweatshops we wouldn't buy it, would we? Just because something's cheap doesn't mean somebody is being exploited. Who are we trying to kid?

We can no longer claim ignorance as a defence for choosing price over moral high ground. We're savvy enough to know that huge supermarkets selling huge amounts of products at tiny prices while making huge profits means that someone is paying somewhere down the line. I live in a rural area where farmers will tell you exactly what they think of the price of milk in the supermarkets. How much worse is it for the fruit producers in third world countries who are already living at the edge?

But things are changing, aren't they? I mean the big companies all have ethical standards, don't they? They're doing their bit for fair trade, no? Hmm. No.Well known brands and stores continue to sqeeze every little bit of profit they can from their suppliers. Its a cut throat business and, let's face it, we like the prices we're getting. Recently the campaign group Labour Behind the Label brought out a report showing that clothes prices have fallen by a third - 33%! Meanwhile in Bangladesh wages have halved - 50%! Suddenly the figures are starting to make a bit more sense. Aparently some workers live off as little as £7 a month where the cost of living is estimated at £30 a month. The figures are beginning to make less sense again.

Meanwhile Asda, Next, Top Shop, Matalan, Primark etc etc are pulling in the money. I wonder how far below the cost of living their exectutives are earning. Isn't it time we made a little more effort? I for one no longer feel so good about my fair trade purchases.

every little helps

Those crafty checkout operators are on to me. I knew they would eventually - they're not as dumb as they look - I used to teach some of them so I know what I'm talking about.

Tesco - that faceless farmer hating superpower - have a promotion on at present. If you have one of their club cards then you can earn extra points on it by bringing your own bags. They publicised it with TV ads featuring celebrities carrying their shopping in their own type of bag - so Martine McCutcheon uses a hand bag, Alan Titchmarsh uses a wheel barrow, Alan Wicker uses a suitcase, and Paul Daniels pulls all of his shopping out of a hat. I have to admit I sneakingly quite like the ad but don't tell anyone. Oh, and did you know Paul Daniels has his own blog - it came as quite a shock to me when I typed his name in google looking for information about the ad and ended up reading about how he had to eject three spiders from his house last night.

Anyway, I never remember to bring a bag to earn my "green points" so I started pretending to the checkout operator that I had a bag in my pocket and when the transaction was complete and she'd turned to the next customer I'd start filling my pockets with stuff and try to carry the rest in my arms to the car park. Inevitably I had problems trying to unlock my car with my keys under three apples in my pockets and my arms full of bagels and chorizo, but I got my points - I felt so underhand.

But the last time I was in Ballymoney Tescos it didn't work. I don't know why. I carried out the plan to perfection. I waited until someone was about to go towards a checkout and then nipped in front of them (to make sure that the operator had a customer directly after me), I puffed out my pocket to make it look like it contained a bag, I smiled sweetly and waited until the operator was about to reach for a bag, I waved my hand and said "oh, it's ok, I have one here." and patted my pocket (a blatant lie!) and stacked the items for a quick pick up and getaway, I paid for the food, I made sure she wasn't looking and I picked it all up and - away out the door dropping things around me as I went.

The thing was, when I got to my car and looked at my receipt - No green points! She was on to me. What a player! She even smiled at me when I told the lie about having a bag, and all the time she knew. Next time I'll bring my own bag - either that or think even more crafty - they will not beat me.

why i hate photocopiers

I have just had the mother of all photocopier related accidents. The tiny room I call my classroom has an even tinier storeroom. In it are all kinds of things I never use and a photocopier. You cannot imagine how good it is to have my very own personal photocopier. Gone are the days when I'd rush down the stairs along the corridor, bumping into language teachers and knocking down year eight pupils, through the foyer, bounce into the bizarre tree trunk thing, run into the reprographic room and beg the technician to run me off thirty copies of something for a class about to start any second. Now I just run into my store. It's bliss. Of course I miss the inane banter I have with the photocopy guy as he pretends he has three thousand copies of something to do first. And my photocopier doesn't do all the cool things his does - double sided printing, stapling, booklet making, basic origami, fortune telling - but I love it none the less.

I should have said loved it none the less. The thing can take a running jump past the bizarre tree trunk thing in the foyer for all I care now. I was in the middle of copying 40 sheets for exam concessions when it ran out of toner. It won't do anything until it had toner. I found the instructions and set about replacing the toner.

1: Remove the cover from the new toner bottle... removed

2: Slide the cover below the toner bottle in the machine... hmm, doesn't really slide very well

3: Edge the toner from the machine whilst sliding the cover over... not working

4: Slide the new toner bottle in and remove the seal...

It is at this point that I realised my mistake. I had removed the plastic seal from the new bottle, not the cover. Not a problem, I'll take the cover off now. I took out the old toner and went to tip the new one upside down to push it into place. Except with neither cover nor seal there was nothing to stop the toner being affected by gravity and coming out of the bottle - which it duly did.

Evil black clouds of toner billowing through my tiny room. Black dust covering everything including me. The clouds were so thick I literally couldn't see my way to the door and tripped up three times trying to make my escape. As the dust settled the full horror appeared. Everything in that room was encased in black powder - and not easily removed powder. I could have cried. Then I caught sight of myself in the mirror - I did cry. My face - covered. My shirt - covered. My tongue - covered (how did that happen?)

I face the humiliation of walking through a school full of cruel children covered in black soot for the rest of the afternoon. Its enough to make me curse Chester Carlson and his demonic copying invention. Will it prevent me from stopping for a coffee on my way home? Not a chance.

So if you see someone doing a very good impression of a shirt and tie wearing chimney sweep in Coleraine this afternoon - give them a sympathetic smile.

you went out with a what?

I went out with a free Presbyterian last night – I’m shocked at myself – I didn’t think I had it in me – on so many levels.

I have to admit that I would never have pictured myself going out with an FP, and it’s not something I set out to do; it just happened. I mean, you don’t plan these things, do you? Oh I’ve considered diversifying in the past, dabbled with the idea of hanging out with the RPs or the Eps, the Baptists, the Methodists, various forms of Brethren, various forms of Anglican, Pentecostal, Catholic, Unitarian, Amish… but not Free Presbyterians.

Why not? Because I have a tendency to stereotype religions in a wholly unfair way (for stereotype read judge) and my perception of Free Ps has not always been the best – no, that’s not right, more my perception of Free Ps is that they and I have little in common – other than the basics of our faith, the roots of our denomination, the society in which we live, the air which we breathe… ok, we have a lot in common! I just see them as being a lot less flexible and a lot more hard line than I see myself.

This got me thinking about how I view a lot of other religions. I totally stereotype them all. Say the word Methodist and I already have an image in my head, Pentecostal – arm waving, eyes closed; Baptist – happy clappy hat wearing bappies; Catholic… hmm, better not mention them in a blog about FPs – You see there I go again! Totally stereotyping an entire denomination with the catholic hating image. And it’s simply not true.

Free Presbyterians do a huge amount of work in society and their unwavering reliance on the Gospel and their insistence that we keep ramming it home until we get it right is admirable. Some of the new churches they’re building suggest they’re growing rapidly – and the new building they’ve built in Ballymoney is very impressive.

Anyway, back to last night, because that is where the date began - at the opening of Ballymoney's new Free Presbyterian Church building - Hebron FP Church. It was an interesting experience - I got to hear the Rev Dr Big Ian preach first hand for the first time ever and it shattered some of my illusions. After that we went on for coffee and we got a chance to get to know each other better. I looked very carefully, she didn’t have two heads, she wasn’t wearing a rangers shirt, she didn’t have a photo of Ian Paisley in her purse, she didn’t complain that the music we were listening to was Romanist propaganda; she was perfectly normal. Soon into a second soya latte the conversation turned to what church I attended (In America on a date you talk about TV, in Australia you talk about sports, in England you talk about the weather, in Scotland you talk about England, in Northern Ireland you talk about religion) I told her I was Presbyterian, she seemed happy enough, I then lowered my eyes and admitted that I was a woolly liberal Presbyterian. She looked at me and said, “That’s okay, I’m a woolly liberal Free Presbyterian.”

I doubt if I’ll be seeing her again. I refuse to believe that woolly liberal Free Presbyterian’s exist and I can’t possibly date someone in whose existence I don’t believe.

Cushendun - possibily where my forefathers arrived in Ireland

This Sunday is an important date in the history of Cushendun – sort of. In years to come they may remember this date fondly as the day the people of Britain decided (at £1 a phone call) to save their wee Church of Ireland building. Yes, yet another TV show requiring viewer participation (at £1 a phone call) comes to a crescendic conclusion. Restoration village has reached the Final stage with buildings and communities around the country staring each other down and launching leaflet campaigns to encourage people to vote for them.

I feel a little regret to say that I missed the local heat where they described what they were going to do with the building if it was chosen to be restored but I was talking to my mother earlier today and she assures me its for a good reason – some kind of community arts thing. She also made some comment about how it showed that Church of Ireland churches couldn’t get enough people through their doors to survive so they had to close up and become arts centres for both sides of the community – but I think she had her tongue in her cheek. After that she started onto a conversation about football and I was so shocked I forgot how to speak for a while. The grade B listed building was consecrated in 1840 and deconsecrated in 2003. It is beautiful and it would be a shame to see it rot away.

In the heats I was rooting for Cushendun because I’ve always had an affection for the wee place. I remember the School field trip there where we had to count the number of pubs/shops/houses ratio. I remember hiding from my parents in an old fishing boat there while eating a quarter of strawberry bonbons. I remember driving through it as part of my first road trip after passing my driving test. I remember taking a crowd of Canadian tourist through it and pretending to be a tour guide pointing out sights, despite the fact that the fog was so thick we could hardly see the outside of the glass in the car windows. I like Cushendun. I like it so much that I rooted for them in the heats despite the fact that I have several friends who live in Gracehill who were competing against us. I had fellow teachers explaining why I should shun my North Antrim allegiances and phone the number for Gracehill Primary School. But I didn’t. I didn’t actually vote for Cushendun either but that was only because I forgot. It’s the thought that counts.

Sometimes I wonder what happens to the properties that don’t make it, that fall at the first hurdle. Or even at the final hurdle. I know that the money raised by the voting will, mostly go toward the restoration of the winning building, and any surplus to the runners up – but what about the rest that don’t get any money? According to their websites they all need the cash to survive. So no money no building? Or, and this would make the programme much more interesting, do the losers get knocked down on live TV? I’m sure that would push viewing figures through the roof… although maybe not particularly ethical.

And so it comes to the final. I urge you, nay, implore you to pick up the phone and help a little coastal village that many of you will have driven through as you travel the coast road (voted number 6 in a list of all time great tourist roads – even beating route 66.) You don’t even have to watch the programme – I’ll probably forget again, or be at a youth rally in Macosquin. But I’ll be rooting on Cushendun and this time, maybe, I’ll even make the effort to vote, I wouldn’t want to see it get knocked down.

For more information visit the bbc restoration village website

the french, the brandywell and some rotten chips

I was in a Ballymena chip shop last night (no surprise there then) watching Derry City playing football against Paris Saint Germain [now, for the uninitiated and for the purposes of this story, it is important that you know that Ballymena is a largely unionist town (Ian Paisley is their MP - nough said) and that Derry City are perceived to be a nationalist football club (they are a northern irish team playing in the southern irish league - nough said)

You could say I was surprised, then, by the level of support Derry were getting from the shaven head, UDA tattooed, rangers shirt wearing locals. There we all were, eyes glued to the screen, all willing our food to take 90 odd minutes to cook, and all, to a man, supporting the men in red and white.

There was even a highly amusing moment when a PSG player barged into Kevin McHugh in the penalty area. As the referee waved away pleas for a spot kick one rather large monobrowed customer gave off "Get to **** you fenian ******! That was a penalty!" It was a moment that, could I get away with it, I would use as an example of irony in my lessons for years to come.

Despite the fact that the match was being played at fortress Brandywell and that PSG fielded a weakened team, the 0-0 result was a fantastic reward for the Candy men and we cheered and hollered and waved our arms in the air as the final whistle was blown. The chips were awful though.