Mr C = Mr G?

I’m trying out a new coffee shop today. It’s not as trendy as my usual hangouts – but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. With trendiness comes young customers – and large groups of noisy young people are not always conducive to the creative process.

I am trying to design a poster for the production. I do this every year – it never gets used – but it’s a thing I do. It’s very Mr G – which is VERY worrying.

For those of you who don’t know Mr G he is a fictional teacher from an Australian comedy series called Summer Heights High. It was a mock fly on the wall documentary looking at a single term in a state school. It was cringing, awkward, lacked all semblance of political correctness – and it was scarily near the truth. Well the truth as I see it working in state schools over here.

The creator, a man called Chris Lilley took on three parts in the show. An at risk year 8 boy called Jonah Takalua. He was hugely disruptive in class, made his teachers’ lives hell, but had an obsessive love of break dancing and shone with tear jerking enthusiasm when praised. I have known many Jonah’s in my time and I have to say that I felt a little shame when watching the discouraged teachers dealing with him in the entirely wrong way – for I too felt the frustration and irritation that they showed. At times I too did the completely wrong thing by my Jonahs. In my mind Jonah was the star of Summer Heights High. Lilley’s characterisation was spot on.

Character number two was Ja’mie King. A female private school exchange student who quickly took control of the popular set and set about controlling everything in a way that suited her extreme narcissism. Her manipulating ways are all too common in education – and not always confined to the pupils.

The final character was Mr G. A man who made me crawl into the foetal position on a weekly basis. His megalomania knew no bounds. David Brent from the Office would have cringed watching this man. And the worst thing about it, the thing that made me cry inside, was the fact that I saw so much of myself in him. He was a drama teacher who felt he was God’s gift to the school, and performing arts in general. He used the pupils in acts of self promotion that seemed so ridiculous, yet were not that far from reality – I was reminded of things I used to do in the pursuit of popularity. He went overboard at every opportunity designing professional looking posters for everything – from auditions to parking space signs to pie in the sky Performing Arts centres. Teachers that I have worked with will smile and be reminded of the times I spent creating logos, posters, everything… well, everything that didn’t really matter.

Watching Summer Heights High made me convinced I was going to change – I was going to concentrate on the things that mattered in education. I was going to focus on the needs of the pupils and throw out all the unnecessary window dressing – well, I’ll get right onto that as soon as I finish making this poster.

to E or not to E

Poor Ballybog(e)y. As if it wasn’t bad enough being stuck with a name that, at best, sounds ridiculous; now it seems that the powers that be can’t make up their minds how it should be spelt.

Actually it’s been the case for years now that we have had this confusion. When I was growing up I learned to spell it with an E, Ballybogey. But then new road signs appeared sans E, Ballybogy. To say it has become an obsession is perhaps overstating the case but it has bothered me. You’d think they’d choose one spelling and stick with it. Even, after all this time, we are still uncertain which way any new signs going up will go.

If you find the place on Google maps it comes up as Ballybogy – and any of those address finder things that make internet spending easier spell it without an E. So it seems that the digital world has made up its mind. But surely the council should know what they are talking about and the most recent village boundary signs have gone back to the old spelling – and now even my satnav is confused. It uses both spellings on different occasions; I reckon I could programme it to sigh in a frustrated manner each time.

So, not that it resolves anything, I have decided to make this issue public. These photos, all taken on a day I must have been particularly bored, show the problem. These are all within two miles of each other. My favourite being:

For the record I have decided that I am going to take a personal stand for tradition and use the E as much as possible – well, either that or go completely left field. Let me explain.

I remember the Londonderry/Derry issue causing me similar confusion. I was under the impression that unionists called it Derry while nationalists called it Londonderry – but then I heard some unionists I know using the nationalist version and vice versa. Then someone in a factory where I once worked told me that the city was Derry while the county was Londonderry – but I later heard that was rubbish. Next it was that the area within the ancient defensive walls was Derry while the area outside was Londonderry – ahhhhhhhh! My life was made so much easier when a radio personality from the area came up with a solution. With two main variations – Londonderry/Derry, L/Derry – why not take the common element and run with that? He coined the phrase Stroke City.

So I have decided to rename Ballybog(e)y. From this point on I (un)officially christen it Parentheses Village. May God bless her and all who live in her.

sucker of the week

Does it make me gullible that I want desperately to be the customer of the week? Have I been too easily suckered by a ham-fisted corporate tactic?

I don’t care – I want to walk in there and see, “Customer of the Week, Mr C. His favourite drink is a grande soy latte, extra hot, extra shot, with a hint of irish cream in his own designer thermal mug.” It would make me happy.

But would it make me go more often, persuade all my friends and family and random strangers to spend their hard earned cash on over priced coffee, and take free publicity shots for my blog? Undoubtedly. I’m naïve and susceptible to cheap promotional devices. Does that make me a bad person?

my new favourite way to end a speech

The work begins anew. The hope rises again. And the dream lives on

Massachusetts Democrat Edward Kennedy

something in the (rain) water

I knew there was a reason I lived in Ballymoney. I’ve been searching for a rationale for a long time. I moved from the much larger and busier Ballymena when I was two weeks old. People don’t do that for no reason – I must just have forgotten what it was.

I was wandering around town yesterday and tripped up on camera crews every time I turned a corner. It was tres tres exciting. Well, exciting in a not-much-else-every-happens kind of a way. What had dragged the news crews up the M2 from Belfast? Well I found out when I watched the news yesterday evening and it turns out Ballymoney finally has something to crow about:

People live longer in Ballymoney than anywhere else on the island, it has been revealed.
The Co Antrim town boasts the highest life expectancy in both Northern Ireland and the Republic at just over 78 years for men and 82 for women.

Yes, according to the Ireland and Northern Ireland's Population Health Observatory (INIsPHO) we in Ballymoney last longer than the rest of youse. The fact that I have never heard of the INIsPHO doesn’t diminish the significance of their declaration. It is surely reason enough for everyone of importance to sell their Malone Road Mansions in Belfast and move into two bedroom bungalows in Ballymoney. Meanwhile I will take advantage of the crashing house prices to move the other way – I’m willing to risk it.

Why do people live longer here – well I have many theories; none of which are particularly complimentary. People in Ballymoney are well known for living the clean life – some may say the boring life. Despite plenty of pubs and people to crawl out of them, Ballymoney is right at the top of what could be described as Bible belt Northern Ireland. Teetotalism is the new black. Clean living leads to long living.

But my own personal favourite theory is that we are so laid back up here that we lose track of time. I wouldn’t say the pace of life is slower up here – no, actually I would – its much slower. And that is why we live longer. We have every intention of getting round to dying – really - we’ll get round to it eventually.

I'll have a big mac and three years in the state pen please

I love other cultures – they’re all so foreign.

Take Manila for instance. Just recently I read that they have done a deal with McDonalds to run their police cars on a mixture of diesel and Micky D’s used cooking oil.

With oil prices at crippling highs, the project would convert cars in the Makati financial district to run on a mix of 40 percent diesel and 60 percent cooking oil, its police chief Senior Superintendent Gilbert Cruz said.

Ingenious. The way oil prices are going the criminals won’t be able to fill their get away cars while all the police have to do is pop in to the drive-in for a big mac, a large fries and an oil change.

"It's a win-win situation for us because we will both benefit," Cruz said. "The cooking oil of their Makati stores will be re-used and the Makati police will use it as a component for their biodiesel and also save money."

They’re talking about rolling the project out across the Philippines.

I wonder if similar concepts would work in the west? In Canada Tim Horton’s coffee and donuts already fuel the police force (boom boom!) I remember they were big customers when I worked night shift in a Timmy’s in Waterloo. They were entitled to free coffee but generally paid their way (perhaps the small cup they could get free wouldn’t have sated the thirst created by crime fighting). And it wasn’t always a bad thing to see a cop car pulling into the parking lot – especially since someone had found a gun in the toilets shortly before I got the job. I often wondered if my huge size played any part in my recruitment – bagel baker, donut dipper, beverage brewer and bouncer all in one. I was ideal.

So who would the UK police turn to for refuelling? The wise comments are coming far too easily to mind – There’s no fun to it when there’s no challenge.

coffee turf wars

I love Ground. I admire their courage. At a time when new Espresso Bars were opening every day and Starbucks, Costa and Esquires were planning their assault on Northern Ireland the wise people in Ground decided that it was a good time to start a business selling coffee. I feel like I own them - sort of. I was there seven odd years ago when they first opened in Coleraine. I interviewed for barista positions but was told I was overqualified – how little they know – barista work is about all a theatre studies and English literature degree do qualify you for. Let’s face it, even teaching English, I haven’t had much need for my knowledge of Canadian Literature – although being able to quote Margaret Atwood and Leonard Coen in any given situation has its uses.

I have spent more hours writing short stories upstairs in Coleraine Ground than I ever spent revising for the multitude of exams I have taken since they opened. At the time I found it amusing that they had a space in their comment cards asking which branch you frequented – like there would ever be more than one Ground.

Today I am sitting in the Ballymoney Ground. A few years after Coleraine opened they added one in Ballymena (on a street where there is practically more coffee shops than paving stones,) then they moved into the old KFC building in Portrush, and then a couple of months ago this one – the best of the bunch – in Ballymoney.

I ran out of inspiration for the short story I had started a while ago and the owner came over for a chat. I asked her where the next opening would be. “Belfast” she told me, “We’re opening in Waterstones.” A coffee shop INSIDE a book shop – who could have imagined it! Original it may not be but it is surely an excellent move. Breaking the big city must be an exciting prospect and who knows where it goes from there. I suggested the states, maybe Seattle. She gave me that kind smile people give me when they think I’m trying to be funny.

And so the Ground machine continues to plough on oblivious of the Starbucks, Café Neros and Costa Coffees springing up like wild flowers in it’s way. And more power to them. Not just because they are a local group taking on the big Globals but because I reckon the money I’ve spent in there must have paid for at least one of their stores. I’m claiming this one.