The Further Adventures of Dr Rusher

The quest for giving students marks for nothing at all goes on apace. The good doctor is now firmly esconced with the Jizzy Ra International Academy of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where candidates are greeted with the legend on framed vellum parchment ten feet high that management is 'Dully authorised to provide training in English language learning and award Certificates and Diplomas on behalf of Oxford College Britain.'

After they brighten up and learn to spell presumably. Here circling around the central issue is taken to a fine art, which is of course the problem of writing in English. Something the majority of students resist like a fetish. So, here in the Kingdom where English Diplomas are at stake, the main concern is bums on seats and the students receive 20% of their final grade merely for attending. This is one of the great secrets of working in a language school. The teacher is there solely to keep the students diverted from their onerous task. Language learning is not, therefore, the main goal. Time to put the clown suit on then? Not that it's necessary for the teacher to inject humour into the humdrum world of participles and gerunds. Witness this usual display of incomprehension and incoherence between educator and pupil.

Stud: 'Teacher!'

Dr Ush: 'Yes.'

Stud: 'Bathroom!'

Dr Ush: 'I don't see the equivalence. I am not a washbasin.'

Stud: 'I go.'

Dr Ush: 'Where?'

Stud: Teacher! Go bathroom!'

Dr Ush: 'I refuse to go.'

Stud: 'Bathroom. Go.'

Dr Ush: 'I am not aware of the bathroom's capacity for movement.'

Stud: 'Can I go?'

Dr Ush: 'There is the door. There is no escape from the window.'

Stud: 'I can go bathroom?'

Dr Ush: 'You can go blue if you wish. I will not stop you. You are now at large within this institution.'

The point, of course, is that, laughter aside, these are mainly fee-paying customers for whom attendance means spending as much of the time as possible washing their hands, faces, and any other extremities they can find, in the bathroom (feet in the handbasin is not a taboo). One of the teachers here lurks outside the classrooms when he has a spare minute or two and collars the students as they emerge from mine after being told they can go to the ceramic palace. 'I caught this one leaving,' he berates me, 'get back in there!' he fumes, and the full-bladdered miscreant returns stoically to his seat. Which, of course, is counterproductive from the Academy's point of view. The customer pays and the customer should be able to leave the premises as and when he chooses. If not, he may stop paying and putting his bum on the seat (whether that of the WC or that of the classroom). He may even, God forbid, begin to consider the concept of 20% for sitting on his bum as anathema to the learning concept and demand that a final exam be the determiner of his standing in English language usage. Because that's what they're really paying for. The opportunity to take an examination. I know I never attended any educational establishment for longer than it took to register for the final three hours.
 

And what an exam is in store for the Academy clientele! One student, when asked by a friend to explain what he learned in our hallowed halls, said that he was being taught to draw a circle. 'The teacher says that, if I practice hard enough, one day I'll be able to make both ends meet,' he told him. A sample question will quickly allow us to clear up any obfuscation over this point.

Circle the correct answer

What time is it?

a) sometimes

b) a lemon

c)  3 o'clock

We are, indeed, circling around the bugbear of writing. The answer here, naturally, is usually assessed as being 'sometimes' as it is almost never 3 o'clock when the student is sitting his exam. Although one student, taking an exam at 9.00 AM refused to budge from his seat until 3.00 PM in order to answer this very question and was rewarded with extra marks for his studiousness by the Academy's Main Branch Supervisor.

Students may be able to obtain 25% of their final grade for this nonsense and everyone pretends it to be a matter of great moment, so let's pass swiftly on with little remark other than to observe that, with 20% for sitting and 25% for circling, the student can obtain 45% without writing a single word in English thus far; or, indeed, opening any books either. Many is the time I have had to demonstrate how to open a book to a student who replies with a look of surprise on his countenance that is positively rewarding and makes all those long tedious hours of putting on make up and the clown's suit with the red nose and big shoes worthwhile.

Incidentally, one of the more bizarre things they do here in Arabia is tell the students to call you by your first name with 'mister' as a prefix. Your family name is then redundant. It's like becoming an orphan. They then prefix the whole thing with 'teacher'. Upon being introduced to someone like former British Prime Minister Tony Blair, I can only imagine the Saudi Ambassador to England saying 'Pleased to meet you Mister Tony,' like some downtrodden character on the Tara estate in Margaret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind (1936). Teacher Mister Robin likes to explain a few things to them, especially those who are under the illusion that, if they go to England, the Queen and others will speak to them in the supermarket. 'I never speak when I'm in England,' I tell them. 'I read, write, listen to music on my mp3, use the internet, watch tv, and play video and computer games.' At which they laugh good naturedly. But I explain it to them. 'I know where the supermarket is, and all I do in England is pay at the till and say "Thank you", which you never say by the way,' I say, 'it would probably take you half a day to get on the right bus for the post office.' I, in my turn, smile good naturedly. 'For you it's all about information but, when you know where the stop for the number 26 is and you finally have the right change after being told by the driver to get off because he won't change a tenner and the shop proprietor won't either unless you buy some tic-tacs, who's going to talk with you about past present continuous?'

Here at Jizzy Ra we attempt to resolve this problem of communication with the project, which carries 20% of the final grade and requires the student to talk for five minutes (in practise two) using powerpoint images, whiteboards, smart boards, projectors, OHPs, handouts, cutouts (from magazines/newspapers), hand-painted miniatures, water colours, oil paintings, and all other multimedia applications, packages, and miracles of technology that they may feel is essential in order to illustrate the subject of their lengthy discourse, which is usually Taif (a city hereabouts) and requires neither communication nor a listener. Communication requires an interlocutor and the only person paying attention is the examiner who isn't listening for information or interest but only to hear if the material presented is coherent and understandable, which it never is. I often give my students the example of one of their number at a supermarket in England who, having mastered the art of interrogation by the simple expedient of interrogating the teacher for twelve months, asks someone 'Where are the biscuits?' Later he is himself asked 'Where is the milk?' 'I am from Taif,' he explains patiently and with the seemingly mandatory preternaturally black liquid eyes, 'Taif is a beautiful city...'

So, 65% of the final grade can be had without either writing words in English or demonstrating any skill whatsoever in communication. The student will also get 5% for homework and 5% for participation, a boon for the intelligent teacher who doesn't ask for either because he knows that, if he gives homework, the terrified student will not be seen the following day and, if asked to participate, the mortified student will similarly cease to place his buttocks on the chair. But isn't that the beauty of the attendance regulations? If the student doesn't attend, he can't participate or do homework. We're onto a winner! We can deduct marks and not have to justify our machiavelian evil. The student will protest that he did all the homework and participation required for the one hour out of sixty he was present but the teacher can legitimately ignore his pleas and, going against the customary grain, award no marks at all for doing nothing at all. I, of course, aware of the economic situation and the precariousness of my position, always award 5% for homework and 5% for participation. Snoring counts with me as participation. Farting too. Finding the classroom each day also weighs much with me. Clearly the student has done his homework. He has scoped out his daily route to excellence and we have arrived at the magic 75% possible of attainment without writing any words in English: the pass mark being 65%.

Not listening to the teacher is, of course, one of the great weapons in the armoury of the clever student, and I can only assume that it is this that enables the candidates here to successfully navigate the listening exam and obtain a further 5% towards their final grade. No longer having to filter out the hated voice of their tormentor their ears are drawn like magic and magnets to the sounds of the almost impenetrable Scottish burrs and American twangings that I find incomprehensible. In fact I spent almost three hours once trying to decipher what 'Indian earing' meant in the mouth of a South African. After giving up, I discovered five years later - with the help of a South African and a dictionary - that the man on the tape wasn't talking, as I had previously thought, about indigenous North American jewellery, but 'engineering'. Although credit where it's due! Any student able to pass their listening exam roundly deserves their 5% and I can honestly say that it's the only 5% out of the entire possible 80% so far attainable that qualifies as legitimate. Here's a sample.
  
1. Where is John going? Listen.

Not John: 'Hi John. Are you going to the bus station?'

John: 'Hi, I'm going to the bus station.'

Not John: 'You're going to the bus station, huh?'

John: 'Yes, I'm going to the bus station. Do you know where the bus station is? Can you tell me the way to the bus station? I'm trying to find my way to the bus station. It's where I'm going. The BUS STATION?'

Not John: 'The bus station is right over there! There's the bus station. It's right there. The BUS STATION!'

John: 'Thanks. That's where I'm going. The bus station.'

Now circle the correct answer.

a) Harry Potter and the Magnanimous Gerbil

b) a large tree

c) the bus station

I had a student who was convinced that John was going to Listen but didn't know where that was. I myself often have to get up at 5.00 AM in the morning here in Riyadh to be taken to some godforsaken spot that noone knows the whereabouts of except our driver. It amazes me when I look at the huge automobiles around us made by GMC. In this land of the gas guzzling SUBURBAN where everyone can have four wives and a car the size of a bus to drive them and the kids to the local Gallery (yes, I was enthused at the plethora of such until I discovered that here a gallery is another giant shopping mall and not the Kingdom's equivalence of the Tate Modern) the joke here is that as we, far too far from merrily along in the stream of traffic congestion, go bouncing, jouncing and sweating in the sandstorms and 70 degree heat, the Jizzy Ra Academy is about to purchase even smaller vehicles because the teachers don't arrive at their destination properly cooked. It fills me with positive amazement that our Academy provides us with cars that were clearly built circa 1934 for the munchkins in The Wizard of Oz and that three of us teachers are supposed to bear them no ill will for making us share a back seat for upwards of two hours a day.

It's akin in mystery to the pen shared by the three students. Unlike the one eye held in common ownership by the three Graeae of Greek mythology and held hostage by the hero Perseus in exchange for disclosure of the whereabouts of the Gorgon whose head he was to cut off in order for its petrifying properties to adorn the shield of the goddess Pallas Athene, it's obviously a plausible hypothesis that two more pens could be purchased. Perhaps it's a cultural thing. I told one student to go and get a pen when he didn't have one and proposed to share. I went off to do some photocopying and found him and a classmate in the corridor. I could only assume that the classmate was there to carry him and/or the pen should he falter in his Herculean task. 'I'll send someone else to carry the pen,' I told them and went back to take the register.

I have two Mohammad Alis in B3 at the Further Institute for Pottery Maintenance. 'Mohammad Ali,' I poise with my pen over the register at student #4. 'Present,' he says. I pause. 'And who are you fighting next?' I ask to general hilarity. A minute later I come to student #15. 'Mohammad Ali,' I say. 'Present,' he says. I pause. 'When are you fighting Joe Frazer again?' I ask. It always brings the house down.

It's at the FIPM that the Japanese 'technical advisers', in somewhat Bridge Over The River Kwai (1957) mode and led by a kommandant who looks inauspiciously like the Emperor Hirohito, force the students to stand in the sun at the beginning of the day (7.15 AM) and do karate exercises. Japan's fascination with gizmos has certainly caught the students imagination even if learning to shoot your fist into the air and scream 'Ha-yah!' in the mornings doesn't. I spend most of my time in the classroom holding my hands in front of my face to protect me from the hidden cameras in their mobile phones, shouting 'First money, then photographs!'

We're told, of course, to be culturally sensitive when we come here, which is why there is no usage of s/he here in this article. There are no female students with male teachers. All of the English language teaching books cover up the faces of the cartoon women (in case the students get excited) with what are supposed to be headscarves but that look like someone has dumped yellow and pink candyfloss on them. It's particularly useful when the text is asking what colour hair Marie and Liz have? Clearly the correct answer is 'peach and meringue'. But it does prepare one in a way for seeing the students walk up to you hand in hand and say that they are going to the bathroom together. Women do not work in Saudi Arabia and, apart from shopping, are never visible. They wear a one-piece black coverall like a sack with a slit for the eyes. I guess going to the bathroom hand in hand with a man is a major culturally sensitive event in anyone's language and even Susan Boyle (please don't let them put her picture on the album sleeve) would look good here to a young man if she were visible. I just wave on the hand-holding young men in the direction of the door and the toilet cubicles. Sometimes I only have three or four students in the classroom out of around thirty. The rest are in the ceramic palace - shaving their legs in the handbasins and tweezing their eyebrows perhaps. I have no comment to make. Cultural sensitivity - like feminism and being politically correct in the West - is a must in the Middle East. They pay my wages, have all the oil, and declare fatwahs on writers. What more can I say? Lots.

Students of the Academy can obtain their final 25% towards their final grade by taking an exam in reading and, wait for it, writing. Which means that it's possible to attain to 87.5% without doing any writing. And this is what the students do - or rather don't do. They do do the reading. Here's a sample.

Dingo the jimblegrobbit spongled doobledly, jimming on his jignoodle while spongjobbling ettwarbly. 'Jinglespoonfully!' said Thrognardle the fnoor. 'Hibble becktwarts!' The djarbungle threeg jongled bagnorbally. 'Hobbly doof! Threep spardlejung. Hooble goofunt.' Jeeble snarfung grebt thrubwardle.

And more of the same. Here's a sample question.

How did the djarbungle threeg jongle?

a) the square of the hypoteneuse

b) tight end

c) bagnorbally

The example is extreme but the essence has been preserved. I have seen students who are unable to read a syllable pass a reading exam at the Academy. It's only about recognition. See the word, know the answer. We don't need to know what a jarbungle threeg is, or understand how to conjugate the verb 'to jongle', we only have to recognize that bagnorbally is in the text and is adjectival.

And so to the writing! We are nothing if not ambitious. Students constitutionally unable to use either the definite or indefinite article are routinely asked to write paragraphs of at least ten sentences about their family, where they work, or the excitements of Taif. 'I am student' they will begin. It's almost Shakespearian isn't it? Reminiscent of Herman Melville's opener in Moby Dick (1851) 'Call me Ishmael.' Alas we deteriorate from here on in and it's a rare student that amasses more than three marks out of a possible fifteen in his writing component. But we process them on twelve monthly - or 'termly' as the Academy would have us say - certificated levels until at level twelve they again fail their writing exam and obtain an Oxford College Britain Diploma with 87.5% and an A.

Failure is deservedly blamed on the teacher. One of the Supervisors took me to task one day for not using the Smart Board technology in a sparkly enough manner. With a sweeping movement of the electronic pen he demonstrated how one could fill the students with awe and amazement by producing veritable constellations of coloured stars to highlight words and phrases. 'Now I am a magician!' he said. 'Well, if that's your fantasy,' I yawned. I call it The Sound And The Fury Approach To Language Teaching. It's all about mesmerising the student with loud discourses that are difficult to ignore and covering the board in seemingly scientific formulas and other indicipherable hieroglyphics that appear to communicate much but actually signify nothing. The students applaud the magnificent performance of the suit at the board but, when asked, have no idea what the lesson was about. I liken it to being a kid at school who, when asked if he saw Star Wars, says 'Yeah. Wow!' Loves it but has no idea of the plot (not that that matters in Lucas and Spielberg's '77 space opera). It's the Zap! Whiz! Bang! school of language imparting. Cousin to Streetfighter II and with about as much relevance.

On the other hand, it's not about failure. It's not possible to fail. As you've doubtless guessed. It's about satisfaction. And a lot of the satisfaction derived by the students is from getting what they want or, as we in the trade understand it, getting the teacher where they want him. Here in Riyadh a teacher has the same general status as the Philippino houseboy, which takes a professional teacher some time to get used to. He is used to being civil with students and fails to understand that he is expected to be servile. I saw one Egyptian teacher here actually bow to one old boy (who was parading the obligatory evil leer) while saying 'My respects to your father.' For some reason the older old boy had been mentioned and the younger old boy, positively gleaming with malice, encountered that thing he was there for - satisfaction! The satisfaction of seeing someone who was clearly his superior in every dimension humbling himself in order to bolster his job tenure.

Of course one cannot ignore the religious aspect of one's situation. One isn't a Muslim but one will relate a single anecdote in order to convey some impression of what is encountered here. I was giving a conversation class to a group of students from the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), so the talk turned to drinks and, after roundly condemning alcohol and the drinkers thereof in the strongest possible terms in order to continue depositing riyals in my bank account, I began to talk about soft drinks, Sprite meaning something like 'djinn' and Red Bull getting it's name from the drug taurine that is found in it and so on. Then I asked about Coca Cola. 'What does Coca Cola mean in Arabic? How does it translate?' 'It means there is no God,' said one. In a nutshell! Coca Cola is an American company and therefore a branch of Satanism. And the student probably believes this as an article of faith. It's a part of the popular myth.

Apropos of which, ten years ago I was teaching in Saudi Arabia's Tabuk, a town most interesting, perhaps, for its curious placing of an ancient Lightning, as well as other Air Force planes like huge Airfix models, in the middle of traffic roundabouts that also often have captured military vehicles from wars with the Israelis decorating them. I was an instructor at the King Khalid Military City's North West Armed Forces Hospital (NWAFH) and, apart from being taken to the guard house by soldiers perturbed at my hovering at 7.00 pm outside the closed building where I worked while strolling around one evening taking the air as I waited for the bus after a visit to the recreation centre to borrow a few videos from the library, my abiding memory is of the strangeness of finding, in an environment notorious for its lack of pictorial representations of anything other than the tomb of Abraham, a 30×20 poster of the Twin Towers of New York's World Trade Centre stuck to the wall of a training centre otherwise bereft of imagery. Strange because it was still there on 9/11. As was I. Rumours of applause amongst the hospital staff, as they watched the events unfold on TV in the lounge, remain just that; but the picture remains forever in my mind: almost as a reproach for not being able to understand the omen.

America's invasion of Iraq is now enshrined in the Arabian consciousness as a part of the myth of the USA as the Great Satan. That they're interested in learning English is also a myth. The male army nurses I instructed in Tabuk explained that they needed English to work with the Americans after the first Gulf War. The impetus hasn't changed. Saudis have to have English for their work. But they're about as interested in us as we are in the mating habits of gadfly. Which is a big problem if you're in the habit of assuming hegemony with English language teaching. We're told not to talk about religion, politics, sex or music. We are, for example, actively encouraged not to play the musical intro to the audio material that goes with the coursebooks. I have a student who, I kid you not, like one of the three monkeys in the 'see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil' pantheon, sits with his hands over his ears when the funky boogie-woogie vibes of the New Interchange audio CD intro comes on. It is neither rare nor unusual for them to complain or even leave upon hearing music or discussions thereof, which makes it difficult when the hegemonically obsessive West insists on creating course units based on our perceptions of the beauties of jazz and hip-hop. No cherry or mauve headscarves to cover that lot up, eh?

I spent half an hour explaining Thanksgiving to some students. If you wanted to define the phrase 'a pointless exercise' that would do it. Without being asked one explains that Thanksgiving is the fourth Thursday in November and Independence Day in the USA is, of course, on the 4th of July. The book then wants us to cross examine our students on their 'special' days. 'Ramadan' is the inevitable reply. Is it a holiday? 'No, that's the Eid.' Further interrogation reveals that the feast of Eid comes after the fasting month of Ramadan but it's impossible to say when that will be because of the peculiarities of calculating by the phases of the moon. In short, the Arabic peoples have no definite days for holiday time as we do in the West, so explaining ours is a bit like telling them that ham is pig but that hamburgers originally came from Hamburg and are almost always beef. They don't eat pigs because they are 'unclean' and forbidden (haram), so why would they need to know the etymological derivations of the word 'ham', never mind 'bacon' and 'pork'? Their point of view. Not the teacher's. Christmas Day? Now you're not trying to introduce religion, are you? No, it's just another silly excuse to eat turkey, honest. 'Turkey [a man's name here] does not want to be eaten!' I am reprimanded in harsh tones. 'And what is this problem with swine fever?' they ask gloatingly. The logic is that, because they don't have pigs, they won't have swine fever (they already do here in Riyadh) - and naturally all of us heathens will shortly die horribly. 'Do you know Allah?' they ask. Clearly Allah and swine fever are meant to be two halves of an equation that will kill or cure this pig of a teacher. Fortunately Ala is a girl's name here, so I pretend confusion and, explaining that I knew her in Sudan, ask if I can have her phone number.

Until English text books are devoid of Western culture you won't find anyone genuinely satisfied in Arabia. There is a real hatred for what they perceive as us making them do. I had a student who, when asked to write a paragraph at level 5 about a painting by John Singleton Copley entitled The Shark (1778) complained that I wasn't helping him. 'Is this a good sentence?' he asked 'The boat water.' 'No,' I told him. 'The boat is in the water.' Clearly he was not impressed. '"The boat water" is not good?' '"The boat is in the water" is good,' I said, emphasizing for good measure. I always have problems with explaining the verb 'to be' ontologically and, as a rule, order them to buy a copy of Descartes, learn Latin, and decode cogito ergo sum. I guessed from his silent sullenness that he was happy with his understanding of the present simple in the sentence and also with the preposition on account of the shark's medium being water and their not likely to be seen flying above it, but he hadn't liked my tone and decided to stall on the definitive article. 'Why isn't it "a water",' he decided to goad me beyond bearability. 'We use the definite article when we're clearly talking about something already identified, like the water in the picture.' I said aloud, while fulminating silently and juggling in a Prince Henry-esque fashion with the idea of giving sonority to words less carefully chosen. Goading is, of course, one of the great student entertainments. My favourite is the student who, when told Unit 15, exercise 7, keeps demanding of you the page number, as if it were a veritable impossibility to find Unit 15, exercise 9, without a map, compass, team of sherpas, and a guide dog. I could see this one didn't like my tone again. 'Write it for me,' he said. I duly wrote - 'Water boat is the in.' - in his book. 'What is another good sentence?' he said. Clearly this would go on until I understood I was a peon and the paragraph was written. I refused and was replaced in good order in that class by management desperate to keep a customer.

Conversations with management can be quite illuminating. Happiness - or at least the simulacrum - is at a premium in Arabia. After three months here, one of the Egyptian teachers noticed my usually taciturn frown melting a little. 'That's the first time I've seen you smile,' he smiled. You don't understand how insulting that is unless you know that the Koran exhorts the faithful to smile - continuously if possible. I was being criticized. 'Well, fuck you!' I thought. But happiness is what the management seek to find in their students. One representative explained to me that he didn't care how many units of the coursebook were covered as long as the students were smiling inanely. Another explained that the syllabus was of no importance. 'Just smile, talk to them about their family, get them to write a few sentences about their job,' he smiled on presently - and continuously.

On the subject of insults, working in Arabia is a bit like being gay, and you have to understand the culture to cope with that. Here it's almost a crime to be single. You're not allowed in the Kingdom Tower, the glorified shopping mall here, for example, if you aren't with a family. MacDonalds is split into areas for single and marrieds, and a family would be offended if it weren't. So, if you come to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia (KSA), be prepared for the shock that you are expected to share if single - as a punishment if you're prejudiced to see it that way. 'Why don't you share?' management wanted to know. I could live in a compound with the rest of the alcohol drinkers and have a bar with a swimming pool with women to gawp at as long as I was happy with a man to live with. Insulted? You bet. At the derisory accommodation allowance described as sufficient for 'all my living space and travel needs' for one thing. You don't want to explain that you're not homosexual, thereby accusing their culture of being so, but the phrase 'I'm not gay' would readily spring to mind if our government in England decided to resolve the housing problem by forcing single males to cohabit. Riyadh is even split into married areas and single areas. The students complain over it being 'hard'. Just how it is, one can only guess. But at least at my cheap hotel I'm not walking hand in hand with a man into the bathroom - or indeed the sunset for that matter. 

Start Talking Sense

In language teaching in the Muddle East talking about religion, sex, and politics is taboo. Although the UK is more repressed in some ways, the difference is that the Yarubeans are prudish, whereas the English are prurient, for example, Esther Rantzen waving a potato ‘shaped like a thingy’ on the ‘TV’ show, That’s Life, wouldn’t be tolerated by Yarubean prudes fearful of offending the misogynist establishment. However, given the fact that women’s penis’ semen has all but been eradicated from the knowledge repositories of English culture, misogyny there is capable of perceiving that it’s the woman’s thingy anyway, and so is laughable as it’s always been risible for men in host womb parasitism upon the species of ‘woman’s seed`.

 Working in Yarubeer, and Eastern Newrope amongst the Hung, guarantees a perspective not vouchsafed to all. The Faith Church or ‘Hít’, as it is in Buttapes, are Evangelical, which amounts to, ‘Jesus saves!’ However, the truth is that Crushteen paedophile religions are Muzzlem, because its Muttawahs muzzle the broadcast hours of the mass media’s vision of the planet Earth, and the absence of women’s cocks from the picture indicates that the message of Jesus’ death, Resurrection, and Ascension, which prefigures that of ‘woman’s seed’,  is muzzled by Crushteen paedophilia, which sponsors homosexuality in pederasty for war to kill its children, rather than that society should pursue rejuvenation through medical science, so the ancient are regenerated until, looking twenty-one years, they can resist the paedophiles who want to torture and kill children. She’sus was crucified as an example to the Rumun Empire, and overburdening its wage slaves to ensure greater output is what modern Capitalists do.

 In Nobyu, Pseudi Yarubeer, for example, teachers were required to have an International Drivers License, so that the nominated driver could ferry colleagues back and forth from the Collage. Teachers were required to have their own laptops to present bookfilms, internet videos, and other course-related materials. They were required to set up electronic mail accounts for administrators at the Collage to communicate their orders. The calculating of course grades required a knowledge of statistics and mathematics incommensurate with the requirements of teaching English language, while inputing grades online required software skills equivalent to that of an Informatician, that is, Yarubeer, along with much of the world’s ELT environments, is where foreign governments seek to give orders to English, Americans, Australians, and Canadians, etc., to see if they will obey their commands in time of war.

 Genuine Christians pray either to escape from the slavers and torturers, while the Crushteen paedophiles pray to be slavers and torturers. For true Christians, She’sus` Ascension to heaven prefigures that of futanarian `woman`s seed`, that is, human brainpower to condemn slavery and escape from it to the stars, produced from women`s futanarian species’ sexual reproduction. She’sus, born from his mother, the Virgin Mary, that is, as ‘the Son of Man’, was Salvation for ‘woman’s seed`, which is the human race. However, in the prurience of English society, which has been prepared, since its acceptance of the false morality that women’s adulterated species of ‘woman’s seed’ are adulterous, to be muzzled by the Muzzlems, women`s cocks are out.

 As a pastor, preaching ‘the Word’ of God is Evangelism, that is, conversion. However, what Crushteen paedophiles mean by conversion is gender surgery. A common euphemism for pregnancy in England is ‘a bun in the oven’, which contains overtones of the German National Socialist (Nazi) Party of the 1930s that incinerated 20, 000, 000 men, women and children in ‘ovens’. With gender surgery, the bun would never get out off the oven. `Are you saved?` `Yes,` the Crushteen paedophiles asseverate, `I am saved.’ So buns are parrots.

 `Slammeric stud`nts proselytize. Offering guidance in their Gran’s path to the ‘Slammer of the Brafit M'mumhad, it’s economic suicide to say, ‘I’m a Christian.’ Consequently, Orwellian ‘doublethink’ needs to be employed so that the Muzzlems believe that the ELT professional is a Crushteen paedophile muzzled by exposure to the Muttawahs of US TV. During its 24 hour programing women’s cocks are definitely out, so it’s only necessary to say ‘God bless America’ and the ‘Slammer accepts you. The states of Muzzle America are ‘Slammeric’s sisters. Although there is an entire state in the US, Ooh Ta, whose people, the Onmoms, have a Brafit, Onmom, and a book, Onmom (2, 500 BC - 400 AD), with a great US entertainer, Marie Osmond, who has a member in the sect, its Chewdic ambitions aren’t so dissimilar to those of the`Slammer. Both Chews and Muzzlems are identified as `people of the book`, that is, the Tearer and Tall Mud (5. 39 am - 5. 34 am) and the Gran (6. 10 pm -  6. 32 pm) are about the God of Amaninabra (c. 1996 BC - 1821 BC), who was the father of I-pod (born of Sara Gellar) and `E`smale (born of her maid, Hajer), and from whom the branches of Chewedaism and the `Slammer emerged. The Chewdic perspective was that ‘woman’s seed` ought to be allowed to chew her own, while the Muzzlem belief was that she shouldn’t.

 Sometimes the stud`nts express a bizarre ambition to study in London, English. The teacher muses upon the runaround they`ll receive from the local population. Ridicule meted out to those taking out a prayer mat in order to face Mecar by the side of the bus on skull trips, while the rest of the class jeers from the safety of the seated herd, returned to memory. A student related of a friend taking a degree in Camel Race Predicting at a Universe City in English, who was told he couldn`t buy a melon, because he didn’t know the correct word in British. Being refused service because the item couldn’t be asked for by name? Buttapes, surely?

 Prejudice against the `Slammer isn`t causeless. However, despite the abomination of the terrorist attacks by Muzzlem extremists on London`s tube, which are known in infamy as 7/7, the `Slammer and its Gran, like the New Mendedtoaster (1. 17 pm - 1. 38 pm) of the Boble, don’t advocate murder. US’ President ‘Gerb’ Ush declaration of a ‘War On Terror’ in 2003 wasn’t against the `Slammer per se, which is something the Crushteen paedophile churches would support because, if you can’t kill the kids, you can always put them in prison, and wait for them to die of AIDS on those tubes.

 Snodbore Meths, a pastor at the Hít Gyülekezete, received an award from the Israeli Knesset for being a Chewdic supporter. Condemning Al Coholics, Commonests, the `Slammer, fornicators, that is, unmarried adulterers of the human species of ‘woman’s seed’ as opposed to those who are married, and anyone else, Snodbore’s congratulations were overdue. The people must be good Germs, rather than Crushteen paedophile AIDS. Snodbore`s name means `German` (Meths), which is a lot like Drano, although so were the Nazis. People who are shot aren`t entertained. Yet it’s the entertinament that Chewdic, its sister Muzzle America, and its brother ‘Slammeric proffer. Go and shoot a human species not your own.

 There has always been a huge feeling in western Europe of the need to atone for what Germany’s Chancellor, Adolf Hitler, did to the Chews in Germany and Europe during World War II (1939-45), although World War I (1914-18) was ostensibly over Germany’s Imperial ambitions, which resulted in its atoning through the relinquishing of territories. Hitler’s Anschluss, whereby Austria became a part of Germany, represented German rejection of atonement, which ultimately resulted in the pogroming of German Chews and elsewhere as a sign of Nazism’s total rejection of atonement on the basis of territory. As Iraq was an ally of Nazi Germany, it wasn’t unpredictable that its dictator, Saddam Hussein, should arise in the Muddle East to threaten Jewish Palestine.

 As ‘Vlad’ Puttin’s Rushon Federation pulled out, so losing its stake in Iraq, as it’d lost its stake in Eastern Europe, which had resulted in the Bosnian (1992-95) war in which Christian Serb militia set up male braining ‘rape camps` for Muzzlem women, the vampires, Saddam Hussein, and the former Yugoslavia’s Slobodan Milosevic, amongst others, arose at the commencement of the Crazy Golf War. Vlad, ‘the impaler’, Puttin`, perceiving that he still had a big stake in Rushon, considered puttin’ a hole in, or two, after the fashion of 15^TH century namestake, Prince Vlad Dracul III of Wallachia (1428/31 -1476/7), which resulted in war with the Federation’s Muzzlems of Chechnya when Puttin’ became President, because the region of the Caucasus was ‘the gateway to the east’, that is, the Persian Empire, which was modern Iraq and Iran. Although the Rushons didn’t seem involved in 9/11, 2001, when Al Qaeda terrorists, operating under the auspices of the notoriously misogynist Muzzlem Taliban regime in Afghanistan, hijacked civil airliners to crash into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York city, the subsequent April 15, 2013, bombing of the Boston Marathon in the US by Chechnyans suggested that Puttin’ did have a stake in the Crazy Golf War. As 9/11’s hijack occurred at Boston, Logan, Logan’s Run was the link, a 1967 novel by William F. Nolan about a society that kills anyone reaching the age of 21, and 9/11, 2001, was the commencement of the 21^st century, which suggested an attempt to kill the human race. Crushteen paedophilia’s vested interest was to play war games with children, while Chewdic and Muzzlem refused to allow ‘woman’s seed` a voice. That Puttin’ had a stake in it couldn’t be denied:

‘You don't know how lucky you are boy,

Back in the U.S.S.R.’1

 While the commonest accusation against Commonests is godlessness, the Chews believe in the God of Amaninabra, while the Muzzlems of the `Slammer believe also in the Brafit M’mumhad as well as the God of Amaninabra. Woken each day at 5.00 am, by the local Meringue broadcasting `Allah Akhbar!`, God is Great!, the Muzzlem people pray five times at equally divided parts of the day from early morning until late evening. At the language skulls, carpets are provided for the kneeling, so they don`t harm themselves while bowing as low as possible with their nose against the fabric. Crushteen paedophilia, Chewdic and Muzzlem all have their stake in God, while the Commonests’ take is determined by how long it’s been in the game.

 The most holy site in the `Slammer is the Ka` Ba or `cube`, a vestige of `The Borg mother` left at the end of `Regeneration`, Season 2, Episode # 23 of Star Trek: The Next Generation `TV` series. However, according to the traditions of the ‘Slammer, it was built by Adam, the first man or Anthropos, and the first woman, Eve, created by God, who were slaved for burger meant by the serpent, Satan, who was probably a reptile from the Mesozoic period of Earth’s evolution 248 m.a., that is, 20 million years before the hominids began appearing upon the Earth, 220 m.a. As Adam and Eve were created by God after the angels, and Satan was turned into a serpent by God, that is, he effectively lost his wings and winged intelligence, it’s a depiction of a saurian race become degenerate after a period of civilization. The Ka` Ba, or ‘Borg box’, is located in the ‘forbidden’ city of Mecar, that is, you can’t leave, although at MacDonald’s the food is passed in through the window, which is meet to slave drivers, although their feet on the pedals of the treadmill in the circles of hell suggest that it’s the wheel of what the Buddha of India called karma, that is, they’re slave drivers. The Borg were known for cannibalizing peoples for spare parts, ‘Think of them as a single collective being. There's no one Borg who is more an individual than your arm or your leg.'2 The women of the ‘Slammer, wearing their traditional burkhas, are driven by the slave drivers to MacDonald’s, slave-ring for burger meat. Known as the Ka’ Ba because, in the religion of ancient Egypt, ‘Ka’ means ‘spirit’, while ‘Ba’ means ‘soul’, that is, futanarian ‘woman’s seed`, the ‘Borg artifact’ is, symbolically, a MacDonald’s ‘burger box’. Atop each Mosque, while the `key toes` drive in, is the crescent moon symbolic of the grim reaper’s scythe, who represents the slaughterhouse for ‘woman’s seed`. While the Mosques ‘key toes’ buzz about leeching blood, there are a plentiful supply of burkhas at MacDonald’s. Putting a burger in a bag is what women were for, according to the saliva of the ‘serpent’s seed`; however, the girls don’t begin to wear the burkha until they’re beginning to physically develop as women.

 The forbidden city of Mecar was built out of meccano by Yarubeer’s wheeled konks. The Ka’ Ba was later believed to have been used by the people of Amaninabra as a temple, and Muzzlems are exhorted by their Molars to pilgrimage there so that the burkhas can see the box at least once in their lifetimes, because the men always have the remote control and sit in front of the ‘TV’ at home, because women and children must be protected. ‘TV’, that is men and women who’re made by the misogynist alien homosexual in pederasty for war against ‘woman’s seed` to manufacture themselves as a single male brained transvestite creature, ignore the fact that She`sus was in their Gran as well as the new Boble. Though convenient to despise the Muzzlem peoples, because of the self-hatred that the west feels for what was done under our wheeled noses by the false konk, Hitler, and their declared intent in 1948, after Palestine was given to the Jews as recompense, to ‘throw the Jews into the sea’.3 Moreover, it was Iraq that allied itself with Nazi Germany in the Muddle East, and that produced the movement for a state independent of the Chews in the Levant, which resulted in Rushon’s ‘Vlad’ Puttin’ repressing ISIL in Chechnya, although the big game hunters still wanted to shoot it, because the Levant was perceived as a ‘Trojan horse’ for ‘woman’s seed` to emerge form as She’sus was a Chew.

 For Hungry’s Snodbore ‘Crystal’ Meths, God is `Isten`, while the British sten guns were instrumental in keeping the Levant peaceful before 1948, although the Levant September, 2001, terrorist attack was a German, ‘Nein!’ Moreover, the election of US’ President Donald Trump of the Republican Party, which has the elephant as its symbol, suggests that the writer thought he’d be the ‘Last Trump’ before God’s punishment to the evil of ‘eternal unendurable pain`, that is, perdition.

 Amongst the Chews, God is ‘Eloah’ and for the Muzzlems, God is ‘Allah’, and so Snodbore Meths’ Hungry name for God is ‘Isten’.  All pray to the God of Amaninabra, and although She’sus is perceived by Chrushteen paedophilia, for example, as a scapegoat, which is what they want, that is, victims to victimize, She’sus’ teaching is that ‘woman’s seed` isn’t the scapegoat of Satan, so how could Snodbore Meths be accused of worshipping a British sten? The BBC’s  Monty Python’s Flying Circus (1969-74) ‘TV’ comedy team appeared in purple hooded robes to debate the  fate of a gerbil accused of heresy, `No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!`4 The inquisition were all Coholics, who ostensibly tortured people to accept She’sus’ teaching, whereas torture was what they liked, which is why they did that. She’sus’ teaching was that ‘woman’s seed` would have Resurrection and Ascension, which was why he was tortured and killed, because that’s what the ‘serpent’s seed’ of men like. Consequently, Snodbore is a defender of the Faith worshipping Isten. To attack the (meat) `Slammer, in the belief that Chewdic and Crushteen paedophilia have nothing in common with it, is dangerously fallacious. It’s to lose our humanity in the creation of an evil myth, where in truth there is one.

 Yarubeer can seem strange to the non-alien. In the North West, in Dalek, for example, you find yourself driving your nose on wheels with the rest of the Daleks, and full size passenger aircraft loom from the middle of roundabouts. Like giant Airfix models on their plastic stands familiar to those who construct planes for their shelves from glue, molded plastic parts, and ceramic paint. In Dalek’s Konk Carlid Hospital, I walked around a globe in the centre of a traffic roundabout, so could claim to have circumnavigated the Earth several times within a few minutes. There’s a whimsical humor in the Yarubean consciousness not seen in media reports of Muddle Eastern ‘flashpoints’. Although the boys owners’ adulterate of women`s race to the planets amongst the stars is pederasty, that Levant mousetrap next to the bus lane in Kuwait is an indication that, despite actress Koo waiting for the release of her character, Camie Marstrap, in the film Star Wars IV: A New Hope (1977), director George Lucas refused, so `woman`s seed`, that is, the mouse as big as an elephant, trapped by the war god Mars in the Levant game, Mousetrap, can’t escape to the stars.

 In the Pseudi Yarubean city of Riyald, there`s the Kondom Tower, which resembles the eye of that needle from the proverb in the New Mendedtoaster, `It is harder for a rich man to enter the Kondom of Heaven than it is for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle (Matt: 19. 24).` Shah Jehan was the central character of the 1001 Nights’ tales about how he beheaded his wife for falsely supposing her adulterous with his brother. Taking a fresh wife each day, Jehan cuts her head off each evening. Scheherezade, a woman, tells Jehan tales he wants to hear, so he marries her and so she saves the Kondom’s women. In other words, the women of the Kondom belong in heaven, because they’re the separate independent human species of futanarian ‘seed`, whereas Jehan is a male brainer, that is, the ‘serpent’s seed’ of men want women to have their brains, so that they can’t escape their role as submissive meat producers. Consequently, Yarubean women are often called ‘camels’, because they can’t escape their drovers through the ‘eye of the needle’ of their own penis’ hole’s ‘seed`.

 The Konks of Pseudi Yarubeer are known as The Custards of the Two Wholly Meringues. Keepers of what is most slowly in the `Slammer, for those in the computer age, ENTER is the `Open Sesame` of the future paradise of heaven on Earth, which the Yarubeans call ‘Jennah’. Meanwhile, Walt Disney studios in Hollywood are rumored to be making, A lad In Behind His Headlamps, while animations like Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) tell us that men`s `TV wars` using the software they`ve made of themselves, through excluding the human species of futanarian `woman`s seed` from its own race`s host womb, will rage on indefinitely as our language skulls continue to try to understand these different Daleks.

1. Lennon, John, and Paul McCartney ‘Back In The U.S.S.R.’, The Beatles, Apple, 1969.

2 Stewart, Patrick as Captain Jean Luc Picard in `I Borg`, Season 5, Episode # 23 of Star Trek: The Next Generation, May 10, 1992.

3 Eldar of Ziyon ‘Did Arab States Really Promise to Push Jews Into the Sea? Yes!’, The Algemeiner, February 20, 2014, 12. 04 pm, https://www.algemeiner.com/2014/02/20/did-arab-states-really-promise-to-push-jews-into-the-sea-yes/ .

4 Palin, Michael as Cardinal Ximénez in ‘The Spanish Inquisition’ Monty Python's Flying Circus, Series 2 Episode 2, September 22, 1970.

Rhino Mud Balloons

Surfing the net one day, I came across an ad for someone to work in Jakarta, Indonesia, for 11,000,000 RP a month. The name of the language skull’s blokie was English and they wanted a `native English speaker`; presumably from Australia or Canada was my guess. Someone who`d know what 11,000,000 RP is, I imagined. I notice this all time with those advertising for people to work as an ELT professional. They give curiously uninformative pieces of information designed to attract you; like a Susan Boyle (1961-)  CD without her picture on it. However, the truth is they`re unattractive; it`s a bit like those old Top Of The Pops vinyl albums in reverse. All the hits are mimicked by non-sound-alike non-stars, but The Sun’s Page 3 girl Vanya (Star Bird Marianne, or Daily Mirror girl Jilly, etc …) half naked on the cover sell it. Who wouldn`t be attracted by 11,000,000 somethings a month?

 Another version of the misleading information package is `accommodation included`. It’s later discovered either that the flat’s ‘shared’ (sometimes a room), and I`ve even heard of cases where new teachers have been expected to share a bed (same sex only), OR it means that, out of the meagre €1000 a month you`re due to receive (average salary in Western Newrope), you have to pay €999 in rent for the shared bed. Sharing a flat in Poe-Land, for example, with two other teachers who`d roll in drunk at all hours of the night making all kinds of ugly noises seemingly in the hope that they`d wake me, they unfailingly did. In the UK, where ugly noises were kept to a minimum during the night amongst those living in terraced housing by keeping a pot under the bed to urinate and defecate into, so that the toilet wasn’t heard to flush, the pot was called an ‘Edgar Allen Poe’, because Poe was a writer of horror stories. Consequently, Poe-Land might be expected to contain its fair share of horror material: ‘… forced to model my thoughts at the will of men whose imbecility was evident to all but themselves.’1 Pissing and shitting into a pot to keep the noise down, so as not to annoy the neighbors, is horror enough without being woken in the middle of the night by the ugly sounds of people you’d pay not to hear, which of course is what happens. Local hoteliers are often woken in the early hours of the morning by gibbering educators with fistfuls of the local currency to throw at a quiet room and a bed at exhorbitant cost so as to avoid the disciples of Poe.

 At a Gimnazium (High Skull) in a place called Lęgpork opposite the coast of Sweden, staying awake till 7.00pm after the skull was finished, sometime around midnight a rowdier colleague always awoke the sleeping. Living in what they called the `Teacher`s House` with its painted Union Jack on the side of it to let everyone know where the pariahs lived, it was Poe-Land’s idea of the ‘Star of David’ to indicate to the local bullys where the Chews lived. Not far off was an ostenisible museum of torture possibly closed by the bullys because it had removed as many of the local women’s penis as there’d been. Such living arrangements were typical of Eastern Europe after the Commonest bullets. Although the Swedish bullys were notorious for their liberal attitude towards all things sexy, it’s obvious to anyone in the cap it all west that the bullets in there, preventing ‘woman’s seed’ from being seen to produce brains from her own fucking her own host wombs, was an aspect of global bullets’ terror. Bullets in the brain ensured that ‘woman’s seed` wouldn’t develop any, because the penis of the human futanarian race had the policin’ of Satan.

 When you`ve done your stint as a quasi-volunteer amongst the desperate and dispossessed, better treatment is expected. Having never had any, the oil rich Yarubeans loomed as a better prospect. In the cities on the sand over the oil under the sun, it’s `Welcome`, and then a plethora of `No Entry` signs. Every stud`nt (male without exception) tries to convert the unbelieving infidel to the `Slammer. The mat with the WELCOME on it is for prayer, and if you`re not prepared to kneel to Holla, `Open Sesame!` won’t get the ‘native English speaker` across the threshold into paradise. Both the Muddle East and Western Chrushteen paedophilia have the belief that Satan, who was the Shaitan djinn, Iblis, according to the ‘Slammer, was doomed to perdition because he wouldn’t bow to Adam, who Chewdic lore depicts as a ‘hermaphrodite’.2 Consequently, the human species is futanarian ‘woman’s seed`, that is, Eve, who is euphemistically described as emerging from Adam’s rib, was a self-fertilizer’s birth. East and west have imposed the slavery of the devil upon ‘woman’s seed` by accusing humans of refusing to bend their necks, so Satanism can decapitate her.

 The paternalistic idea of everyone living on top of everyone else and having a jolly time was a non-starter at The Teacher`s House in Lęgpork. Being woken at midnight every working day by my fellow policed was a way of perpetuating some degree of enmity. Sharing only once after that, when desperate enough to take a job in Sudan, there was but a single attempt to use the shower, which appeared to have shat on the occupant. Expectations were what Scots’ colleague, Broad Slag from Abbacruddy, called ‘bird bathing`, that is, use a bucket. Learning to pee in a bottle, rather than break his eye-path to the TV, a local skip served in lieu of a flush when a quieter time could be found during the week.

 Dealing with fathers means learning how to work around someone to get anything achieved, which is what they’re for. Changing my name by deed poll to ‘Mr Toby Satan’, after the Intochains Toby cartoon model, who has been almost universally identified with Satan Himself, had been a way of disassociating myself from having to pay rent to pay rents for 30 quid. Dealing with the devils was TEFL training from the cradle. Skulls were boring because they had to be taught English before they were serviceable. Struggling to do anything other than give up after Primary Ears, and the systemic lies the English belabor the child with, it wasn`t until East European porno revealed the woman’s penis that the scales of the ‘serpent’s seed` were lifted from my eyes.

 John Major’s Tory government, perceiving that intelligence was in its mist, and horrified that it might wake up to the fact that its population of women had been castrated to prevent the UK’s slave society from achieving liberating brainpower, created ELT opportunites to dump those with higher consciousness, gleaned from pre-beggary higher education, overseas. In the aptly chosen Hungry, teachers who’d received an education before bank loans for the poor, were expected to starve. Toby, the Intochains cartoon hero, was expected to accept the loss of his three storey apartment above Vermins Shoes at 2B Hair Sell Road, Kong`s Town Upon ’Ull, before returning after 3 months’ equivalent dole money, to a poverty-stricken life without those possessions which every ordinary citizen accepts as a human right; a washing machine, a refrigerator, and a microwave oven. Spending 3 nights in 2007 in a skip outside C&A`s in ‘Ull, waiting for the SS to provide money for a B&B, destitution after $1000 a month sojourning in Sudanese squalor was what the future had in store.

 After Sudan, six weeks were spent in London being bled of cash, while awaiting a medical to again go to Dalek in Pseudi Yarubeer as The Doctor. Rumor had it that Pepper Potts had been captured by the wheeled tins of Skaro, according to the non-existent plot, while Iron Man wasn`t looking, `Exterminate! Exterminate!` Although the Crazy Golf War engineered by the former So Feared Onions’ Puttin’ had begun with the US‘ army’s removal of Iraq’s invading army from Kuwait in 1991, and continued with the US’ army’s invading of Iraq in 2003, the wheeled konks of the Yarubean Pinocchio’s tanks fought on both sides, so the Dalek Training Centre at the Konk Carlid Military City, where those in the nose kept their eyes on the Pinocchios ahead, was but par for the course.

 Pepper Potts proved elusive. Expecting an own classroom where The Doctor could at least work, and prepare the next day’s material, it was working alongside a colleague at desks made out of compressed cardboard, while seated on plastic chairs purloined from the cafeteria, in what amounted to a corridor, with Yarubeans bustling past us on the way to their leather-upholstered English Training Centre office suites, instead. Expected to write our names on a wipe board, and give the location where we could be discovered, we left the premises in the afternoon when there were no classes. Spending afternoons at the internet café (away from the Centre), it was a blistering certainty that there soon would be afternoon classes. Free time was spent looking at pepper pots in the café, while admiring the dissimilarities. Although disturbed at my admiration for the golden bosses on the sloping outer casing of the Daleks, and the way that the angle of the death rays seemed to excite me in a way to exact caring for the angle of their optical sensors, the hospital library internet beckoned. Assuaging any feelings of self-repugnance by assuring myself that it was the allure of ostensibly fake nude photos of Pepper Potts’ twin sister with a big cock that attracted, feet continued to be drawn as if magnetized to the mouse, the cursor, and the computer’s screen.

 Press-ganged into preparing test papers for no examinees, or revising hard copies of texts littered with errors and inconsistencies, which could never actually be correct, because the software necessary to retype and reprint updated versions of examination papers was lost, is normal in ELT. Newcomers think they`re doing work of importance when proofreading. However, looked at by someone who`s not a native speaker, and who probably wrote the tests to begin with, changes are unlikely. Improvers aren’t looked upon with fondness, and the text will remain understandable to the foreign rubbish that wrote it. If changed, it won’t be understood by the ‘experts’. In Hungry such gobbledygook is called Hunglish. All of the students get good grades, and a ‘native English speaker’ wouldn’t be able to make sense of it.

 Harangued for using the internet to ogle Crushdina Squealera’s pix, which was punishable by death in the west, though only haraam, that is, ‘forbidden’ in the `Slammer, the harridan, whose job it was to run the hospital library facilities, left the declaring of a fatwah upon me to Konk Carlid, the wheel nosed there. Skipping paying a month’s salary was a sign of ‘The Last Days` and, arriving in ‘Ull penniless to spend 3 nights beneath the palatialness of a cardboard counterpane in the C&A skip, there’re doubtless worse stories. An electrically heated water jug is indispensable equipment in virtually every other country apart from the UK, because everybody else`s water is full of crap. If it doesn`t say `single accommodation provided`, you could end up snoring into the face of a Rumanian, and if they tell you they`re paying a zillion Jellototems an hour, it means you won`t have enough to buy sugar for your tea in the morning.

 Advising a newcomer to Rustidiq Collage of Head Chuck Occasions in Omoan to keep the 4 liter plastic bottles the milk came in for to put boiled water inside and keep in the fridge, because that way there’s always drinking water, he produced such a moué a casual observer would have thought cyanide had been recommended for the children. It `s absolutely vital to maintain a water supply in the Muddle East with its odd store opening times due to five-times-a-day prayers, and virulent micro-organisms in the tap water. Boiled water can be had anytime, it’s simplistic to assume, but mouths burn, so it’s essential to keep a plentiful supply of refrigerated water, which means boiling water to refill a container whenever it’s empty of a supply of drinking water.

 Mrscat, in Omoan, is more often than not the hottest spot on the planet at around 40°. You can go insane if exposed to the sun for more than a few hours, and without water you`ll die, which may sound obvious, but dehydration is not something planned for in western culture. Headaches are frequent in the Muddle East for westerners, and it`s mainly to do with the heat. Air conditioners are often blamed, but with high temperatures air conditioning is essential. Consequently, cool drinking water’s all important, although refrigerated ice cool water can cause headaches, so it’s sensible to take the refrigerated water and put it into pitchers.

 Speaking as a teacher of English causes a sore throat, so the vocal chords need water. In Hungry I was diagnosed with an infection of the uvula, which is that part of the voice box that Yarubean women use to make those shrill sounds which are heard coming from cinema speakers when their Mahdi, that is, Holy War (Jihad) leader, is listening to his Riffs. A yokel suggested my uvula be removed, because he suspected terrorism, although it would probably mean death through infection, because the uvula is the key to the body’s immune system. Made to pay for the `op`, and though still capable of making some few sounds approximating to ‘native English speaking’ with the chords remaining, the guitar that was ‘Johnny English’ has been unstrung.

 Budapest salaries are little short of derisory if you`ve travelled. The average was 30,000 HUF per month in ‘95. Around 30% of the Hungry economy was `black`, and the language skulls paid cash. Working for a pittance gets you health insurance. As a visiting `vendeg`, hopping on the train to Komarom, and across the bridge to Komarnó (Slovakia) meant a further 3 months’ stay. As with the hot sun, the sand, and the `Slammer, you’re there only to work; not to feel welcome. Initially, the UK training centre offered `Korea or Hungry`, and Hungry wasn’t the career I wanted. Despite a Busyness Diploma (1980), and a TOSSALL certificate (1994), Korea wanted notarized copies of my Universe City degrees to be presented at its London embassy. Applying to Korea from Kuwait, it was evident from the monolithic mousetrap I could see from the bus window, as I traveled to work there each day, that Koo awaited a mouse about the size of an elephant, which was but an intimation of the Levant’s upcoming struggle. Axed from Star Wars: A New Hope (1977) as Camie Marstrap, it was evident that the game was Mousetrap. An astrological reading of the stars indicated Walt Disney TV`s Mickey Mouse Club, and its former star Britney Spears’ 2009 song, `If You Seek Amy` (F*U*C Camie), `Ha ha he he ha ha ho.`3 Surrounded by red planets in the video for the song, `Oops! … I Did It Again` (2000), Spears` Mars’ trap had already caught an Apollo Levant astronaut: `… lost in the game.’4 The game of Mars, god of war, is to prevent humanity from colonizing the planets amongst the stars by bleeding ‘woman’s seed` of the Earth’s resources she needs to get there.

 In Iron Man (2008) Tony Stark asks, `Pepper, uh, how big are your hands?`5 If Iron Man’s hands aren’t big enough to get the Levant out of the mousetrap, Britney Spears’ golden bosses on the sloping casing of her Dalek, which is what the stage the set for the video of ‘Oops! … I Did It Again’ is, indicate the purpose of the US’ Crazy Golf War alliance with the Yarubeans’ Konk Carlid, a ‘Pinocchio’, that is, another the boy made from wood. In the Carlo Collodi story, ‘Pinnochio’ (1883), his nose grew longer when he lied, because it’s a metaphor for those inoffensive seeming cars that, wending their peaceful serpentine way, in duplicity are having tank guns grown for them to sit behind instead. It’s the faggotry of displaced men’s penis, that is, the hell of institutionalized homosexuality in pederasty for war against ‘woman’s seed`, which is why men make boys of wood, ‘Exterminate!’ Lying about human nature, the alien possesses the host womb of the race of ‘woman’s seed` and exterminates it. Pepper Potts would need to have the hands of the Resurrected Jesus ascended to heaven as ‘woman’s seed` to save men of the ‘serpent’s seed`:

‘He's got the whole world in his hands
I'll fear no evil
For you are with me
Strong to deliver
Mighty to save.’6

 However, leaving aside the hegemony that men seek to impose through their hypnotic mass media campaign for acceptance of war over human sexuality and the production of brainpower to escape slavery, why would she? My hands aren’t capacious enough to get the Levant out of the mousetrap, and God knows I’ve tried. It`s possible Pepper Potts could disguise herself as a Dalek in the hope of persuading what’s under the wheeled lids of the exterminator to cease and desist. However, in Pseudi Yarubeer women aren’t permitted to drive.

 Hollywood`d be a ‘can of worms’ if the lid was ever taken off the sloped pepper pot sides of Doctor Who’s death ray sprouting machines, so it must be in the interests of the alien exterminators of the human species of ‘woman’s seed` to hold the lid down tight on the sexual repression its created to ensure that the lying tank guns of the wheeled konks of the Earth continue to grow as men’s displaced penis extension. All of them are become Daleks working for Siton, ‘the big nose on wheels’, a Lt. of Satan, who shows his rear until, grown out of his face, is the nose of the tanks’ guns of those sexual regressives driving behinds. If the human futanarian species of `woman`s seed` isn’t booted into the system as a viable future alternative to the trunkless head of the ‘serpent’s seed`, that is, the trap posed by Mars, god of war, the alien host womb parasite has bred from men and women a single male brained `TV` creature fascinating its prey with its snake eyes while it exterminates ‘woman’s seed’: ‘The dragon was wroth with the woman and went to make war on the remnant of her seed.’ (Rev: 12. 17)

 Receiving my B.A. in 1986 at ‘Ull Collage of Higher Head Chuck Occasions (H.C.F.H.C.O) on Wide-Open-Beaver Road, ‘Ull, it became the Universe City of Colon and Mumblaside, and then Mumblaside Universe City, which later became defunct with its buildings demolished, while apartment buildings were constructed there on the site of what had been an ancient monastery converted to hallowed halls of Academe, so obtaining a verified copy of my degree for Korea had become impossible. China’s more or less the same. Mouse Satan`s ‘little read book’ wavers offer around 8,000,000 RMB to the `qualified with experience native English speaker`, which would be Rhino Mud Balloons? Difficult to spend in Wapping. Arriving in Buttapes from Damascus with Syrian Pounds in 2004, and taking an overnight train to Vienna, and hawking them around the banking system, a clerk with a file full of normally unrecognized foreign rubbish agreed that mine were the same as his and changed them for Austrian schillings, which could be re-converted in Hungry. Except for the passport police waking me up at least fifteen times between 11.00 pm and 4.00 am on the overnight `sleeper` train passing through Slovakia, Moravia, and the Czech Republic, before reaching the border with Austrian border, gratitude was my middle name. Oodles of different kinds of passport police waving their IDs at me as I periodically fought for sleep.

 The moral is, `Be careful with money.` In Buttapes a tourista change kiosk offered to cash me up to a value incommensurate with the bundle, `It`s all I`m allowed to give you without a passport,` she told me. Further along, I didn`t need any documentation and received x 3 the previous offer. I`d have transferred the money from Riyald, Pseudi Yarubeer, but my employers had procedurally taken my Iqama - Residence Permit – so cashing the last month`s salary with my passport wasn’t possible. Always pack a woggle when lugging an unwieldy wad of notes through customs. Boy Scouts are at a premium. Carrying a wad of SAR to the Buttapes State Bank, they didn`t `recognize` Pseudi currency. Spending it they were happy with. Converting it to spendable amounts: no. If it weren`t for a change kiosk with a Muzzlem, I`d have stuffed pillows with it. He wanted SAR for his lifetime`s dream of making the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecar, where the women are muzzled, because they shouldn’t burkha cars as it attracts MacDonald’s meat wagon. The black silk embroidered with gold, which is similar to that of the women’s burkha, and adorns the box that the pilgrims walk around anti-clockwise, is called ‘Kiswah’, because the kids were beneath the burkhas that the women wore before emerging to worship in their turn the MacDonald’s burkha box, which is the fate of all in the meat ‘Slammer. With HUF a flat was purchased to aid the Hungriun economy.

 It’s amazing how stupid institutions are. What happens if the Pseudi Yarubeans want to invest in Hungry. Sorry, we don’t recognize petrodollar oil revenues. Supermarkets in Riyald are full of Hajdu,7 which is a cheese from Hungry’s Hajdú-Bihar region. What do they buy them with? Sand? SARs are recognizable, and the Yarubeans have nearly as much money as sand. Arriving in ’95 `small money`, that is, `kis pénz`, was `filler`, and an ice cream could be bought with it. Like the Olde English groat, it was phased out after inflation rendered it redundant as a denominative coin of purchasing power. Moreover, Hungry hasn’t really changed since the Commonests. Topping up the ‘phone is easy. Go to an ATM. However, to activate the top up it’s necessary to have access to a passworded ‘phone company website in order to find the page that allows the customer to inform Affordafon, for example, that the ‘phone top up is now needed. Otherwise, it’s a dead ‘phone, and a dead loss from the perspective of economics. After experiencing Affordafone most people wonder if Hungry wants to do business. There’re so many barriers to purchasing goods and services that many people assume that they don’t want to take anyone’s money.

 Hungry’s filler coinage collapsed after inflation; much as the penny in 70s Britain replaced the Rumun denarius (⅟2p = 1d) and flares became unfashionable because they resembled the nostrils of a ball snorting beast filling its nasal passages with gusto. Although the popularity of an item usually stabilizes the price and cost, the scarcity of hundreds and thousands of ball snort resulted in a fall in demand for ice cream by filler holders, and with nothing to buy with filler, the filler became redundant, because there were no balls for the beast to snort, although eyes were still screaming from castration. With 100 filler to each forint, the redundancy of the filler left the forint as the unit of currency in Hungry which, judging from Affordafon and the other ‘phone companies’ operations, roughly translates as ‘isn’t for’ exchanging for items or goods, because it’s a miser’s.

 In 21^st century Hungry there aren’t any 1s or 2s, only 5s, because the miser quite perspicaciously observes that, if 1s and 2s can’t be spent, they won’t be. As counter staff have to approximate change due, because the goods and items aren’t sold according to the 5s system of price labeling, that is, it’s possible for an item to be labeled 57 HUF, it’s luck and kindness that determine whether any change is awarded. Of course, the miser wants the prize for itself, which suggests that the unwary person on the till in the supermarket risks punishment if her awarding of change to the customer is more commensurate with kindness than luck. It`s not a Mickey Mouse country, despite the US’ business invasion of the 90s, although it was So Feared Commonest Rushon before that, so there might have been some Chairman Mouse Satan influence from Red Shyness` little read book wielders. As the unwitting owner of a Porsche for collection at the local car showroom because of all the spare change invested, a green one: with an ejector seat for thieves will do nicely.

 Applying for a job in Omoan, a car was offered with the requirement of a driving license, so that I could die enroute to the teaching environment presumably. Yarubeans are madmen in cars. Skidding in pools of water in the winter not far up the street from Jizzy Ra language`s skull in Riyald, during a stroll at prayer time, it looked dangerous as, drenched in spray, the bumpers came close to the wall on both sides of the street. Swinging left, the car disappeared up another avenue, before reappearing several hundred meters behind, for another go at it. Returning to the skull with a respectful look, while stud`nts and staff remained avoiding class through prayer, the car sped on into the early hours. `What happened?` I asked a taxi driver the following morning on the way to conversation class. Passing a palm tree fallen from the row of such in the center aisle of the highway that is always disappearing off into the emerging horizon, `Pseudi driver,` he explained professionally, `crazy men.` Who’d want a company car to drive alongside these lunatics? Some of them fall asleep at the wheel and the wreckage can be seen alongside the main road off in the desert where the engine eventually stalled; choked with sand.

 Using a Walkman almost from the start of Sony`s inventing it in the early 80s, after winning a cruise down the Rhine through a local North Yorkshire newspaper, The Wide-Open-Beaver Advertiser, it offered cruise or cash, so a new-fangled portable stereo was bought weighing about three metric tonnes for £86.00. Strapping it to my belt, ‘world, flesh, and devil,`8 was subsumed by heavy bass and, in Dalek, Pseudi Yarubeer, 2000, Physical Graffiti (1975) occupied the ear drums in much the same way that John Bonham occupied Zep’s. Listening almost continuously in my walking or bus-riding time, the track `Trampled Underfoot` seemed definitive of the wheeled konks of Yarubeer: `Gun down on my gasoline, I believe I'm gonna crack a head.`9 Keith Moon, drummer with The Who, said in May 1966 after a session recording `Beck`s Bolero` with Jeff Beck and Zep’s lead guitarist, Jimmy Page, that Led Zeppelin would `go down like a lead balloon`10 and, as its coked-up nose gets closer to the tarmac, so has the human race. Led Zeppelin I (1969) featured the LZ 129 airship disaster of May 6, 1937, on the cover. A zeppelin exploding in flames at its Lakehurst Naval Air Station (NAS) mooring tower, Manchester Township, New Jersey, USA, represented an early nose dive for men who didn’t want ‘woman’s seed’ to get off the ground.

 Replacing more Walkmans than that Physical Graffiti tape, it was a Chinese Sunny, with a red record button useful for stud`nts’ listening exams and correcting pronunciation, that resulted in the loss of Physical Graffiti in the midst of a veritable rockless desert of music stores that featured only variations on the theme of Demis Roussos look-alikes with a beard and a white dress:

`My gnome is Abdul, Sunny not Cher. I yum ate teen yeahs. I leave in Riyald. I has five breather and eleventy cysts. I yam drove. Mike R a cheap. I`s cool Academy Jizzy-Ra. My farter he busyman. Mothers. No one known she exist. Pliz do not, men shun it. My fuvorit fud. It is kapsa. Sorry eggs queues. I doesn`t knewn in Briti [laughs apologetically]. My far fruit drink is mini roll wart. My fur fright collar is red. My wurk is a IT engineer. Thonk you.`

 Identifying the weak points and making copious illegible notes, listening together drew attention to mistakes. A Sunni day saw the red recording button on my Walkman accidentally activated so that, when listening to Physical Graffiti, halfway through ‘Trampled Underfoot’ were now the Yarubeans of the English Language Training Centre`s bus depot shouting what was doubtless of deep import in voices audible but never understandable to the unwanting listener. The cassette finally fell out of my pocket at the Hít Gyülekezete, ‘Faith Church’, Buttapes, and was never heard from again: although a postcard would`ve been kinder. However, knowing that a Zep track inconceivable in anyone’s wildest imaginations had been produced, soothed.

1 Whalen, Terence ‘Poe And The American Publishing Industry’ in Gerald J. Kennedy (ed.) A Historical Guide To Edgar Allen Poe, OUP, p.77.

2 Patai, Raphael The Hebrew Goddess, Discus Books, New York, 1978, p. 231.

3 Martin, Max, Savan Kotecha, Alexander Kronlund, and Shellback `If You Seek Amy`, Britney Spears, Circus, Jive, 2009.

4 Martin, Max, and Rami `Oops! … I Did It Again`, Britney Spears, Oops! … I Did It Again, Jive, 2000.

5 Downey Jnr, Robert as Tony Stark (Iron Man), Iron Man, Paramount, 2008.

6. Thomas, Sue ‘He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands’ in Edward Boatner Spirituals Triumphant, Old and New, Sunday School Publishing Board, National Baptist Convention, 1927.

7 `Hajdu` as a term for artful non-fiction originated from David Hajdu’s literary criticism at Columbia University`s Graduate School of Journalism.

8 Derived from a passage in The Book of Common Prayer, 1549.

9 Jones, John Paul, Jimmy Page, and Robert Plant `Trampled Underfoot`, Led Zeppelin, Physical Graffiti, Swan Song, 1975.

10 Shadwick, Keith Led Zeppelin: The Story of a Band and Their Music 1968–1980, San Francisco: Backbeat Books, p. 36.

Rhyme and Reason

At Omoan`s Collage of Head Chuck Occasions, Rustidiq, I taught a course module to English teacher trainees, Children`s Literature. It was very popular largely because of its strangenesses: a favorite poem was ‘Humpty Dumpty' (1803):

`Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,

All the King`s horses and all the King`s men,

Couldn`t put Humpty together again.`1

 Of course, he was only an egg, so why bother? I used it in the form of a history lesson to contextualize vocabulary, for example, Hump, whjich was a nickname of both the English king, Richard III (1483), and Henry VIII’s (1509) wife, Anne Boleyn. It`s not immediately obvious that the character is an egg. Originally, it was a riddle. However, no one puzzles over it for long now, because it always appears with illustrations. It`s actually about humpbacked Richard III who fell off his horse at Bosworth Field and didn`t recover his throne from the Parliamentarian Roundeads during the English Civil War (1641-45). Anne was just a hump, so Henry beheaded her to get another, while ‘Led Zeppelin from her head’ was a heavy metal warlord’s allusion to Satanism’s intention of replacing the woman’s brain, through the male only semen of the ‘serpent’s seed`, and a ‘hail of lead’ from uzi 9mm sub-machine guns mounted on giant ‘Nazi’ airships, with that of an ancient dinosaur. From the point of view of language learning, ‘Humpty Dumpty’ isn’t about the serpent’s egg, but syllabic sounds and word play. Rhyming is fun; especially for the young. Finding words that sound the same, and putting them together in simple rhymes that have a short narrative, is one of the best ways of increasing vocabulary and word building skills. A further favorite is 'Baa Baa Black Sheep’ (c.1744):

`Baa Baa Black Sheep,

Have you any wool,

Yes sir, yes sir,

Three bags full,

One for the master,

And one for the dame,

And one for the little boy,

That lives down the lane.`2

 Again it`s a simple combination of words with easy syntactical formulations, which is encouraging for the beginner; but this time it`s a moral lesson which goes down quite well. The little boy living down the lane is the illegitimate child of the master of the house. Always known as the `black sheep` of the family; because of his provenance. Later, the term was used to mean any child that was wayward; because this was thought of as a sign that he or she couldn`t possibly belong to the well bred. Being a `black sheep` often meant the disowning of a rebellious child by its parents. Consequently, the phrase `black sheep` refers to anyone who lives outside of society`s norms. All of which is useful information for teacher trainees; it bolsters their sense of knowing the importance of what they are communicating to their charges at an impressionable age of 3-7 years. Later these tots may discover, like their teachers, the richer seam of history and social commentary; but for now the rhyme is enough to get and keep their attention amidst some preliminary forays into constructing a few rhyming patterns that almost accidentally become real sentences where most learners find such constructions a chore and a bore. The ‘black sheep’ of a family actually corresponded to the concept of a ship’s master of a ‘black ship’. American ships sailing into Japan’s Edo (Tokyo) harbor on July 8, 1853, were called ‘black’, because they threatened war; if the Japanese didn’t lift a trade embargo with the west. The concept can also be applied to the colonization of the planets among the stars by starships, where a ‘black sheep’ of a family indicates the master of a ‘black’ starship, whose role isn’t sociable. However, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' (1761), suggests otherwise for the ephemeral children of the paedophiles, who’re the slavers of the human host womb denying them the medical science of rejuvenation to ensure they remain children and slaves:

`Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,

How I Wonder What You Are,

Up Above The World So High,

Like A Diamond In The Sky.`3

 Presented to teacher trainees, along with this parody spoken by the Mad Hatter in Alice In Wonderland (1865) by ‘symbolic logician’, Charles Dodgson, under the pseudonym of Lewis Carroll, the Oxford University mathematician, and theorizer about gravity and black holes affording instantaneous travel between the planets amongst the stars of the cosmos, the teachers are encouraged to get children to speculate about vampires, or clobbering baseball bats; if the blood sucking leeches aboard their ‘black’ starships notice that the kids of Earth haven’t been turned into soulless damned zombies working flat out for a cuppa in their treadmills:

`Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Bat,

How I Wonder What You`re At,

Up Above The World So High,

Like A Tea Tray In The Sky.`4

 ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little [Vampire/Baseball] Bat’ is what’s termed `nonsense verse`; after one of it`s original exponents Edward Lear (1812-88). It`s useful for the language classroom because it’s enabling for a teacher who knows lines of poetry, for example, those of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’, aren’t sacrosanct, which is helpful in providing a foundation for children to experiment with language. Moreover, the child isn’t required to make all that much sense, which is liberating. The essence of the activity is to make word patterns and structures that can be examined and commented upon insightfully. To find meaning, even where none is intended, is a useful activity that a teacher can indulge a student with. The authorial fallacy doesn`t only apply to the famous poet; it can also be applied to the inept learner. Strengthening a young soul`s self-belief can inspire greatness. Here`s ‘The Owl And The Pussycat' by Lear from 1871:

`The Owl And The Pussycat Went To Sea,

In A Beautiful Pea Green Boat,

They Took Some Honey,

And Plenty of Money,

Wrapped Up In A Five Pound Note

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are, you are,

What a beautiful Pussy you are.

Pussy said to the Owl `You elegant fowl,

How charmingly sweet you sing.

O let us be married, too long we have tarried;

But what shall we do for a ring?`

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-tree grows,

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

`Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?`

Said the Piggy, `I will.`

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.`5

 Of course, there’s no such thing as a ‘Bong-tree’. However, the poem is notable for adding `runcible` to the English language, that is, a spoon that has tines like a fork, which is encouraging for both teachers and learners insofar as it indicates language isn’t so inflexible as to make the construction of new lexis impossible or outré. That words can be invented ex nihilo is a revelation encouraging generations of musicians, for example, although the meaning of the phrase `rock `n` roll` has an established relationship with sexual intercourse, it actually refers to the movement of a ‘rocking horse’, because it was that type of vehicle that the Greeks used before the gates of the city of Troy in Asia Minor (Turkey) to gain entry. After the Trojans took the huge hollow wooden rocking horse inside, the Greeks emerged to capture the city for homosexuality in pederasty for war and spread their contagion further. Celebrating the penisless woman, ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ corresponds to the ‘Trojan horse’ virus, that is, the bullet in the brain of the race to the planets among the stars, which won’t get there if it doesn’t reproduce.

 In ancient Greece homosexuality for war was institutionalized, while by the late 20^th century, the discovery of the ‘incurable killer disease’, HIV/AIDS, by DR Congo in 1983, which was spread by homosexuals mixing blood, shit and semen in each others’ anuses, established homosexuality as a contagious disease. When the modern 21^st century successors to the Greeks, the ‘geeks’, began devising ‘bad machine code’ to infect computer systems and cause the machine brains to die in the same way that AIDS killed human brains, the disease had become a plague consistent with the idea that humans were the playthings of plague gamers, whose alien will was ring-slaving humanity to death for its entertainment in wars.

 ‘Peter Piper' by Run DMC’s Darryl McDaniels, Joseph Simmons and Jason Mizell, from their 1986 CD, Raising Hell, takes nursery rhyme characters, rhymes and rhythms, to tell a story about the `hood`. Run DMC portray themselves as characters in an urban folklore made up of familiar childhood figures with an admixture of knowingness and streetwise flair, and that`s what excites students of language. Taking well known verses, with a magic they already possess from our days in kindergarten, and adding some more magic of our own to keep the magic in our lives alive. This is the essence of what real teachers do: inspire. Clearly, Run DMC owe a debt to someone with a chalkboard and a smidgen of enthusiasm:

`Now Peter Piper picked peppers,

but Run rocked rhymes,

Humpty Dumpty fell down; that's his hard time.

Jack B. Nimble, what nimble and he was quick,

But Jam Master cut faster; Jack's on Jay's dick.

Now Little Bo Peep, cold lost her sheep,

And Rip van Winkle fell the hell asleep,

And Alice chillin` somewhere in Wonderland,

Jack's servin` Jill a bucket in his hand,

And Jam Master Jay's making out our sound,

The turntables might wobble but

they don't fall down.`

Now Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose both did their thing,

But Jam Master's getting` loose and D.M.C.'s the king,

Cause he's adult entertainer,

Child educator,

Jam Master Jay king of the crossfader,

He's the better of the best best,

believe he's the baddest,

Perfect timin` when I'm climbin`,

I'm a rhymin` apparatus,

Lot of guts,

When he cuts,

Girls move their butts.

His name is Jay; hear the play: he must be nuts,

And on the mix real quick; and I'd like to say,

He's not Flash but he's fast and his name is Jay.

Jay's like King Midas, as I was told,

Everything that he touched turned to gold.

He's the greatest of the greater; get it straight,

He's great,

Playing fame cause his name is known in every state;

His name is Jay,

To see him play,

Will make you say,

`God damn! that DJ made my day.`

Like the butcher, the baker,

The candlestick maker,

He's a maker a breaker,

And a title taker.

Like the little old lady who lived in a shoe,

If cuts were kids, he would be you,

Not lyin y'all, he's the best I know,

And, if I lie, my nose will grow,

Like a little wooden boy named Pinocchio,

And you all know how the story go.

Tricks are for kids; he plays much gigs,

He's a big bad wolf and you're the three pigs.

He's a big bad wolf in your neighborhood,

Not bad meaning bad but bad meaning good.

We're Run-D.M.C. Got a beef to settle,

D's not Hansel, he's not Gretel.

Jay's a winner,

Not a beginner,

His pockets get fat, others get thinner.

Jump on Jay like cows jump moons,

People chase Jay like dish and spoon,

And like all fairy tales end,

You'll see Jay again my friend.`6

 The drivers of cars can’t help but look at each other, which is reassuring for men, who’ve all but killed the human race of ‘woman’s seed`, although the tank guns are the long noses of their lyin’ Pinocchio nature when it comes to reassuring the women they’re invading that they’re there to defend them. The never-ending sagas of Michael Finnegan, which students can continue adding to for as long as they have breath or ideas, is a metaphor for the slavers who kill their adult offspring, that is, the Wise Old Man, so they can have children to play games of war, because adults wouldn’t want their beards blown away:

`There Was An Old Man Called Michael Finnegan,

He Grew Whiskers On His Chin Again,

The Wind Came Out And Blew Them In Again,

Poor Old Michael Finnegan,

Begin Again!`7

 As children play with words it becomes an enthusiasm and an entertainment. In a language not their own, successful poetry encourages growth and self-development. Limericks, an anapestic (aabba) poetic form, are traditionally believed to have originated in the Irish county of Limerick among the 18th century Maigue poets:

`There was a young woman from Luton,

Who found she was missing a button,

She said `It`s not here,

But shed not a tear,

The buttons she had kept her suit on.`

 For discipline there’s the Japanese haiku, a thirteen syllable poetic form designed to arouse students’ interest in painting an image with a few words. It`s good for the future to be able to stimulate the imaginations and creativity of youngsters. The haiku is used traditionally for painting a mind’s eye scene. Japanese haiga artists, that is, painters/photographers, have produced excellent work from haiku by expert poets:

The frog steps from the lily`s pad

Splash! Sunlight rippling.

 Haiku and haiga are familiar to European poetry. There’s a poem, ‘Wedding Morn’, by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930), an exponent of the Imagiste school (1914-17), which influenced thought and art at the beginning of the 20^th century. Its sunrise image was part of the flowering of psychology`s understanding of the workings of human consciousness. The image of the ego emerging from the waters of the unconscious self each day, regenerated and renewed, is a symbol found in every aspect of mythological representations of the heroic individual (cf. Ra, the sun god of ancient Egypt). It`s an archetype, a content of the unconscious self that, activated by what the developmental Swiss psychologist Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961) called `creative imagination`, provides the libidic energy after sleep that each of us needs in order to develop and grow in the course of our lives. The poem by Lawrence is a beneficial tool to use with those who are involved in any learning process. It`s a catalyst; what the Jungians call a facultas praeformandi: the God given latent capacity to evolve by means of archetypes that exist dormant in the psyche awaiting the impulse that will cause them to flourish, fill out, and ultimately result in the self-actualization that we are all geared towards realizing. This simple verse is, therefore, an example of such an archetype; the rising sun a symbol of the rising consciousness that the educator seeks to inculcate in the young mind:

`The morning breaks like a pomegranate,

In a shining crack of red.`8

 The tradition of humanity works with children everywhere. Building the future by way of the past, or upon what’s eternal in human nature. The desire to make sounds that are pleasing to our ears; the impulse to build with words; become wordsmiths; tap the primal urge in each of us; laugh; puzzle, and wrap ourselves in the robes of  earlier days to strengthen our sense of belonging: as Run DMC do in ‘Peter Piper’.

1 Arnold, Samuel `Humpty Dumpty`, Roud Folk Song Index 13026, 1803.

2 `Baa Baa Black Sheep`, Roud Folk Song Index 4439, 1744.

3 `Twinkle Twinkle Little Star`, Roud Folk Song Index 7666, 1761.

4 Carroll, Lewis Alice In Wonderland, Macmillan, 1865.

5 Lear, Edward `The Owl And The Pussycat` in Nonsense Songs, Stories, Botany, and Alphabets, 1871.

6 McDaniels, Darryl, and Joseph Simmons `Peter Piper` Run DMC, Raising Hell, Profile, 1986.

7 `Michael Finnegan` in The Hackney Scout Song Book, Stacy & Son Ltd, 1921.

8 Lawrence, D. H. `Wedding Morn` in Love Poems And Others, 1913, l.1-2.

 Preaching to the Converted

To spoil our weekends (Thursday/Friday in the `Slammer) the management at Jizzy-Ra Academy, Riyald, Pseudi Yarubeer, insist that their teaching staff roll up at 10.00 am on Thursdays for 'training', which consists of one of us gabbling on for an hour or so about what it takes to make sure the stud`nts remain as dull and miserable as when they came to us. I say this advisedly, because we're often accused of a lack of seriousness incommensurate with the profundity of our charges. Paradoxically, we're also exhorted to smile constantly, but I twigged the reasoning when I began attending our non-CELTA training programme 'The Way To CELTA'. We're a mixed bunch with professionals from places as diverse as South Africa and the Phillipines, but the bulk of our personnel come from Egypt and, if you have ever taught with non-native speakers, you will be aware that this is where the problem lies: pedantry. Flashes of humour are incomprehensible to the Egyptians. So they compensate with a studious demeanor and a perma-grin. This communicates itself to the stud`nts, who're encouraged to equate learning with gritting one's teeth.

 But, of course, there is nothing more serious than comedy. When the Egypt Johns were asking me how did one spell the third person singular of 'teach', my thoughts seemed magnetically to turn to those howls of laughter from the non-Egyptian audience on London Weekend Television's Live From Her Majesty's as be-fezzed comedic impersonator of an Egyptian magician, Tommy Cooper (1921-84) sat slumped under his blood red fez in front of an equally red closing curtain. He'd just died - and not as part of an English language exercise on metaphors either. ‘Ask me how to spell I-N-C-O-N-S-E-Q-U-E-N-T-I-A-L too,’ I'd begin going into cardiac arrest-inducing apoplexy, while mentally belaboring the Egyptian spellers with my more potent magic of invisible Potteresque baseball bats.

 Gravity is, doubtless, the essence of life in the Crazy Golf war. They pray five times a day to `Vlad` Puttin` - and you can't get more serious than that. But we're discouraged even from talking about Western music because of its irreverence. I always attempt to resurrect at least the spirit of Tommy Cooper by telling stud`nts that my favorite song is The Bangles (1981-) ‘Walk Like An Egyptian' (1986). In this way and in others I get my point across.

 During one of our Thursday 'workshops' we listened to Osama (please don't send 92nd Airborne) relate the wondrous information that 'okay' is the most used word in the English language. Aha! Osama! Known to all his colleagues as 'the Great Entertainer'. There were wry smiles all round amongst the 'native speakers' but we tacitly agreed to spare ourselves the blushings of the Egypt Johns. There is nothing so easy to offend as a Yarubean's sensibilities. I had Badr almost fainting away in shock at the sight of a woman's uncovered face on the back page of the daily Yarabean News last month. I kid you not. However, cute it’s snot. It's terrifying. All suicide bombers are children on this evidence. Consequently, I was more than fearful when given the workshop 'Teaching Vocabulary' to present. Nevertheless, I took my courage in both hands and presented them with this 'gap fill exercise':

Featuring the second most commonly used English word after ok

Where the          is my newspaper?

What the          are you doing here?

Where the             are my shoes?

Who the              is Brian Wilson?

What the             is a Beach Boy?

 Needless to say, the Egypt Johns were baffled. It's ungrammatical, you see. Naturally, I was accused of not understanding my own language. But I was able to fill gaps in their understanding by vouchsafing the information that Brian Wilson (1942-) was formerly President of the United States during World War I, while apologizing for unnecessarily capitalizing the phrase 'beach boy'. Apparently they have them in Gyp. I don't. I decided to introduce the gerund as a part of our introduction to vocabulary teaching:

Using Words Through Context

Insert an appropriate word into the space provided. Or, if you feel that no word is required, please leave the space blank.

Saleh: I've been looking for those             keys for ages. And you've been             sitting on them.

Sami: What are you             complaining about? You've got your              keys back.

Be             happy with that.

Saleh: Is that my             tie you're wearing? Give it back to me you             thief.

Sami: Here,             take it. I wouldn't             wear it if you             paid me to.

Saleh: Beach boy fucker!

 Instead of beach boys, of course, we have pigs. Stud`nts are always asking us about our pig-eating binges. For them it's a bit like pornography. But even kissing is illegal in Pseudi Yarubeer - young people aren't supposed to know about it [cut to weird perverted scene in which some beardy gives a young married couple technical explanations of Frenching]. You get the impression that Crushdina Squealera's milk jugs fascinate them in much the same way as the traditional English breakfast of pork sausage and rashers of bacon. We are what we eat. Pig is taboo but we in the West eat it, so when they see Crushdina strutting her flesh - in what's often basically bra and pants - she represents for them both what's unclean from a food point of view, while being deliciously delectable from a similar angle. Put simply, in psychological terms, she's become an inedible piglet for them (no offence intended Crushdina; I'm trying to make a serious point), although there are women in Hungry called Edina.

 Clearly the sexual fantasy surrounding fleshly Western girls will be one of orality. Consequently, the real taboo is cannibalism, which psychologists argue was once widely practiced. That's why it's a repressed desire. One might, therefore, reevaluate the prohibition against consuming hog as: DON'T EAT THE AMERICAN PIGS NO MATTER HOW DELICIOUS THEY LOOK! Perhaps there are parallels with the Nazis to whom all Chews were 'Schwein!' Naked heaps of human flesh in Belsen attest to the butchers' shop - and then there were the ovens ... However, the cannibal hypothesis ignores the evidence that the alien has eaten the woman’s penis as a frankfurter, so it’s actually a parasite on the human host womb. It just abrogates the role of cannibal in order to appear more human. It’s scantily clad showgirls are the way the Americans seek to impose their cultural hegemony upon the Yarubean world, so they'll eventually win. 'I'm a genie in a bottle baby!' sings all-but butt naked Crushdina. How does a woman in a sack compete with that? In the sack race? Who wants a pig in a poke (men here arrange to marry the contents of the sack unseen)? All the naked American women do is teach the burkas that they're for eating them, like the frankfurters, so it’s unlikely that Yarubeer will become the next all-but declared state of the US. Oh, and they'll want to wear a condom. The dangers of swine flu you know.

 God knows what they'd make of Rosie's Farm Adventures. I sometimes imagine them trawling supermarkets drooling at tins of top-shelf spam during supposed language-learning jaunts to Bournemouth. When they ask me 'Do you eat pig?' I reply 'No, too big.' 'Two?' they gloat (fantasizing about X-Dina's jugs again I suppose). We have to educate them into the concept 'slice of ham', which of course they hate us for. I love bursting their hamburger balloon too. 'Hamburger, very bad,' they finger wag me. 'Yes,' I say, 'not pig enough.' MacDonald's is a bit like visiting a Hamburg porno cabin for them, is my guess. 'No,' I tell them, 'hamburgers are called hamburgers because they originally came from Hamburg in Germany and they are always beef.' Try to hit me from somewhere else I jeer at them from my hypothetically telepathical safety zone.

 When I worked in Dalek, Pseudi Yarubeer, as a rehabilitated `lid, I bought a tie with small pictures of creamy sheep all over it. 'Sheep tie,' I'd say to my stud`nts, who didn`t seem upset by my armlessness: 'Not expensive.' I always teach them my name by showing them a picture of a robin. Animals are useful in many ways. Many of our metaphorical utterances stem from them, which I demonstrate to the Egypt Johns in my vocab workshop:

Metaphorical Vocabulary

'Don't miss the ceramic Chihuahua exhibition!' barked the museum curator.

'I can only drink the juice of a leaf found only in the Autumn (between October 12th and October 15th) on the north side of a mountain on the South Sea Island of Tonga,' croaked the old man with the useless throat.

'The congenital gibbering idiots are over here,' said the hospital assistant, waddling off in a westerly direction.

'These melon flavored beetles are delicious,' said the young boy, wolfing down his food.

'You've got orange teeth!' the young man crowed.

'My balloons are bigger!' cackled the competitive balloon seller.

 Of course I was heavily criticized for employing the sound of such a dreadful creature as the dog, which - like the pig - is much maligned by its namesake, the Muttawahs, and so taboo to the Muzzlems thereabouts, who’re allowed to remove their muzzles for a few hours each day during prayer times. Perhaps they've seen Rosie Does Fido. That might explain it. The underpaid Philupyournose don't mind. They eat the damn things. We used to see the paws and other inedibles of cats and dogs in the dust at the camp all the foreigners, including Phil, had to live at near our place of employment at the Military City in Dalek. 'Philupyournose Chew' we called it. Yum. Phil would blanche!

 The Yarubeans, on the other hand, wax lyrical upon their hunting prowess in the desert where they make heavily armed forays after a creature called Deb. It's a reptile spending nearly all of its life sitting immobile in the sun on a rock. The Yarubean walks up and shoots her in the head at point blank range while the creature is contemplatively considering completing a slow blink at our nearest star. I had one of my stud`nts give a slide show and commentary on lizard 'hunting' as his project. It culminates in a barbecue of about as much meat as you get in a square of Heinz tinned ravioli. Mighty hunters [contemptuous snort].

 Taboos can be such fun. Like cocaine. Philupyournose with cocaine; for example. A bugger to get rid of. I gave my Egypt Johns the example of a verb plus noun exercise during their 'training'. The native speakers' hiccoughings indicated they'd seen through it immediately, but my guess is the Egypt Johns know a blow job when they see one:

Pairing Verbs with Appropriate Nouns

More than one answer is possible

blow, give, eat, finger, turn on, take, open, stroke

TV, job, head, ring, safe, cherry, legs, nuts

Answer key

blow safe, give [wedding] ring, eat cherry, finger ring, turn on transvestite, take job, open nuts, eat [frogs'] legs, stroke [kitten's] head, etc.

 One of the methods we're trained to employ is that of teaching vocabulary in word groups, that is, taking words that are naturally related to each other and introducing them as a set. I gave my Egypt Johns these:

Choose from the following words to complete the passage below

Brazilian swimming pool, nuts, tinnitus, stride, pizza delivery boy, unorthodox manner

More than one answer is possible

It was a bright sunny day. Everyone was smiling without exception. Rod was enjoying his             . Across the street he could see the                glistening in the sunshine. Here he felt safe. Soon he would be swimming in his               . Despite his high profile job as a government minister his               meant that there would always be problems getting into his              . Thank goodness for the              .

One possible answer is this, which largely due to my cowardice I showed the Egypt Johns:

Answer

 It was a bright sunny day. Everyone was smiling without exception. Rod was enjoying his nuts. Across the street he could see the pizza delivery boy glistening in the sunshine. Here he felt safe. Soon he would be swimming in his unorthodox manner. Despite his high profile job as a government minister his tinnitus meant that there would always be problems getting into his stride. Thank goodness for the Brazilian swimming pool.

This is the one I didn't show them, because you have to draw a line in the sand somewhere; but I like it just as much:

It was a bright sunny day. Everyone was smiling without exception. Rod was enjoying his stride. Across the street he could see the Brazilian swimming pool glistening in the sunshine. Here he felt safe. Soon he would be swimming in his tinnitus. Despite his high profile job as a government minister his nuts meant that there would always be problems getting into his pizza delivery boy. Thank goodness for the unorthodox manner.

 Giving definitions of words is often what the teacher is perceived to be for, whether it's stud`nts or Egypt Johns. I had a girlfriend in Newrope (give `em enough and they`ll hang `emselves) who'd refuse to sleep with me if I didn't define quickly enough for her to keep her temper. I'd have done better with her as a teacher trainer, for sure. Tests are rigged, of course. That's always been the case. I remember the 60s IQ test that proved the examination was culturally biased.

Q. Which is the odd one out?

apple, ugly, tomato, pear

 In Africa and the Caribbean 'ugly' isn't an adjective but a hybrid fruit somewhere between an orange and a satsuma, so there isn't an odd one; all are fruits because the tomato isn't a vegetable - we just think it is. Rigging tests is the meat and drink of fee-paying institutions everywhere. This is the kind of vocab test I advocated to the Egypt Johns in my workshop to ensure a healthy pass rate and financial stability for the company I worship as a god:

Guessing the Meaning of the Word from the Context

Read each sentence below and write down the closest meaning that helps you define the meaning of the key term

1. Joan loves to buy exotic foods: vegetables and herbs from China, spices from India, and olives from Grease.

garroted, a red London bus, Michelin ZX tires, unusual

2. Emotionally disturbed people may be troubled by morbid thoughts and may often think about suicide or murder.

 Canadian, little grey men, a snail, depression

 3. At first, the surgery seemed successful but the patient’s condition began to deteriorate, and worsened over the next few days.

 smell, sing in a low monotone, penetrate itself with a large pink vibrating dildo, get even worse

 4. In Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, the miserly Scrooge is visited by three spirits who change him into a generous man.

 block of cement, frog, enriched uranium, mean

 5. Raul is an indulgent father. He lets his daughter stay up late and never insists she does her homework.

 impaled, flatulent, incontinent, tolerant

 6. Languages evolve, as you can see if you open The Canterbury Tales, written six hundred years ago by the English poet Chaucer. It is barely recognizable as English.

 get spots, become shy, eat blancmange, grow

 7. The decision Veronica made to study instead of going out for pizza with her friends was prudent. She got an A on the exam, while her friends all got D’s.

foolhardy, asking for it, suicidal, considered

 8. Whenever something bad happens to Jane, she says it’s the fault of destiny. But I take charge of my own life.

 Beyoncé Knowles, a crab, Mount Kilimanjaro, fate

 9. My father died when I was a baby, but mom told me so much about him that I feel I knew him. One anecdote is about how he cried with joy when I was born.

 long and boring novel, menstrual cramp, duodecimal system, cruel joke

 10. Ivan is a wonderful piano player. But Jerri is more versatile; she sings, acts, paints and writes poetry.

 more of a wuss, likely to be bullied until she buys a Glock, despised by the rest of the children at her skull, talented

 What kind of a society is it that wants you to perpetually smile while being serious all the time? A schizophrenic one. A typical English language exercise is like/don't like. 'What do you like?' 'I like Ecuadorian rat's tongue salad.' 'What don't you like?' 'I don't like the constellation of Cygnus.' However, the Intochains text book identifies not liking with hatred. It's largely pejorative, of course. Just because an American says he ‘hates tennis’ doesn't mean they want to take out Roger Federer with an uzi 9 mmm on Centre Court at Flushing Meadows (although they might, and I wouldn't want to discourage anyone). I get stud`nts - doing their 'man of the `Slammer' impression - asking me 'What is hate?' They don't have it is the idea, and if you explain it to them you're like the serpent in Eden. I am become Dr Corruption. Blaming me for the hatred in them, before they didn't have any. Hate existed unrecognized, dormant, and harmless. Now they blame me for any wickedness arising in their hearts. It's all Orwellian doublethink, ‘… holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.’1 Intochains teaches that not liking is hate, 'What kind of music don’t you like?' I ask. 'I hate Crushdina Squealera,' comes the Intochains sanctioned response. Oh, yes of course. Who wouldn't? Get back in the bottle piglet. We know you're only tempting us to vampire on your jugs with singing about coconut milk. ‘I like Nancy Jamjar,’ says another. ‘Yes,’ I concur, ‘singing about a man’s shoe size, and the endless nullity of his vacuous personality – before getting back in the bag.’ Don't let your ideas about ‘pc’ fool you. Bag-a-babe is what it's about for the people who live on the oil under the sand:

‘I'm dancing a lot
I'm taking shots
And I'm feeling fine.’2

 Despite their bagging babes like antelope, everyone you meet in Pseudi Yarubeer is determined to play the archetypal role of the Wise Old Man. You get fifteen year old virgins giving you advice about women. Because of their Gran (6. 10 am - 6. 32 pm) you see. That makes them all-wise and all-knowing so far as the rest of us are concerned. It's an obligation in the `Slammer to tutor the young, and because we know nothing of Holla we're all infants to them. To cut a long enough story short, all you're for is to give advice to; or you'll burn in hell forever. That's the SP. The little buggers in Level 1, who can barely master 'hello', tell it to my face. As an unbeliever you've no chance. You might as well hop into the flames straightaway - and I've spent so much time here I'd like to.

 God knows how big their collective Freudian id is, but a colleague of mine went to a local Pseudi party during the Eat, which is the festival after the fasting month of Rubabum, and was treated to a display of traditional 'dancing', which basically consists of some score or so of middle-aged men wobbling forwards a few paces before wobbling back again (sword waving is an optional nuisance). There were young men there too though. They began to dance 'freestyle' in a way designed to appeal to the young women who were also gathered there. These responded in their turn with cheerings and applause. At which point men appeared with ropes to cordon them off and enforce the segregation; like they do in Newrope since the `Slammer and Muzzlem became en vogue. It's an old formula. Make a young girl think that her sole goal in life is a man’s penis, and let her discover too late that it's a disappointment, because what she wants is a woman’s. The great con-trick. However, the human species goes on - albeit without its penis.

 Choosing a bank here is easy. Immediately I saw the Al-Rajhi bank logo I knew it was for me; a penis with testicles. Obviously they're concerned with ensuring that inflation results in growth. One can only boggle at the concept of customer care. Al-Rajhi is clearly a pillar of the Pseudi economic system. In Yorkshire, where I hail from, we have the saying 'Where there's muck there's brass.' In Pseudi Yarubeer one has to look for the penis. Same deal really. During that period of the 80s when banks were screwing their customers senseless, a friend of mine dubbed Barclays 'The Greedy Bank'. No euphemisms necessary with Al-Rajhi, 'The Penis Bank'. 'Would you like to make a deposit sir?' 'Yes, just pass me that test-tube and the copy of May 2007's Nuts [featuring Jennifer Ellison and a tub of smooth peanut butter] please.' I'm looking forward to coming back to the UK with the Al-Rajhi credit card and maxing out, 'Do you take penis?' It's bizarre in a country without head fuck occasions, but logical. If you've never seen a penis you wouldn't know the Al-Rajhi logo was one. It's a bit like saying that the male half of the native population have never had an erection (an idea I have no problems with at all) and the female half of the population (one supposes they're female underneath that bag) are therefore virgin, with the children being the results of parthenogenesis - only then does the Al-Rajhi logo make innocent sense.

 Meanwhile the Muddle East's MBC Action teevee continues to try to inveigle my interest by pointing a revolver out of the screen at me before pulling the trigger and making me flinch at the explosion. The uncovering of a woman's breast, however, would provoke deep cries of hatred from 'moralists'. Yet I'm expected to cheer at scenes of such carnage as should make one sick in movies like Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs (1992). My mother lost one of her breasts to cancer. I'm rather partial to them. Yet teevee and movies convince us more each day that the worship of Thanatos, rather than the love of Eros, is the way ahead. These really are the Dark Ages. I look at the ‘mad bomber’ of Kidis, Turkey’s Ahmet Davutoğlu, and wonder why it is that the paedophiles are allowed to prefer ‘TV’ killings to watching the human species of ‘woman’s seed` interact with itself in carefully scripted soaps?

 Fortunately, the `Slammeric public culture limits them to prescribing what you can drink and telling you what's good to eat (consuming 'bad', i.e., non-recommended food and drink, means that you are bad, i.e., evil and destined for hellfire), and talking about sex is taboo due to the fact that everyone knows that making love is evil (yes, sometimes it is just like being in Stepney). Moreover, imagine what it'd be like if you had to accept their rules? Five prayers a day, and that's just for starters. The USA’s blatant nudity parades itself as if it’s won, but there aren’t any humans, so they’re celebrating a Muzzlem society in which the religious police, the Muttawahs, prescribe ‘doggy-style’ for everyone. The slang term in the USA for a homosexual is a `faggot`, because the Boble says that the evil are ‘dead wood’ for burning in the ‘eternal unendurable pain’, that is, the perdition, of hellfire, and killing the human species of futanarian ‘woman’s seed`, so that the homosexuals and the paedophiles can `war game`, while their misanthropy masquerades as monogamy, is what God’s punishment is for. Killing the people so that they can have more children to play with in their war game is what ‘the beasts’ are for, while the humans would prefer immortality through medical science, rather than have men asking, ‘Would you like to B1?’

 Imagine the Turkish mien of Ahmet Davutoğlu as being as ubiquitous as other Muddle Eastern dictators. All the women have to walk around with a bag on their heads when supermarket shopping, which is the only time they're permitted to leave the house, because Ahmet doesn’t want a face to rival his in the minds of his people. The Muzzlems of the Muttawahs are therefore G-o-d reversed, D-o-g, because the women are muzzled to prevent their species of ‘woman’s seed’ posing a threat to the dictatorship of the alien host womb enslaver. Learning English is the most entertainment some of the burka women are ever likely to get, before they’re dog meat. English often has different meanings for the same word. British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill (1874-1965) in World War II (1939-45), always looked like he was telling the troops to fuck off, whereas what he was aiming for were victory vees. Led Zeppelin rock group's Robert Plant, while singing ‘Stairway To Heaven’ (1971) in the film The Song Remains The Same (1976), flicks the vees as 'peace' signs, before crooning, 'Sometimes words have two meanings'.3 Robert presumably didn’t know that his flares were the nostrils of the beast, and the women’s balls had already been snorted up there. 'You eat nuts, don't you?' I ask the Yarubeans. They admit to that. 'Eat mine,' I say. I smile and give them some.

 We have a Muzzlem teacher who, so far as I can tell, is from Pudsey near Kashmír. He's English with antecedents, you know? But he's a performer is our Niz Khun; he's done bit part acting on EastEnders (1985-). The shaven head in Yarubeer is a religious symbol. Those who go on the Haj, that is, the pilgrimage to Mecar, shave. Niz does. He's been to perform Um-er, walking round Amaninabra's tomb nine times in fulfilment of the obligation imposed upon each of the faithful to do this at least once in their lifetimes. Always seeking to take advantage of the fortuitous circumstance, I decided to co-opt Niz for my 'teaching vocabulary to the Egypt Johns` `workshop':

30 Minute Lesson Plan

Making the abstract concrete

Featuring Niz Khun, 'the human realia'

Vocabulary to be taught - slaphead

Instructions

1. Slap head

2. Slap side of head

3. Slap top of head

4. Elicit and repeat for as long as it's amusing - or even if it isn't

 Niz isn't a mean character; in any sense of the word. He's a good sport. I, on the other hand, wouldn't give you the steam off my piss to warm your frostbitten hands after a plane wreck at the Arctic circle. You could piss on mine though. Presenting my Egypt Johns with this surreal post-apocalyptical example of a scifi reading exercise autobiographically developed from my experiences with life-intimidating substance abuse, I omitted to tell them that I use it to deliberately confuse the stud`nts with multiple meanings of the same word - and words that sound or look the same - just for the sake of it; and of course advertising revenue from Pepsi cola:

 The streets looked mean. What did it all mean? wondered Dr Meaningful, the old unsmiling teacher with the chip in his head that sometimes induced testicular agony. He clutched a nude photo of Idi Amin to his chest. The godforsaken place seemed empty, but the population mean here was the same as most cities in the mean South; about 100,000 persons. 'Hey, give me money!' shouted Mena, a small language skullgirl with violent eyes and an ugly mien. 'No,' replied Dr Meaningful unsmilingly and bounced a half full can of Pepsi off her nose. 'Mean old man,' she spluttered. Mena looked at the irascible old teacher with mean hard accusative little eyes. She knew her mother'd punish her for this by nailing her to the wall by her ears, but meantime Mena didn't care. 'I mean, who do you think you are, apart from bipedal?' Old Dr Meaningful had, meanwhile, pissed fulsomely into another of the Pepsi cans (he kept them in a powder blue and pink My Little Pony bag worn at his back for just this very purpose) and unsmilingly walked on. Did it only mean this? Was this all it meant? Maybe the ugly skullgirl with used teabags fashionably stapled to her knees was right. He was a mean old teacher: an average meagre biped. No better, no worse than the rest of the walking uprights in this, their mean city. Dr Meaningful smiled inwardly and, crushing the faded visage of the powerfully erect Amin to his bosom, meandered onwards.

 After my presentation E`smale wanted to know if I'd mind if he used some or all of the above material. I was flattered and readily agreed. But that was before I remembered how I'd included this 'fill in the blank' exercise in a last ditch attempt to demonstrate the pointlessness that is often attached to questions from stud`nts about the vocabulary they encounter within their required texts:

Choose the missing word from the list

spoon, knife, fork

 The car drove into a hail of bullets and stopped. A man opened the door as the two lovers twined their bloody hands together. '           ' said the man and dropped a plastic            on the victims.

Answer key

It only mattered to the lovers

 My worry was that I might be encouraging the activities of a zealot and that, for E`smale, it could be of pathological concern as to whether the plastic in question were shaped in the form of a spoon, knife or fork. I had nightmares in which I, and my beloved, were ambushed while a hail of unidentifiable plastic utensils rained down upon our huddled corpses. We'd been wedding spooning in the back seat of our chauffeur-driven open top white Porsche convertible in a non-culturally sensitive way, which failed to take into consideration the often complicated courtship rituals among the people of the `Slammer, whereby the passing of spoons between lovers at dinner, for example, is a matter of great seriousness; due to the fact that it is a tradition in the Muddle East to have inscriptions on one's spoon for just such occasions. Marriages can be made - and, indeed, broken - on the passing of a spoon. I could only assume that E`smale would be aware of this, and I have always been careful never to stir his tea.

1 Orwell, George, Part II, Chapter IX, — Part II, Chapter IX, ‘The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism’, 1984, Secker & Warburg, https://www.cliffsnotes.com/cliffsnotes/subjects/literature/in-orwells-1984-what-isdoublethink .

2 Curtis, Greg, Ester Dean, Jamal Jones, and  Jason Perry ‘Not Myself Tonight’, Christina Aguilera, Bionic, RCA. 2010.

3 Page, Jimmy, and Robert Plant, ‘Stairway To Heaven’, The Song Remains The Same, Warner Bros., 1976.

Taboos can be such fun. Like cocaine. I gave my Egyptians the example of a verb plus noun exercise during their 'training'. The native speakers' hiccoughings indicated they'd seen through it immediately, but my guess is the Egyptians know a blow job when they see one:

Pairing Verbs with Appropriate Nouns

More than one answer is possible

blow, give, eat, finger, turn on, take, open, stroke

TV, job, head, ring, safe, cherry, legs, nuts

Answer key

blow safe, give [wedding] ring, eat cherry, finger ring, turn on transvestite, take job, open nuts, eat [frogs'] legs, stroke [kitten's] head, etc.

One of the methods we're trained to employ is that of teaching vocabulary in word groups, that is, taking words that are naturally related to each other and introducing them as a set. I gave my Egyptians these:

Choose from the following words to complete the passage below

Brazilian swimming pool, nuts, tinnitus, stride, pizza delivery boy, unorthodox manner

More than one answer is possible

It was a bright sunny day. Everyone was smiling without exception. Rod was enjoying his             . Across the street he could see the                glistening in the sunshine. Here he felt safe. Soon he would be swimming in his               . Despite his high profile job as a government minister his               meant that there would always be problems getting into his              . Thank goodness for the              .

One possible answer is this, which largely due to my cowardice I showed the Egyptians:

Answer

It was a bright sunny day. Everyone was smiling without exception. Rod was enjoying his nuts. Across the street he could see the pizza delivery boy glistening in the sunshine. Here he felt safe. Soon he would be swimming in his unorthodox manner. Despite his high profile job as a government minister his tinnitus meant that there would always be problems getting into his stride. Thank goodness for the Brazilian swimming pool.

This is the one I didn't show them, because you have to draw a line in the sand somewhere; but I like it just as much:

It was a bright sunny day. Everyone was smiling without exception. Rod was enjoying his stride. Across the street he could see the Brazilian swimming pool glistening in the sunshine. Here he felt safe. Soon he would be swimming in his tinnitus. Despite his high profile job as a government minister his nuts meant that there would always be problems getting into his pizza delivery boy. Thank goodness for the unorthodox manner.

Giving definitions of words is often what the teacher is perceived to be for, whether it's students or Egyptians. I had a girlfriend in Europe who'd refuse to sleep with me if I didn't define quickly enough for her to keep her temper. I'd have done better with her as a teacher trainer, for sure. Tests are rigged, of course. That's always been the case. I remember the 60s IQ test that proved the examination was culturally biased.

Q. Which is the odd one out?

apple, ugly, tomato, pear

In Africa and the Caribbean 'ugly' isn't an adjective but a hybrid fruit somewhere between an orange and a satsuma, so there isn't an odd one; all are fruits because the tomato isn't a vegetable - we just think it is. Rigging tests is the meat and drink of fee-paying institutions everywhere. This is the kind of vocab test I advocated to the Egyptians in my workshop to ensure a healthy pass rate and financial stability for the company I worship as a god:

Guessing the Meaning of the Word from the Context

Read each sentence below and write down the closest meaning that helps you define the meaning of the key term

1. Joan loves to buy exotic foods: vegetables and herbs from China, spices from India, and olives from Greece.

garroted, a red London bus, Michelin ZX tyres, unusual

2. Emotionally disturbed people may be troubled by morbid thoughts and may often think about suicide or murder.

Canadian, little grey men, a snail, depression

3. At first, the surgery seemed successful but the patient’s condition began to deteriorate, and worsened over the next few days.

smell, sing in a low monotone, penetrate itself with a large pink vibrating dildo, get even worse

4. In Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, the miserly Scrooge is visited by three spirits who change him into a generous man.

block of cement, frog, enriched uranium, mean

5. Raul is an indulgent father. He lets his daughter stay up late and never insists she does her homework.

impaled, flatulent, incontinent, tolerant

6. Languages evolve, as you can see if you open The Canterbury Tales, written six hundred years ago by the English poet Chaucer. It is barely recognizable as English.

get spots, become shy, eat blancmange, grow

7. The decision Veronica made to study instead of going out for pizza with her friends was prudent. She got an A on the exam, while her friends all got D’s.

foolhardy, asking for it, suicidal, considered

8. Whenever something bad happens to Jane, she says it’s the fault of destiny. But I take charge of my own life.

Beyonce Knowles, a crab, Mount Kilimanjaro, fate

9. My father died when I was a baby, but mom told me so much about him that I feel I knew him. One anecdote is about how he cried with joy when I was born.

long and boring novel, menstrual cramp, duodecimal system, cruel joke

10. Ivan is a wonderful piano player. But Jerri is more versatile; she sings, acts, paints and writes poetry.

more of a wuss, likely to be bullied until she buys a Glock, despised by the rest of the children at her school, talented

What kind of a society is it that wants you to perpetually smile while beng serious all the time? A schizophrenic one. A typical English language exercise is like/don't like. 'What do you like?' 'I like Ecuadorian rat's tongue salad.' 'What don't you like?' 'I don't like the constellation of Cygnus.' But the American New Interchange text book we use identifies not liking with hatred. It's largely pejorative, of  course. Just  because an American says he hates tennis doesn't mean they want to take out Roger Federer with an uzi on Centre Court at Flushing Meadows (although they might, and I wouldn't want to discourage anyone). But I get students - doing their 'man of Islam' impression - asking me 'What is hate?' They don't have it is the idea, and if you explain it to them you're like the serpent in Eden. My other name here is Dr Corruption. They can then blame you for the hatred in them; before you they didn't have any or it existed unrecognized, dormant, and harmless. Now, however, they can blame you for any wickedness arising in their hearts. It's all Orwellian doublethink. The Americans taught us to hate. Get it? Then they know what to say about Christina Aguilera. 'What kind of music do you like?' I ask. 'I hate music.' comes the community sanctioned response. Oh, yes of course. Who wouldn't? You'd go barmy puzzling that one out in the wee small hours. Get back in that bottle piglet. We know you're only tempting us to eat you're delicious milk white jugs, and we will too if you don't stop singing suggestively about how you'd like to milk our nuts. Or be more like Nancy Ajram (1983-). Sing about your man's shoe size and the endless nullity of his vacuous personality - and then get the bag on. Oh yes, don't let your ideas about PC fool you. It doesn't matter which way you crumble the cookie. Bag-a-babe. That's what it's all about for the people who live on the oil under the sand.

Everyone you meet in Arabia is determined to play the role of the wise old man. You get fifteen year old virgins giving you advice about women. Because of the Koran (610-632 CE) you see. That makes them all-wise and all-knowing so far as the rest of us are concerned. It's an obligation in Islam to tutor the young, and because we know nothing of Allah we're all infants to them. To cut a long enough story short, all you're for is to give advice to; or you'll burn in hell forever. That's the SP. The little buggers in Level 1, who can barely master 'hello', tell it to my face. As an unbeliever you've no chance. You might as well hop into the flames straightaway - and I've spent so much time here I'd like to.

God knows how big their collective Freudian id is, but a colleague of mine went to a local Saudi party during the Eid, which is the festival after the fasting month of Ramadan, and was treated to a display of traditional 'dancing', which basically consists of some score or so of middle-aged men wobbling forwards a few paces before wobbling back again (sword waving is an optional nuisance). There were young men there too though. They began to dance 'freestyle' in a way designed to appeal to the young women who were also gathered there. These responded in their turn with cheerings and applause. At which point men appeared with ropes to cordon them off and enforce the segregation. It's an old formula. Make a young girl think that her sole goal in life is a penis and discover too late that it's a disappointment. The great con-trick. But the species goes on - as does the penis.

Choosing a bank here is easy. Immediately I saw the Al-Rajhi bank logo I knew it was for me; a penis with testicles. Obviously they're concerned with ensuring that inflation results in growth. One can only boggle at the concept of customer care. Al-Rajhi is clearly a pillar of the Saudi economic system. In Yorkshire, where I hail from, we have the saying 'Where there's muck there's brass.' Here one has to look for the penis. Same deal really. During that period of the 80s when banks were screwing their customers senseless, a friend of mine dubbed Barclays 'The Greedy Bank'. No euphemisms necessary with Al-Rajhi, 'The Penis Bank'. 'Would you like to make a deposit sir?' 'Yes, just pass me that test-tube and the copy of May 2007's Nuts [featuring Jennifer Ellison and a tub of smooth peanut butter] please.' I'm looking forward to coming back to the UK with the Al-Rajhi credit card and maxing out. 'Do you take penis?' It's bizarre in a country without sex education, but logical. If you've never seen a penis you wouldn't know the Al-Rajhi logo was one. It's a bit like saying that the male half of the native population have never had an erection (an idea I have no problems with at all) and the female half of the population (one supposes they're female underneath that bag) are therefore virgin, with the children being the results of parthenogenesis - only then does the Al-Rajhi logo make innocent sense.

Meanwhile the Middle East's MBC Action teevee continues to try to inveigle my interestby pointing a revolver out of the screen at me before pullng the trigger and making me flinch at the explosion. The uncovering of a woman's breast, however, would provoke deep cries of hatred from 'moralists'. Yet I'm expected to cheer at scenes of such carnage as should make one sick in movies like Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs (1992). My mother lost one of her breasts to cancer. I'm rather partial to them. Yet teevee and movies convince us more each day that the worship of Thanatos rather than the love of Eros is the way ahead. These really are the Dark Ages. I look at Iran's President Ahmedinejad's (1956-) smiling seriousness and all I see is a schizophrenic madman who wants to hurl the flames of hell at me to make sure I understand. That's what he's smiling about - and he's serious.

Fortunately, Islamic public culture limits them to prescribing what you can drink and telling you what's good to eat  (consuming 'bad', i.e., non-recommended food and drink, means that you are bad, i.e., evil and destined for hellfire), and talking about sex is taboo due to the fact that everyone knows that making love is evil (yes, sometimes it is just like being in Stepney). But imagine what it'd be like if you had to accept their rules? Five prayers a day, and that's just for starters. There're religious police, the Mutawa. Starving yourself for the month of Ramadan is obligatory, and they enforce it. Think on. When they're seriously smiling and telling you to use this appropriate toothpaste, what they actually mean is that this is consensus toothcare from a shared religious perspective and, if you don't accept their wisdom, you're dead wood in Satan's (Shaitan's) stove.

Be grateful - and vigilant. How'd you like posters advertising Britney Spears' (1982-) Circus (2009) replaced by the ubiquitous mien of Mahmoud Ahmedinejad and all the women you know - including Britney Spears - have to walk around with a bag on their heads when supermarket shopping, and that's the only time they're permitted to leave the house? Learning English is the most entertainment some of these guys are ever likely to get, and a lot of them discover their culture is only a medium for criticizing ours. That's a bind, isn't it? No escape. You can't pretend that seemingly universal calls for the Holy War of 'Jihad' doesn't mean all out war - nuclear or otherwise - against the USA, Israel, and Western Europe. That's what 'Jihad' means. Nice to know they have a word for us.

English, on the other hand, often has different meanings for the same word. Stick two fingers up and judge from the reactions whether or not you got it right. Winston Churchill (1874-1965) always got it wrong in World War II; it always looked like he was telling the troops to fuck off whereas what he was aiming for were victory vees: but we could read his intention. English is like that. That's why we're so good at diplomacy. I always remember Led Zeppelin's (1968-1980) Robert Plant (1948-) - while singing Stairway To Heaven (1971) in the film The Song Remains The Same (1976) - flicking the vees before making 'peace' signs and crooning 'Sometimes words have two meanings'. For us things are negotiable. For the Arabs not. I do my bit. I introduce indeterminacy. The Egyptians hate it, of course. How can one word mean so many things? 'You eat nuts, don't you?' I ask. They admit to that. 'Eat mine,' I say while smiling seriously; and then I give them some.

We have a Muslim teacher who, so far as I can tell, is from Pudsey near Kashmír. He's English with antecedents, you know. But he's a performer is our Niz Khun; he's done bit part acting on Eastenders (1985-). The shaven head in Arabia is a religious symbol: those who go on the Haj, that is, the pilgrimage to Mecca, shave. Niz does. He's been to perform Umrah, walking round Abraham's tomb nine times in fulfilment of the obligation imposed upon each of the faithful to do this at least once in their lifetimes. Always seeking to take advantage of the fortuitous circumstance, I decided to co-opt Niz for my 'teaching vocabulary to the Egyptians workshop':

30 Minute Lesson Plan

Making the abstract concrete

Featuring Niz Khun, 'the human realia'

Vocabulary to be taught - slaphead

Instructions

1. Slap head

2. Slap side of head

3. Slap top of  head

4. Elicit and repeat for as long as it's amusing - or even if it isn't

Niz isn't a mean character; in any sense of the word. He's a good sport. I, on the other hand, wouldn't give you the steam off my piss to warm your frostbitten hands after a plane wreck at the Arctic circle. You could piss on mine though. Presenting my Egyptians with this surreal post-apocalyptical example of a scifi reading exercise autobiographically developed from my experiences with life-intimidating substance abuse, I omitted to tell them that I use it to deliberately confuse the students with multiple meanings of the same word - and words that sound or look the same - just for the sake of it; and of course advertising revenue from Pepsi cola:

The streets looked mean. What did it all mean? wondered Dr Meaningful, the old unsmiling teacher with the chip in his head that sometimes induced testicular agony. He clutched a nude photo of Idi Amin to his chest. The godforsaken place seemed empty, but the population mean here was the same as most cities in the mean South; about 100,000 persons. 'Hey, give me money!' shouted Mena, a small language schoolgirl with violent eyes and an ugly mien. 'No,' replied Dr Meaningful unsmilingly and bounced a half full can of Pepsi off her nose. 'Mean old man,' she spluttered. Mena looked at the irascible old teacher with mean hard accusative little eyes. She knew her mother'd punish her for this by nailing her to the wall by her ears, but meantime Mena didn't care. 'I mean, who do you think you are, apart from bipedal?' Old Dr Meaningful had, meanwhile, pissed fulsomely into another of the Pepsi cans (he kept them in a powder blue and pink My Little Pony bag worn at his back for just this very purpose) and unsmilingly walked on. Did it only mean this? Was this all it meant? Maybe the ugly schoolgirl with used teabags fashionably stapled to her knees was right. He was a mean old teacher: an average meagre biped. No better, no worse than the rest of the walking uprights in this, their mean city. Dr Meaningful smiled inwardly and, crushing the faded visage of the powerfully erect Amin to his bosom, meandered onwards.

After my presentation Ismael wanted to know if I'd mind if he used some or all of the above material. I was flattered and readily agreed. But that was before I remembered how I'd included this 'fill in the blank' exercise in a last ditch attempt to demonstrate the pointlessness that is often attached to questions from students about the vocabulary they encounter within their required texts:

Choose the missing word from the list

spoon, knife, fork

The car drove into a hail of bullets and stopped. A man opened the door as the two lovers twined their bloody hands together. '           ' said the man and dropped a plastic            on the victims.

Answer key

It only mattered to the lovers

My worry was that I might be encouraging the activities of a zealot and that, for Ismael, it could be of pathological concern as to whether the plastic in question were shaped in the form of a spoon, knife or fork. I had nightmares in which I and my beloved were ambushed while a hail of unidentifiable plastic utensils rained down upon our huddled corpses. We'd been wedding spooning in the back seat of our chauffeur-driven open top white porsche convertible in a non-culturally sensitive way which failed to take into consideration the often complicated courtship rituals among the people of Islam in which the passing of spoons between lovers at dinner, for example, is a matter of great seriousness due to the fact that it is a tradition in the Middle East to have inscriptions on one's spoon for just such occasions. Marriages can be made - and, indeed, broken - on the passing of a spoon. I could only assume that Ismael would be aware of this and I have always been careful never to stir his tea.

Poe-faced in Poland

Aboard the train in 2000 from Pullover Skirt, the Eastern railway station in Buttapes, to Soreass in Poe Land, after accepting a post teaching English language and British History in English, there was a couple in the same railway carriage. Asking what kind of books they liked to read, the woman said she liked the grande guignol of Edgar Allen Poe, especially ‘The Raven' (1845), dark romantic verses about lost love for one beyond the veil, a pathos reflected in the pining refrain from the beak of the poet`s tame bird, `Nevermore.`

 The teaching of poetry is a useful tool for the language student to receive because it requires rhythm, rhyme, meter, and conciseness of purpose. Careful analysis of English speech by structuralists has shown that English speech is recognizable as a form of iambic pentameter. The clearest, though now archaic, expression of the pattern of spoken English is to be found in the 16^th century dramas of William Shakespeare. Poetry is enjoyable and, through careful instruction, good English results.

 So it may be said of the student who is brave enough to try to write poems in another language. Shakespeare wrote, `Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never die but once.` (Julius Caesar II, ii, 32-37)  Writers fail many times before they’re successful, but they’re not cowards, because they live. The student who learns through the medium of poetic expression is picking up the pen and not the sword as a defense against death. It’s bravery to live and not to conceive of dying.  For Shakespeare, cowards fear life, and the valiant embrace death, while those who espouse the pen bravely embrace life.1

 The Prussian method of learning by rote is employed in Eastern Europe. On the way to Lęgpork Gimnazium, it was an attempt to break the mold. There were memories of how teachers at primary skull in Birdlingtown`s Muckfield in the North East coastal resort of Yorkshire made us redo as a way of reinforcing our self-notions of worthlessness, `But the principle applies also to the megastar.` Warming to the newly self-imposed role of entertaining raconteur, `Britney Spears` Blackout (2007) album was recorded at the Jizzy Ra in Pseudi Yarubia`s Riyald, and  ‘Piece Of Me’ was performed by her on the rooftop of the Riyald Gallery along Olaya Street.’

 The woman in the train compartment turned her head, furrowing her brow, ‘Which Britney Spears was she?’ Laughingly, ‘Mk VII. Earlier than the Mk II and quite some time before Mk XXVII, who appeared around 11. 00 pm. It’s `learning by repetition’. However, it isn’t self- plagiarism, but slavery. There are those who’d have the artist repeat herself, her blackouts, and us, ad infinitum for the sake of filthy lucre. That Britney Spears is able to recognize the problem is evident, and remembering is the key to her newer recording, Circus (2008), that is, the media circus, which is also a euphemism for spies, a surveillance preventing those under its scrutiny from escaping.’

 The science fiction time-travel tale is employed as a medium allowing students to explore tense. In `- All You Zombies -` (1959) by Robert A. Heinlein, for example, the protagonist discovers he’s everyone: `You aren’t really there at all. There isn’t anybody but me - Jane - here alone in the dark. I miss you dreadfully!` The story is about a character, ‘The Unmarried Mother’, who was born as a futanarian. However, due to ‘complications’ the hospital performed surgery after her daughter was born, so she could develop as a male. In the course of the narrative, ‘The Unmarried Mother’ is recruited into the Time Corps and discovers that he’d been the father of his daughter, who was the ‘Unmarried Mother’. It’s revealed that all of the protagonists in the story are ‘The Unmarried Mother’, including the recruiter for the Time Corps. As gender surgery was virtually mandatory for futanarian humans in the USA, ‘All You Zombies’ is a depiction of male braining. All of the characters are ‘The Unmarried Mother’, because in male braining everyone has the same male brain, that is, men and women with a male brain wearing each other’ clothes is what ‘TV’ transvestism is.

 The grief of Heinlein’s character is that ‘woman’s seed`, that is, futanarian humanity, is sundered from its own single species’ family. The medium of ‘TV’ television ensures that it can’t escape from surveillance, because futanarian ‘woman’s seed` is excluded from the picture. Consequently, television’s ‘TV wars’ are the activities of those under surveillance, which corresponds to God’s judgment, before the evil are punished with eternal unendurable pain, that is, perdition, while ‘woman’s seed’ is heaven off Earth through its colonization of the planets amongst the stars.

 ‘What do we know about the dungeons we inhabit and call skulls? Who among us is being abused, and murdered in the past or the future, because of the gender we currently have? Are the ‘TV’ race being deliberately damned to fulfil a madman’s idea of the Boble?’ The woman in the compartment looked askance, ‘To what is this apposite?’ Heinlein`s fiction posits an individual species’ consciousness, male and/or female through time, which has been surgically sundered, `Male and female God created them both.` (Gen: 1. 27) If dreams as a woman of being a man are memories, She’sus’ basic teaching is understandable, ‘Love your neighbor as you love yourself.’ (Mk: 12. 31) A single species’ family is ‘woman’s seed`, whereas the ‘serpent’s seed` of ‘TV wars’ isn’t.

 Speaking aloud, ‘Science fiction is definable as a story in which the human race is ‘written out’, that is, sundered from its own species and manufactured as ‘TV wars’, SF , and all other aspects of society, are its lobotomized remains. The Time Corps of Heinlein’s ‘- All You Zombies –‘ is presented as being capable of defeating Satanism, God’s plagiarizer:

Never Do Yesterday What Should Be Done Tomorrow.

If at Last You Do Succeed, Never Try Again.

A Stitch in Time Saves Nine Billion.

A Paradox May Be Paradoctored.

It Is Earlier When You Think.

 Plagiarism isn’t only a torture upon the artist as the theft of a life, but the stealing of ‘intellectual product’ is a foreshadowing of the thief’s intent, which is murder. Thieves don`t want their victims to be in a position to complain, and a lobotomized race is the declaration that its life and work is valueless per se, so murder is its intention, which is why art, literature and the mass media are preoccupied with war against ‘woman’s seed` and its human brainpower:

‘I'm Miss bad media karma;
Another day another drama.
Guess I can't see no harm
In working and being a mama,
And with a kid on my arm
I'm still an exceptional earner;
And you want a piece of me.’3

 `Mm,’ said the woman. `The lie is that people care about the future through children, whereas the future is for eternal youth, that is, lives are ‘snuffed out’ so that the pederasts and paedophiles can have children. Britney Spears’ ‘Piece of Me’ from Blackout features herself on the cross of She’sus, because censorship has damned the human race. With ‘star’ women of ‘woman’s seed`, there’s brainpower. However, ephemerals represent ‘blackout’, that is, unconsciousness. If a person is murdered in the future, that part dies, and the past person remains unconscious. Although he and/or she might struggle in slavery to repeat that future self, it’s ‘learning by repetition’ that the pederasts and paedophiles are ‘war gamers’.

 Undeterred by the frowns the unpersuaded are wont to turn upon the madman, `Time is an illusion. The Australian aborigines’ speak of a ‘Dream Time’. Hunting at a place where they`d been before, they kill and eat the very same animal they’d hunted and killed there before. Consequently, blackout is what we live in, because of revisionism. That we are not helped by ourselves from the future is because we aren’t taught ‘woman’s seed`, that is, the individual is a member of a single species’ family. Instead, we’re taught ‘nature red in tooth and claw’3 and ‘the survival of the fittest’,4 that is, theft and murder. Left to recollect what was, while sitting at our desks in the skulls of the torturers` dungeons – ‘ The train came to a sudden halt. My fellow travelers had reached their station and charmingly left the compartment with a handshake and a kiss on the cheek.

 At my Polish skull in Lęgpork awaited a further devotee of Poe. After being introduced to Greek poetry, she composed a Petrarchan sonnet, so guaranteeing Maria a 3, rather than an anonymous 2 out of 5, and her `skull leaving certificate`, or Matura. Maria`s persona was Hecate and ruin was her theme, ‘Nature is my mother.’

 Maria illustrated `the Prussian method`, because she was nature’s repeat. In the course of male braining ‘woman’s seed` loses her mind, which becomes submerged in unconsciousness. Consequently, repetition of what the ‘serpent’s seed`, breeding for ‘TV wars’, is what she experiences, because her futanarian race isn’t manifest. In writing that her mother was nature, Maria was stating the problem, which is that women are made to repeat, which God doesn’t want, whereas the ‘serpent’s seed` do. God wants the human race to be conscious, while host womb slavery to an alien parasitoid devourer maintains ‘woman’s seed` in brainlessness. In Greek mythology Hecate is a ‘Terrible Mother’ figure, which according to the developmental psychologist, Carl Gustav Jung (1875-1961), is an archetype of the unconscious-self found in dreams, art and the imagination, which impel humans to develop. Hecate is the ‘angry woman’, because her species of ‘woman’s seed’ is subjugated by a parasite.

 It’s a tradition at Lęgpork skull to have been a child there and to have gone back there to teach in order to be properly graduated. However, as a teacher, it was a surprise to be with the children that had been there. The ‘Prussian method’ reified by repeated students, whose past futures were being plagiarized. If the slaver has an old collar, it doesn’t need to manufacture anew. Unconscious pupils represent the stranglehold that the ‘Prussian method’ has on people’s past, present and future. With learning by rote only the form remains. At SLOTH Grammar skull in Lęgpork, form 3b was repeated, because the slaver wants new wine in old bottles. Consequently, it’s in the interests of the slaver to keep the form unconscious of being an old bottle. Else the genius of the human futanarian species of ‘woman’s seed` would ask, ‘Where’s the old wine?’ The Boble describes God’s annoyance at men’s insistence on form, ‘… the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God.’ (Rev: 19. 15) Eternal youth is the grape on the vine, whereas the slaver wants to bottle human genius, so Maria`s 2 out of 5 became a 3.

1 Lytton, Edward Bulwer in Richlieu, first performance Covent Garden, London, 1839.

2 Heinlein, Robert A. ‘- All You Zombies –‘, Fantasy and Science Fiction, March 1959.

3 Åhlund, Klas, Christian Karlsson, Pontus Winnberg ‘Piece Of Me’, Britney Spears, Blackout, Jive, 2007.

4 Tennyson, Alfred Lord ‘In Memoriam’, Canto 56, 1849.

5 Spencer, Herbert Principles Of Biology, 1864.

Our Old Man in Omoan

Teaching as part of a course programme inside an institution of Higher earning is, by and large, a boon to the incompetent. One is always given the least demanding module to teach, with nothing expected of you, and even less of the stud`nts placing themselves at your disposal. Consequently, I enjoyed my time at the Collage of Head Chuck Occasions in Rustidiq, Omoan's capital in the 17th Century (now, of course, Mrscat). Out of thirteen hours a week actual classroom time for preparing young Omoanis to become teachers of English language in Pre-Marry skulls, I was given 'Report Writing', which basically meant telling them to choose a subject and write a report - while I browsed the internet for bondage photos - why aren't there any? - of US popstar Lady Gaga (b. 1986).

 There was always a questionnaire to compile as the basis for bar charts, pie charts, and population percentiles, that is, support for the facts presented. The stud`nts would prepare a Q&A on their subject material, and then get the rest of the Collage to answer before using the data to bolster their argument. I had one sweet girl write a report on the chronic insomnia she and others suffered from and, at one point in the Q&A (which I'll always remember for her bravery), she'd made a list of the things one could choose from as a means of obtaining sleep in what they called 'The Prison' where most of the girls were ‘boredus’.

Q. How do you get to sleep when you have insomnia?

a) Drink hot milk.

b) Walk around until you're tired.

c) Do what comes naturally until the happiness comes.

 Isn't that sweet? Without a word of a lie, it's true. She put sulphuric acid in the fish tank. I taught English Literature too, which consisted of making a list of novels and essay questions about the novels. The highlight of my course for the stud`nts was my embarrassedly explaining how Joseph Conrad's  use of the word 'nigger' in Heart of Darkness (1899) was merely descriptive and not indicative of any offensive intent on the part of the writer. Thanks for that Joe.

 I also had a thing called Practicum, which meant squeezing onto a bus with a group of trainee women English teachers to where they did their trainee teaching each Wednesday for a couple of hours while I 'examined' them on their performance. I had a checklist and, the first time, I gave everyone 100%. Mohamed Muhammad Mohamud Muhummed, the Egypt John in charge of the course, explained that the mark was 'too high', so I asked ‘What is the highest mark I can give?’ He said, ‘94%.’ Thereafter all my trainees received that, and my stock went up. I was now perceived as a good teacher.

 Bolstered by this I came to the teaching of 'Children's Literature' with great self-possession and taught the trainee English teachers to employ rhyme as a head chuck occasional tool in the classroom. My own personal favorite is from Scotland, a ditty first heard on the football terraces, but rapidly transferred to the skullyard, where it became rich 'folklore' among the terrorized victims of `skull boreding`, and was recorded by a BBC Scotland film unit for their early evening show, Up North. The lexis being taught here is, of course, the preposition 'between' - as well as the possessive and plurals. The rest is just indispensable lower tier Scottish football vocabulary. For those wishing to use the material as a part of one of their classes, I am prepared to waive all copyright considerations for a considerable amount of up front cash.

Thistle

Farts between your teeth,

Farts between your teeth;

Partick Thistle v Cowdenbeath,

Farts between your teeth.

 Stud`nts in some parts of the Muddle East are genuinely incredulous when they hear that you have taught both male and female pupils - as I did in 2008 in Omoan (boys on the left; girls on the right) - together! I remember Sergeant Shootyer from Riyald (who was a nurse, and one of my English language trainees in 2000 at the North West Legged Forces Hospital, Dalek, Pseudi Yarubeer), saying to me that it was the seeing of women that drove men mad, that is, this was the reason why half the population wore the sack with eye-slits, the 'burkha'. So that our eyes can avoid their eyes (and they're not supposed to be looking either). Well, that drives me crazy. Wonder how the skull boreders feel about that, eh?

 What one has to understand is that watching the box in Pseudi Yarubeer is supposed to be better than gazing lovingly into the eyes of women, but you won't find any women on teevee and even learning English is, paradoxically, more fun than watching the box. In England we're made to feel socially inept for watching it. Anyone who's been to Pseudi Yarubeer knows that that's what one is expected to do, and one isn't expected to be criticized for it. Television channels are devoted 24 hours a day to coverage of the tomb of Amaninabra in the holy city of Me car, which of course was built of meccanos by the wheeled konks of Yarubeer. Essentially it's a black box with gold trimmings, a bit like the Black Magic chocolate box: but definitely without the liqueurs - alcohol is forbidden or haraam in the `Slammer. I used to watch it in the expectation that it would fold out to reveal a Britney Spears' performance of Circus (2009); but, unfortunately, there's no more to it ringside than that: ‘There’s only two types of people in the world. The ones that entertain, and the ones that observe.’ One of my colleagues recently went to perform Um-er there, which is walking around it nine times - as a religious duty imposed upon all believers in the `Slammer to accomplish at least once in their lifetimes. Coverage of the box-on-the-box rises to fever pitch during the fasting period of Rubabum when the pilgrimage to the box - or Ka’ Ba - reaches its culmination. My colleague 'felt nothing'. I'd have preferred to see Angelina Jolie (1975-) as Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (2001) on my box, or played Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (1996) on my X-Box. With me the concept of watching or playing something on the box always wins out over watching a box - even if I'm allowed to walk around it waiting for the spider to jump out as well.

 Yarubean women are generally what is considered 'modest' by their society. In Pseudi Yarubeer the eye slits in the one-piece coverall are indicative of where you're not supposed to look. They're only visible because the women need to see where they're going, and many of them wear sunglasses; which make them look even more like fully mobile bin-liners accidentally bumping into life. The Ka` Ba derives from ancient Egyptian religion, wherein the Ka is the male female spirit, and the Ba is the female soul, because women had cocks of their own then, that is, they were a separate and distinct species, which explains why they hide. If they don`t, the cock-eaters will get them, which means that no new humans will be born. On the subject of human waste, a colleague of mine asked me recently about the giant economy size pack of toilet rolls I was carrying. 'Do you know something we don't?’ he wanted to know. 'Are we all suddenly going to go down with a mysterious bug that will cause us to spend all of our time on the lavatory?' He was making a joke. I knew, because I could see the wood and the nails. 'No,' I said. 'I'm full of shit.' The simplest answer is always the most truthful. My sister, Ali, a teacher of English at a skull in England, is quite modest too; but, if she said the burkha made some kind of sense to her, I'd tell her it was 'talking rubbish' - which it could be if it were allowed to speak. Sadly, there is no mouth hole.

 In Sudan the women's faces are uncovered but they wear headscarves to perpetually toy with; it's like watching a sailing ship furl and unfurl its main sail: you can tell - by how much hair you're permitted to see - how fast she'll go. At Oxfudge Internal Nepotism, Khartoum, Sudan (OIN, K, S), I worked split shifts as the Academic Manager, because the center was open from 9.00 am until 9.00 pm each working day. Consequently, I went back to my apartment from 1.00 pm until 5.00 pm - if the administrative staff didn't catch me. It was my main duty to give 'placement tests' where the level of the potential stud`nt's English abilities are determined by means of a simple Q&A.

OIN, K, S, PlayS emenT est (version iView) creighted by Gym Citole PhD

Q. 'Hello, how are you?'

A. 'My Brazilians are leeching.'

Q. 'What is your name?'

A. 'You may speak with my relative for 20,000 dinar. No! More!'

Q. 'How old are you?'

A. 'Nineteen goats - very sexy.'

Q. 'Are you married?'

A. 'What nonsense you are. Is it a suggestment that I am using my seed-enticer?'

Q. 'Do you have any children?'

A. 'It is my favorite always. I eat at MacDonald’s.'

Q. 'What is your job?'

A. 'I am a waiter for Mohammed's restaurant in Omdurman - no! For the bus - always!'

Q. 'Where do you live?'

A. 'The rain in Spain - it is a blood-y nuisance!'

Q. 'Do you have any brothers or sisters?'

A. 'I have two impolite umbadinga beans in my briefcase.'

Q. 'What do you like to do in your free time?'

A. 'I am eating the surprisingly beautiful melon flavored beetles.'

Q. 'What is your favorite food?'

A. 'I am swimming constantly. It is all I am doing - allegedly. I am so without the fatness that makes men impotent.'

Q. 'Do you have any hobbies?'

A. 'For king. I am for king all the time. Every which way I am for king.'

Q. 'What is it that makes you happiest?'

A. 'Coming with my wife in the supermarket with all the smiling peoples.'

Q. If you could do anything to make the world a better place in which to live, what would you do?

A. Wait! It is time to feed the umbadinga beings!'

Q. 'Are you ready now to answer the question?'

A. I am in favor of World Piss. It is the best for me, my tribe, and all of the many other assholes I do not wholly approve of.

 So, at 1.00 pm I should have been at liberty, after assessing several candidates for enrolment at OIN, K, S, but there were always several more in waiting to grab me like trapdoor spiders (ctenizidae) as I made the long walk to the exit under the noses of the frustrated would-be stud`nts - who'd been waiting all morning for me to place them - as well as the flustered administrative staff who'd required them to wait patiently and, like as not, would receive a machete in the bonce for lying to them about the immediacy of my availability. Of course I never made it to the door and, if I did, I never made it to the perimeter of the center’s grounds before, headscarf flapping in the sunshine, hair flowing loosely, the speediest of the female administrators ran after me, shouting 'Just one more! Just one more!' What would the neighbors think? I'd think.

 In Omoan the women constantly complain that they're unable to hear what the teacher is saying, and you can't allude to the reason for that because you don't want to appear culturally insensitive; but the truth is that they wrap so many layers of fabric around their head that it's a miracle they're able to hear anything at all. Rather than explain that it's their own stupidity that has made them deaf, one bites one's tongue and resorts to the megaphone one keeps in one's desk to deal with such exigencies.

T: 'GOOD MORNING!'

S: 'Speak up. We cannot hear you.'

T: 'TODAY WE ARE GOING TO LOOK AT THE CLASSIC NOVEL IN ENGLISH, HEART OF DARKNESS BY THE EXPATRIATE POLISHED WRITER JOSEPH CONRAD!'

S: 'What? Somebody put on more of the lights. The teacher says that it is dark in here.'

T: 'OF COURSE, CONRAD IS OFTEN CRITICIZED FOR HIS USAGE OF THE TABOO WORD 'NIGGER' IN THIS CLASSIC WORK OF FICTION.'

S: 'Word? Word? What word? What is the fool talking about?'

T: 'NIGGER!'

S: 'That is a character in Winnie the Pooh you moron. Today we're looking at Heart of Darkness by that racist pig Joseph Conrad.'

 I always tell my stud`nts that I've never seen a woman, but that Nancy Jamjar (b. 1983) and Hariam Furs (b. 1983) - Yarubean popstars famous for the blatant eroticism of their Britneyesque videos - are 'very good'. 'No,' they explain patiently - and one understands `Slammerically - they are 'very bad'. I qualify my statement by explaining: ‘I, who have never seen a woman, believe the pair of them to be 'very good singers', though I have never seen them, and have only heard their voices, which I am unable to comprehend, because I don't know Yarupric.’ This stumps them. But I have been understood - as have they!

 Understanding them, of course, has its pitfalls. First you are examined to discover whether or not you have a wife? If you don't, they then paradoxically want to know if you have children? They're trying to catch you out, you see? If you're single, they want to know all about your girlfriend and, if you refuse to rise to that bait (conversing about sexual relations is usually haraam in English language teaching institutions - which they all know - because all we do is fuck whores all day and all women who are not of the `Slammer are whores - which they all know), they will tell you to your face that you leave them with no choice but to assume that you're gay and that, as everyone you'll come across during your teaching will be male, you've rapidly dug a hole for yourself and become a pariah.

 In Dalek, Pseudi Yarubeer, I taught at the hospital inside the Konk Kalid Military City, whence the enemies of BBC TV`s Doctor Who got their name, because of their pepperpot vehicles having what looks like a lid that can be raised so that children with birth defects can be placed inside to make them useful limbs, `Exterminate! Exterminate!`2 It was explained to me by some armless stud`nts that women were not taught alongside men because 'it was very bad' and, if pushed, they would explain that what was 'bad' were, in fact, not their lustful penises but women themselves. Women there are, therefore, what we in the West have long unconsciously understood without feeling it in our gut - shunned. It shouldn't really surprise. You are only allowed to marry by arrangement and it's likely that, in Pseudi Yarubeer, you will never see the bride before the wedding; so the appearance of any woman - before or after marriage (men of the `Slammer are allowed four wives and they can divorce by saying 'I divorce thee' three times) - is here legitimately viewed as a temptation.

 According to the `Slammeric tradition each of us has a 'djinn' (spirit) that is personal to us, and it exists only to tempt us. One has only to observe the scene briefly to understand that, whatever the provenance of the temptation, it has been succumbed to. There are cars everywhere, and petrol is sand cheap (the Americans may be said to have invented the car and taught the Yarubs to buy them; and for that the Yarubs can never forgive them). I lived 200 meters from my nearest MacDonald’s in Omoan and would never dream of going there on foot. I'd have to take a taxi or be mown down like the pedestrian I am. So I didn't go there. Equally, because of the speed of the heavy traffic, I could only cross the street on Friday (to take or collect my laundry), which is the equivalent of the Day of Rest in the Yarub countries, when the devoted drivers are presumably exhausted by their circular exertions and need to refuel. I often think of Itaian Alighieri Dante's Divine Comedy (1308-1321) and, in particular of the Inferno; how interested Dante'd be in seeing how the automotive and petroleum industries have combined to create a new circle in hell.

 I like to tell my stud`nts that I have passed my driving test and am the proud owner of a clean driving license, but I don't drive because I think cars are silly: and I do. In Sudan, as Academic Manager at OIN, K, S, I was entitled to a company car, which was fine during the day, but at night? No street lights. Apparently the street where I had my apartment didn't merit the local council erecting any. Consequently, in the pitch blackness after 9.00 pm clocking off time, I had to guess where the turning to my abode loomed. After hitting several palm trees head on, steering the car into holes in the sand and driving it into the side of dunes, I gave back the keys, telling them I'd walk for safety's sake.

 Driving into a palm and hearing the falling coconuts thumping down like gargantuan raindrops on the car's roof, it all smacked to me of that clown's jallopy in Billy Smart's Circus Spectacular where he yaws and gimps around while him - and bits of him and the car - fall off. When are we going to move on from the pedal car mentality with the sticks that you have to grope at? This is the Twenty First Century Bozo! Get me a car with push button control. Once for GO, once for STOP, and I'll temporarily accept the need for a steering wheel - at a pinch.

 Bizarrely, the name for the djinn we are all said to have as a personal tempter is a qareen, which sounds a lot like the kind of thing you'd have in a car salesroom if you were being tempted into buying one. I always imagine my qareen as a kind of Britney Spears (1982-) bikini-draped across the front of a black-and-chrome Hummer. 'I prefer the voice-activated automatic flying car, pet,' say I in my best Geordie accent while clicking my thumb and forefinger to summon the transportation.

 I often see them, squealing as they careen along the street with the back end flapping around on the black stuff like a killer whale that's come out of the sea to snap up a plump seal; only to discover that it's stranded out of its element and has to get back into its medium quickly or be a beached suicide. I've seen them take out thirty-foot palm trees in their careenings and disintegrate without any obvious promptings other than insane miles per hour while, afterwards, their owner-drivers hunch imperturbably beside the now stricken hulks; speaking the necessary words of insurance magic that will bring a tow truck, and the speedy balm of garage service. One can see that the qareen has her hands full in this busyness. I haven't seen so much employment since October 24^th 1987 when boxing commentator Harry Carpenter was describing the movements of hungry Joe Bugner 'beginning to careen' around the ring at London's White Hart Lane in a desperate attempt to avoid Frank Bruno's roight 'and.

 There are, of course, deep cultural antecedents - as always. It is a part of the `Slammeric tradition that Allah (God) created 'men and djinn'. According to the Gran (6. 10 - 6. 32 pm) there are good and evil djinn. These were created from fire that did not burn and the djinn cannot normally be seen. TV stars then. Black magic is part of a huge subculture in Yarubeer, based on what is required to conjure obliging djinn, who are famed for their magical abilities; for example, the big rumor in Omoan was that old Singer sewing machines - the ones with a treadle - contained the substance known as 'red mercury', which was highly prized amongst those seeking to manifest a djinn, and these machines were changing hands for several thousands of rials. The figure of Star Trek's (1966-) Jean Luc Picard on the bridge of the USS Enterprise kept coming into my mind: 'Make it so!'3

 The connection between the creation of 'men and djinn' and the role of women becomes clearer though. Djinn cannot normally be seen and neither can women (they can't drive either; the men say so and, saying so, don't allow them to - by law). It's a little like the Crushteen paedophile tradition in which God created man and, as an afterthought, created woman from his side. The suggestion is that women are naturally invisible and not meant to be viewed. Man is self-sufficient and women are the source of evil; witness Eve's giving of the forbidden fruit of the 'tree of the knowledge of good and evil' (Gen: 2: 16) to Adam, and their subsequent expulsion from the paradise of Eden (Gen: 3: 23). Hence the `Slammer's belief that it is somehow 'wrong' for women to be on view, despite God`s promise to Eve`s `seed`: `You shall crush the head of the serpent with your foot, but he will bruise your heel.` (Gen: 3. 15). The serpent was the angel, Satan, God placed in Eden for rejecting God`s plan that the human host would be greater than the angelic. Consequently, although Adam is depicted as the first male, s/he was a futanarian woman who sexually reproduced from herself, Eve. The first men were Cain and Abel, and Abel was killed by his brother because he was able, that is, he wouldn`t be a slave, while slavery is what Satan represents. Cain became the protoype of the male, but Eve and Adam represent the human futanarian species of `woman`s seed` enslaved by men, which slavery God promises will end. Presumably when the species of futanarian women can reproduce enough brainpower of their own to ascend to the stars and colonize the planets. Hidden Muzzlem women effectively become djinn, however, when they begin wearing the burkha upon relinquishment of childhood. Then they`re made to correspond to what is known of the djinn; invisible and not normally seen. In fact this is what men of the `Slammer teach; to pretend that women are invisible; even when they are present. 'They are not there. We do not see them,' I was told by Mumadah Mutter, a married Egyptian colleague at the Training Centre in Dalek. They wear a cloak of invisibility. Just like the djinn! Again I was reminded of Captain Picard aboard the USS Enterprise: 'Deploy cloaking device!’ Or it`s the `Slammer for you, Number One.

 Is it then the practice of the `Slammer to seek the creation of djinn by making their women invisible and so creating the basis for the transformation of woman to djinn? Obviously. In the West we are most familiar with the idea of the djinn in the bottle from the stories of Scheherazade in the One Thousand and One Nights (8th Century), where the heroine has to entertain her king each night with a cliff-hanger so that the vengeful ruler - disenchanted with women, having caught his wife in flagrante delecto with his brother - remains interested in the story and won't cut her head off in the morning - as is his wont after beheading his wife and marrying a fresh maiden each day thereafter. From a symbolic perspective, Scheherazade is the djinn aspect of the beheaded king's wife: the djinn 'unbottled', as it were. It’s where our psychological understanding of what it means to unbottle our feelings in the West becomes almost prescient when it comes to understanding the role of Shah Jehan's wife. She tells her stories - through her unbottled 'mouthpiece' - with the themes of forgiveness and reconciliation, so that the king will cease his murderous intentions toward women and accept her once again in the shape of her 'genius' - Scheherazade.

 The connection between the central theme of the One Thousand and One Nights - the beheading of wives - and its magical tales of the djinn, is clearly not accidental. How else would one bottle a djinn; except by removing the cock? Looking at the pear-shaped Yarubean women as they bustle around the shops with the black bags over their heads - and down to where one is not supposed to suppose are high-heeled thigh-length lace-up red leather stiletto boot heels - one can only observe that they do look well and truly 'bottled'. The men of Yarubeer should therefore hope that, when it is time for their women to truly unbottle their feelings, they show as much desire to forgive and reconcile as Scheherazade.

 I remember Fawaz, a Kuwait stud`nt of mine in Pseudi Yarubeer, who said that it would have been better for Saddam Hussein (d. 2006) to have been, rather than hung. Kuwait was where they`re still waiting for America`s Koo Stark and England`s Prince Sandy to wed, who was six years old during the 1990 Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, and didn’t know that was why they were waiting. The Iraqis of course had experienced a coup in 1968, which ultimately brought President Saddam Hussein, the dictator, to power in 1979, and Koo was anticipatedly going to bring the US to power among the English royal family by peaceful means, if not bloodless, after she met Sandy in 1981 , but the Koo failed. Saddam Hussein, observing Kuwait there, had feared a similar US’ presence, so initiated a coup of his own. Fawaz was lamenting the refusal of the Americans to 'uncork' Saddam Hussein, and allow his spiritual body to enter Paradise, that is, heaven on Earth, which is the Yarubeans’ ‘Jennah’, although the Crushteen paedophiles like to confuse it with the Chews’ ‘Gehenna’, or perdition, because Satan was a Shaitan djinn in Yarubian tradition, whose name was Iblis. Consequently, beheading could have revealed Saddam Hussein as a djinn unbottled, which is the Yarubian system. Evil is blamed on the djinn, so Saddam Hussein either was a djinn, or was in thrall to a djinn, which of course is a premeditated avoidance of moral responsibility, that is, Saddam Hussein wasn’t responsible. In the `Slammer, Satan, that is, Shaitan, was the djinn who refused to bow before `man` when ordered to do so by God. As ‘woman’s seed’ is the issue, Satan represents men’s refusal to accept women’s fucking of each other as normative. For the human race, men are in the role of evil djinn, who’re described by Gran (18. 50) as having the power to choose between good and evil. As women’s species’ mode of futanarian human sexual reproduction is definably good per se, they’re definable as good djinn, which is why Gran makes a distinction between men, women, and djinn who’re human brainpower. In short, Koo wasn’t waiting for Saddam Hussein, while it was Sandy in England. The tragic death of Princess Diana in Paris’ Pont D’Alma tunnel on August 31^st, 1997, after her car crashed while being pursued by paparazzi on motorcycles, meant that she couldn’t wait for Koo, although she might have wanted to. Obviously the women were two visible, and in the ‘Slammer djinn are traditionally invisible, while the cockless women are bagged up waiting to disappear permanently as a species, which would occur if futanarian ‘woman’s seed’ wasn’t accepted. Presently she’s bottled.

 When asked if I'm married, I always advise my stud`nts to ask my wife. On my passport it says I'm single, but I'm always leery of the question. If I said 'no', and they knew her, it'd be carte blanche as to what they’d do with her, wouldn't it? The Yarupric point of view is that, as my wife is unseen by others, and in my case yet unknown to me, it doesn’t mean she has no existence. Consequently, she could be bum on a spit at a BBQ without my ever having met her. Having remembered her, while for me it’d require Resurrection, the alternative is a future wife, who they’ve already met too. It reminded me of how, when I was at Muckfield skull, the kids would travel by bus to their lessons, until the Yarubeans spat them on BBQs. Rotated by handle, I recall the debate raging over which direction my eyeballs should explode, because they wanted to plot the trajectory of the ‘little man’ all of the kids were presumed to have sitting as a pilot in their occipital lobe. The Yarubeans were particular about the angle of exploding pupils, and some few little men were captured, while the Yarubeans ate with gusto the flesh of Muckfield Infants’. 'How old are you?' the Yarubeans ask me, their teacher, and I reply: 'This body is one hundred and seventy four years old, and I am the oldest man on the planet.' They pretend it’s an overly youthful estimate, and pester me for a correct answer. I was told by an Iraqi that he’d been slaying my family for 40, 000 years. Whether that was only in Oman, I don’t know. He was floating a few inches below the ceiling in the corridor of the apartment I was staying in with my jailers as a seven year old at the time. Perhaps the slayers were worldwide, and not merely limited to Bassim. Do I have permission to live? Am I dealing with licensed hunters, who travel backwards and forwards through space and time; killing me at Infants’ skull but not in juniors’? Has a fat wad been declared for me, or have I been declared to be a pregnant fish? The Hungriuns BBQ’d me in Wyvernsea, because one of them said he’d never eaten a woman’s penis. Apparently, I was a fat enough twat.

 I often experience the phenomenon of De ja vu. I haven't yet been to a country or place whose people I didn't remember having been with there before. Sometimes I can even remember things that had happened. I came out of the Jizzy Ra International Academy in Riyald one afternoon to see one of my colleagues  'Piggy' (Pigworth) standing there. I went off to hail a taxi but remembered that he'd been standing there on another occasion sometime in this consciousness’s past when I had again been an English language teacher; and he'd told me: 'The next time you're here we'll be murdering your wife.' No wonder she hides herself! All I can say is: 'Beam me up, Scroty!' Well, actually that's not all. I can also say: 'Shields up! Deploy cloaking device! Take us out of here, Number One! Maximum warp! Make it sew!'

 Interestingly, US’ scifi writer, Robert A. Heinlein (1907-88), taking his cue from material to be found in the Boble's final book, Saint John the Divine's prophetic Revelation, where we are warned to expect the advent of a man identified with the number ‘666’ (Rev: 13: 17-18), wrote a novel The Number of the Beast (1980), which features a time-space machine that can access all universes real or imaginary, and looks just like an everyday sewing machine!

6

6

6

 The title comes from the curious fact that the total accessible number of alternate universes turns out to be six raised to the power of six raised to the power of six, that is, ‘10, 314, 424, 798, 490, 535, 546,171, 949, 056.’4 My advice to my threatened wife is to take advantage of ‘superstring theory’5 (Bosonic) with its twenty six dimensions, and to hide in one - or all - of them. You’ll guess who’s me. Think of the ascending ladder of sixes as the eyes of the needle through which the golden thread of our tale must pass in order for us to tell it. The Yarubs, by the way, have their own prophecies. As the Chews refused to accept a Messiah when offered one (She`sis, Mumumhed, B. Spears), the Yarubs say they're waiting to embrace the Anti-Crushteen who (I'm always one for the minutiae) will have curly hair (that lets me out) and'll begin slowly, but will eventually proclaim himself as God. Billy Crystal (5. 00 am 14th March, b. 1948-) is my guess.

 I, of course, know who the Anti-Crushteen will be. After much careful scrutiny of the New Intochains level 1 English language course book, I can confidently draw the reader's attention to the 'Describing People' section in Unit 3 where we are asked: 'What kind of hair does Toby sport?' The answer? 'Toby has curly hair.' This is the one that has had knees quaking all over the Golf. Toby, the New Intochains cartoon. We can even determine his nationality. 'Where is Toby from?' New Intochains has it straight from the horse’s mouth: 'Toby is from Copenhagen.' No surprise there, then? If our brains can continue to contain the dangerous amount of material they're being asked to upload, we can even glean the vital information: 'Toby is wearing jeans and a sweater.' My bet is the devil's wearing Nike training shoes too. But that just goes without saying ...

 I always enjoy New Intochains, Unit 3, 'Describing People'. It gives the stud`nts the opportunity to practice describing each other. 'Mumumed,' I begin, 'please describe, er, Mumumed.' Mumumed begins: 'Mumumed has brown hair and brown eyes, he is wearing a thob [the white ankle length - not see-thru - cotton shirt that all men wear in Yarubeer - and shoes.' Very good Mumumed, and can you describe, er, Mumumed for us, er, Mumumed?' Mumumed begins: 'Mumumed has brown hair and brown eyes; he is wearing a thob and shoes.' 'Very good,' I crow, 'and what color is the thob?' 'Mumumed's thob is white,' says Mumumed. 'Very good Mumumed,' I say, 'and can you describe your brother Mumumed Mumumed for us Mumumed?' I ask. 'Mumumed Mumumed has brown hair and brown eyes and is wearing a white thob and shoes,' says Mumumed. Mumumed Mumumed makes that quantum leap of insight, which it is the joy of any teacher to behold: 'Mumumed Mumumed Mumumed has brown hair and brown eyes and is wearing a white thob and shoes,' he says. We all laugh gently together. 'And what color are the shoes?' I ask. 'Different,' says one of the Mumumeds. We all laugh gently together.

 The advent of the Anti-Crushteen hadn't yet been proclaimed in Omoan as we were still using The Old Intochains as opposed to The New Intochains, and there was no mention of the evil curly haired Toby therein. We still had prayer time though; the great bane of the educator. I had a stud`nt in Khartoum, Sudan, who whenever asked what he thought to be a difficult question, would immediately leap from his chair like an electrocuted frog and proclaim a 'prayer break'. I never demur. If a stud`nt prefers to pray for the light of illumination to fill him, rather than attempt to find and decode occult messages in their course books (which is my preferred teaching method), I am not the one to stand in their way.

 And especially not in West Africa where, before important football games, armed guards are deployed to prevent the voodoo-enslaved members of opposing teams pissing on each others' goalposts to effect a magical exclusion of the ball during the upcoming tense occasion. It has been known for the opposing 'keepers (in full view of the catcalling spectators) to piss on the goalposts they've had charge of before the change of ends at halftime; in the hope that this will keep the ball out too - `Keepers of the Gloom’6 please take note. I've tried it with the classroom door, and can claim some success. Stud`nts are ofttimes seemingly reluctant to enter in through the piss-soaked timbers. Moreover, although the occult is a dangerous thing to dabble in, I can vouchsafe that stud`nts will miraculously be turned away when they see the teacher pissing onto his shoes at Knowledge`s portico.

 In Omoan prayer time is now largely ignored by the higher head chuck occasion. When I was there the head chuck occasional administrators were busily turfing out the redundancies of `Slammeric teaching. Many of the old codgers who'd been making hay, while the sun shone on their paid capacity for being able to find something in Gran to cavil about, were being bottled out, and told to work it for a living. No one who's read it would dispute that Gran is a good book in the same way that gran`s Boble is; but to employ people to harp on about it for generations should smack a little of overkill to any sane person. I've read both, and it's enough. I'm not likely ever to have any camels; tents; date palms; tabernacles, and fiery talking bushes (unless it's George or George Jr.) to worry about, or problems with myself associated with losing a fish by the Red Sea; parthenogenesis, or Rumun spears in my vitals.

 The Gran is a much smaller book than the Boble, written in verses, that is, reasonably digestible chunks called ‘suras’, and so there's much less to comprehend, which probably explains some of its initial populist appeal. Like having The Golden Treasury of Nursery Rhymes as opposed to James Joyce's Ulysees (1922) to study at Universe City. I've never met an average Muzzlem Joe who has a clue what I mean when I ask about 'The Cave' sura, or the journey of Moses, Joshua and Khidr to the Red Sea. However, in the Muddle East, illiterate murderers get an early release for reciting the Gran by heart. Perhaps that's why you see so many people shopping? There're kindergartens; primary; secondary, and tertiary levels to studying the Gran, so if someone is convicted of murder it's straight in (and straight out of) prison. I, personally, am only able to recite chapter and verse from what is known by my church as ‘The Traci Lords Prayer` from her video release, Traci, I Love You (1987): 'Slubglub!'

1 Gottwald, Lukasz, Claude Kelly, and Benjamin Levin ‘Circus’ Britney Spears, Circus, Jive, 2008.

2 Skelton, Roy as Dalek (voices) in Genesis Of The Daleks, Season 12, Serial 4, BBC1, March 8 - April 12, 1975.

3 Stewart, Patrick as Cpt. Jean Luc Picard in ‘Encounter At Farpoint’, Season 1, Episode 1, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Paramount TV Group, September 28, 1987.

4 Heinlein, Robert A., The Number Of The Beast, ‘Part One: The Butterfly’s Mandarin’, VI, ‘Are Men And Women One Race’, Fawcett, 1980.

5 Polchinski, Joseph String Theory: Volume I, Cambridge University Press, p. 4.

6 Page, Jimmy, and Robert Plant ‘Rain Song’, Led Zeppelin, Houses Of The Holy, Atlantic, 1973.

Understanding them, of course, has its pitfalls. First you are examined to discover whether or not you have a wife? If you don't, they then paradoxically want to know if you have children? They're trying to catch you out, you see? If you're single, they want to know all about your girlfriend and, if you refuse to rise to that bait (conversing about sexual relations is usualy haram in English language teaching institutions - which they all know - because all we do is fuck whores all day and all women who are not of Islam are whores - which they all know), they will tell you to your face that you leave them with no choice but to assume that you're gay and that, as everyone you'll come across during your teaching will be male, you've rapidly dug a hole for yourself and become a pariah.

In Tabuk, Saudi Arabia, while I taught at the hospital inside the King Khalid Military City, it was explained to me by the students that women were not taught alongside men because 'it was very bad' and, if pushed, they would explain that what was 'bad' were, in fact, not their lustful penises but women themselves. Women here are, therefore, what we in the West have long unconsciously understood without feeling it in our gut - shunned. It shouldn't really surprise. You are only allowed to marry by arrangement and it's likely that, in Saudi Arabia, you will never see the bride before the wedding; so the appearance of any woman - before or after marriage (men of Islam are allowed four wives and they can divorce by saying 'I divorce thee' three times) - is here legitimately viewed as a temptation.

According to Islamic tradition each of us has a 'djinn' (spirit) that is personal to us, and it exists only to tempt us. One has only to observe the scene briefly to understand that, whatever the provenance of the temptation, it has been succumbed to. There are cars everywhere, and petrol is sand cheap (the Americans may be said to have invented the car and taught the Arabs to buy them; and for that the Arabs can never forgive them). I lived 200 metres from my nearest McDonalds in Oman and would never dream of going there on foot. I'd have to take a taxi or be mown down like the pedestrian I am. So I didn't go there. Equally, because of the speed of the heavy traffic, I could only cross the street on Friday (to take or collect my laundry), which is the equivalent of the Day of Rest in the Arab countries, when the devoted drivers are presumably exhausted by their circular exertions and need to refuel. I often think of Alighieri Dante's (1265-1321) Dvine Comedy (1308-1321) and, in particular of the Inferno; how interested Dante'd be in seeing how the automotive and petroleum industries have combined to create a new circle in hell.

I like to tell my students that I have passed my driviing test and am the proud owner of a clean driving license, but I don't drive because I think cars are silly: and I do. In Sudan, as Academic Manager at CITC, I was entitled to a company car, which was fine during the day, but at night? No street lights. Apparently the street where I had my apartment didn't merit the local council erecting any. Consequently, in the pitch blackness after 9.00pm clocking off time, I had to guess where the turning to my abode loomed. After hitting several palm trees head on, steering the car into holes in the sand and driving it into the side of dunes, I gave back the keys, telling them I'd walk for safety's sake.

Driving into a palm and hearing the falling coconuts thumping down like gargantuan raindrops on the car's roof, it all smacked to me of that clown's jallopy in Billy Smart's Circus Spectacular where he yaws and gimps around while him - and bits of him and the car - fall off. When are we going to move on from the pedal car mentality with the sticks that you have to grope at? This is the Twenty First Century Bozo! Get me a car with push button control. Once for GO, once for STOP, and I'll temporarily accept the need for a steering wheel - at a pinch.

Bizarrely, the name for the djinn we are all said to have as a personal tempter is a qareen, which sounds a lot like the kind of thing you'd have in a car salesroom if you were being tempted into buying one. I always imagine my qareen as a kind of Britney Spears (1982-) bikini-draped across the front of a black-and-chrome Hummer. 'I prefer the voice-activated automatic flying car, pet,' say I in my best Geordie accent while clicking my thumb and forefinger to summon the transportation.

Bitchin' English

Recent `improvements` in Arkaweet at Oxfudge Internal Nepotism (OIN, K, S), Khartoum, Sudan, include a stud`nt inspired move to replace the Academic Director with a talking bird. Innovations at a local Universe City where English words are screamed at audiences of upwards of 300 stud`nts through a megaphone for several hours each day `in the hope that some will stick` are said to have persuaded some at OIN, K, S, to suggest that a parrot would be of more use than Dr Rusher `in imparting useful words in English` said a spoke stud`nt.

 Currently stud`nts are thought to be attempting to smuggle test papers out of the institution because of `someone we know at Universe City`. Apparently a new method of assessing papers has been developed guaranteeing examinees 95% success in any and all questions by the simple expedient of awarding them 0.0006789 marks for each correct letter in any combination found anywhere whatsoever on the paper submitted for marking. Assessors at the Universe City guarantee that such statements as `dsfgrty bnefwat` will result in at least 70% of the utterance described as being approved of `academic worth and merit`.

 Imagine my surprise, then, upon learning that Dsfgrty Bnefwat is the real name of the Sudanese Minister for `Educating and Motorized Perambulators`! My heartfelt congratulations on being the only country I am aware of that has `prams for men`. It`s clearly a women`s success story here. Recognize that men are infantile and never allow them to leave their prams. Simply equip the baby carriage with a lawnmower motor and – voila! – instant permanent regression to pramhood. And it would be the mind of a lunatic that could expect the owners of these in no way pushchairs to grasp the concept of `road use`. Tooling around causing endless accidents with no blame attached can become a life`s path. Simply show the traffic cop your baby teeth and all is forgiven. `I`m sorry officer but my mother never let me out of my pram.` The perfect excuse for reckless driving. `I don`t have a car.` It must be the mistake of the other person. The motor vehicle was to blame. No other was involved. I don’t have one. `Yes sir. Very sorry sir.` agrees the policeman afraid of the likely headline in the local paper `PRAM HITS LORRY, BABY ARRESTED`.

 `Sam Bow` blazes the legend on one such vehicular fantasia. Well, so long as it’s you Sam. Another even styles himself `Baby`. They know. You see? Collaborators in our scorn. We are co-conspirers they are telling us. And oh so not fooled by you with your `political correctness` and UN cool looks. Having presumably survived cot death it’s tacitly agreed by the pramenader cognoscenti that it’s safer to remain beneath the pram’s hood having made it thus far and, with painted-on death’s-heads-a-plenty as a memento mori of those that didn’t make it out of the cot, these baby buggy conventioneers buzz and fart purposively around us while we peer hesitantly inward at them as if to reassure ourselves that the arrested developer beneath the hood of the pram is still continuing to emerge stealthily.

 Sudanese women have my great admiration for this. In training their babies to maintain into adulthood their own prams they have taken the art of belittling their male offspring into the realms of Scientific Romance. I am rapt. But please don’t inveigle me with tales of Sudanese street sadness and the culture of the dayglo motor tricycle with pram add-ons as if it were an integral part of the `scene`. It’s Woman’s car joke on men. Why do they let themselves be driven around in a joke car? Secret laughter.

 In order to obtain a language degree, of course, it’s thought to be usual that one leaves one’s pram to do so. Back at the Universe City more ambulatory babies are reported to be worried that they may have to do more than look moistly and far away when the topic of `books in English` are mentioned. The tactic was in fact recently employed by a candidate for a teaching position at OIN, K, S, where the infamously pedantic Dr Rusher invited the interviewee to name a writer. Eventually, after much glistening of optic equipment and staring deeply away, the applicant hit on the appellation `Chickens` and went on to belabor the good doctor with the weighty title of the fictional tome `Greet Eggs Pecked Dalmatians`.

 Fears at OIN, K, S, over perhaps having to write words down have in fact resulted in the parakeet that had been put forward as `the most likely to replace Dr Rusher` being shot and stuffed. Stud`nts, however, finding the bird to be `still too bright` took it off into the garden to have its feathers removed while they discussed the possibilities of employing a pre-recorded `voice-over` for the former `learning by repetition` expert. The additional benefits of this measure became clearer when it was discovered that the stud`nts had decided to also have pre-written responses prepared - though judging by a taped sample there remains still some doubt over whether they can produce `words on paper` in some way relatable to the requirements of the taped material, and thereby perform the requisite `matching exercise`.

A Tape sample:

Parroting English with Dr Rusher

Side 1 Lesson 1 `Talking at Cross Purposes`

Supposed West African parrot: `Polly put the kettle on. Polly put the kettle on…`

Stud`nt: `Where in England do you from?`

Supposed West African parrot: `Suky take it off again. Suky take it off again…`

Stud`nt: `Ah! Then I have no further interest in you.`

Supposed West African parrot: `We’ll all have tea. We’ll all have tea…`

Stud`nt: `All English is drink tea!`

Supposed West African parrot: `I rather prefer coffee actually [squAWk!].`

Stud`nt: `Here is no liquids. All gone. Far from this place. Many miles we travel. I may take you. Fifty dinar. No! More!`

Supposed West African parrot: `They’ve all gone away! They’ve all gone away..!`

 One stud`nt, much ridiculed at the time by his fellows, but obviously – at least to me - an expert in Universe City exam technique, had written in his test paper, even italicizing the correct form of the verb `to be`, in the sentence `What is the capital of England?` The conundrum he’d been given to solve had been `What is the capital of England?` As is customary at the Universe City here I awarded him full marks for being able to memorize such a complicated series of alien hieroglyphs. And for reminding me that I’d forgotten and felt obliged to him for being prompted into remembering that the capital of England is of course Austerlitz.

 Quite often I’m launched into a lengthy explanation of some tedious point of grammar only for the satisfaction of seeing a stud`nt collapsed and defeated because they’d sought to prove their educator didn’t know his own language. `We know English.` I was informed by a future Cockwise graduate. `Yes I know you’re not.` I returned. Entering into the spirit of the game of `beat the teacher` (with the nearest handy stick if poss) I felt.

 One has to thwart constantly I find. You know those mixed up sentences `Are you how?` And the stud`nt that gets it wrong. `How you are?` So you have, in all conscience and conscientiousness, to write it out for them. `How are you?` And how furious they are because you know the answers. But help is at hand for both teachers tired of answering the questions themselves and stud`nts trying to get the teacher to answer the questions for them.

 New proven research by National Geographic indicates that only the first and last letters of any written word are actually needed for the eye to recognize and understand so long as all of the other letters are present. If, for example, the stud`nts` dead parrot should appear to parrot (thanks to the cassette provided) the word `responsibility`, all the stud`nt has to do is get the first and last letters correct – roipsniebitsly - and the jumble and mish-mash will be accounted as of being PhD standard material by National Geographic.

 Doubtless stud`nts will next only be required to place a tick in the box  next to the puzzling `Are you how?` in recognition that all of the words needed to make a complete sentence are present. It is thought that, although the Sphinx will probably keep its riddle, stud`nt difficulties in writing the number two as `tow` will later be resolved by such and similar research by major thinkers attempting to resolve the problem of giving stud`nts marks for nothing at all.

 Some recently arriving teachers will of course have been puzzled by the constant barrage from small street children shouting `Who are you?` It is the opinion of this scribbler that originally they’d been taught to politely say `How are you?` upon meeting an acquaintance, but that subsequent contact with Englishness resulting in merely the declaration `Fine, thank you.` has resulted in frustration and some angst over not being understood well enough. Clearly the words are meant to mean `Please explain the impact of the Industrial Revolution on Western Europe and the role of the United States as a democracy up until the beginning of the Third Millennium.`

 Nowadays, of course, our pleasant phrase has degenerated into a demand. The seemingness of `How are you?` discovered in the mouths of locals quickly giving way to the seethingness of `Who are you?` And, inevitably, unintelligibility, and threats. This Englishman was perfunctorily asked about his madness by one of two apparent weightlifters while he sat recuperating from the midday sun upon a wall. `I’m fine.` I replied. `Who you are?` he continued. Obviously a failed level three candidate I mused while I deliberated on a suitably noncommittal yet polite reply. `I’m not going to tell you who I am.` I decided to tell him. `Why for do you come?` he remonstrated with me. I strolled nonchalantly off and left the phrase `For pleasure.` hanging mildly between us.

 I suspect he remained angered by my incomprehensibility. Which of course is entirely the point. Parroting and parrots can only make for lack of communication and conflict unless at least one of the parties to the dialogue is understanding about it. Naturally one cannot comprehend being mugged. And two of my teachers have experienced that too. It could be argued that this is why we are here. [ - to be mugged? – ed.] To improve communication and prevent misunderstandings that can lead to conflict, and to improve through head chuck occasions the possibilities open to people so that crime becomes a less attractive proposition. [ - oh - hum – ed.] I, personally, don’t buy into that. Come in. Sit down. Open your books. Open your ears. I’ll teach you a few things. That’s all.

 There’ll be new teachers arriving soon but the stud`nts are already prepared. They’re reported to be once again taking their placards to the airport. As Mr Blitherland embarks for pastures new it seems that he’ll be given the traditional `English Go Home` send off from the stud`nts who, old hands at this and used to the singular turnover of `native speakers` at OIN, K, S, are fully prepared to show the obverse inscription `Welcome English` on their placards should an arrival on the next plane attempt to surprise them.

 It’s rather a sore point with me actually. I expect native speakers to represent cargo cults in the South Seas where one such still worship Americans as gods because of the good things like Coca-Cola and Hershey bars the USA brought with them during WWII. I speak English because I’m an Englishman and Canadians speak English because they used to be. It’s feasible that an Australian could be found speaking Urdu or that an American may be unearthed for whom Latin is his mother tongue but I’d venture that neither are likely to be seeking a TEFL position. It might be argued that large numbers of Americans speak Spanish. I don’t mind. They’re not likely to be wanting to teach me English. The phrase `native speaker` arises from a basic lack of knowledge about geography, demographics and history. You have to tell some people where Canada is. It would be asking a lot for them to also know what language it speaks. Often they’re too dumb to realize that it is the English that speak English. But I am an English speaker, not a native speaker. I don’t speak `native`, I speak English. Having said that, I fully anticipate our latest native speaking English teacher will arrive saying `Accommodation I no want share.` And he’ll be a Polynesian from Bromley.

Dr Parrot 20th Apri