Our Old Man in Omoan
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 24th 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 31st, 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.