Lomitol to Sudafed
Lomitol to Sudafed
Sunday 10th June 2007. This has been a whirlwind visit to the UK. This is now my second visit here but still don’t feel I have come to understand the English/British psyche in any real way. Interestingly one question in the media came from a Ministers call for the proclamation of a ‘British Day’ which created some debate about how should one celebrate a national Britton Day. How should the average pom celebrate their day? Would it be a cup of tea and scones in the park with family, some award of honours much like the Australian model or perhaps as my Scottish friend mischievously suggested, a belly full of lager, hot chips and abusing the doner kebab owner on the way home? Can you manufacture Nationalism and is Nationalism in fact some worthy to foster? One commentator suggested that the British culture was built on understatement and, well, celebrating Britishness is perhaps not British at all. I suppose it is OK for us brash Australians to flag wave and celebrate, for those Irish to find another excuse for a booze up on Saint Pat’s day and the French to Frenchishly cry passionately viva la France but for the British it was a question that left many here scratching there head as they considered the prospect.
Now while a national day was burning a hole in the national collective conscience the G8 leaders were assemble at a beach resort in northern Germany. For a delusional moment I went into roll as a teacher and there was little Vladimir playing in the sand pit. Everything was going fine until naughty Georgy decided to bring some toys to school that were banned from the play ground some time ago. Vlady was stamping is feet up and down and saying, ‘I don’t want to play this game again and how come you always get to decide what game we play’. Then they both started stamping their feet and yelling. Vlady yelled, ‘we have played this game before!’ And Georgy responded, ‘no we haven’t!’ Then it just went in a circle; have, haven’t, have, haven’t and so on. I didn’t know what to do. Vlady’s behaviour had improved recently yet I wasn’t sure what happened outside the school yard and there are still rumours that he gives boiled lollies to gain favour. Georgy on the other hand is one of those students who is always first to put his hand up and loves attention although much of his work seems to have cognitive conflict, and his reassurance that work will be handed in ‘shortly’ a starting to wear thin. Anyway, thankfully this Vlady and Georgy managed to work out without my intervention. Vlady got a stick and drew and area in the sandpit and said, ‘if you put the toys there then we can play’. Before long they were swapping sandwiches again and life in the sandpit seemed to find its old order again.
So, where was the National attention during the G8 meeting? More focus was on the imprisonment of celebratory Paris Hilton and the eviction of a housemate from the Big Brother House for using the ‘N’ word to describe a black person. Isn’t it great when media is the news itself! Isn’t it great when the news agenda is given over to a group of hapless individuals navel gazing and tantrums of a daughter of an American hotel chain with calls of ‘Mummy, mummy, why did they put me in here!’
Now the last main news event while here was the unveiling of the London 2012 Olympic logo. Now that did get the talkback lines running hot. Is it just the poms enjoy a good whinge or was it actually a fairly poor logo. I tend to believe it is more the latter as it tends to look more like a graffiti ‘tag’ than anything else yet I suppose if I’d been paying four hundred thousand pound to create it I’d certainly be able to justify it in terms of ‘reflecting a youth dynamic’ ‘unconstrained and spontaneous’ ‘raw yet intentional’ blah blah blah blah.
I’m sitting at Heathrow airport with plenty of time before my flight tonight at 10 PM. I have an exam to sit in Bangkok the day after I arrive so I decided to get out here a little early and use the time to finish my readings. I have a better run through security this time and allowed to keep my shoes and my pants on. (Dam, I was looking forward to Immigration twister again). I’d like to return to Britton some time but not in the short term as this place is unbelievably expensive. So, might have to wait until I’m given the platinum corporate card, lol. My return to London from Hemsby went fairly seamlessly. I did have another of those, ‘where the hell am I’ moments though as the train pushed through the English countryside. I am sitting looking out a misted window, a few seats up a woman takes a phone call and for the rest of the journey is speaking in distraught French. I don’t know what the call was about but I’d expect from her sobs and crying that there had been a tragedy of some kind. A man of around thirty five sits opposite drinking beer with his girlfriend and picks the scabs off his sores for most of the journey. At the end of the journey the woman gets off and as I’m getting my bag from the luggage rack the sore picker turns to me and says, ‘at least we don’t have to listen to her anymore’. I felt like turning to him and saying, ‘tomorrow she will feel a lot better but you’ll still be a dickhead’. Then you think to yourself why afford such a jerk any recognition gave him a quick your a nobody glance and ask, “did you say something’. Boarding call for flight BA 09 to Bangkok please proceed to gate 23.
Sunday 10th June 2007. This has been a whirlwind visit to the UK. This is now my second visit here but still don’t feel I have come to understand the English/British psyche in any real way. Interestingly one question in the media came from a Ministers call for the proclamation of a ‘British Day’ which created some debate about how should one celebrate a national Britton Day. How should the average pom celebrate their day? Would it be a cup of tea and scones in the park with family, some award of honours much like the Australian model or perhaps as my Scottish friend mischievously suggested, a belly full of lager, hot chips and abusing the doner kebab owner on the way home? Can you manufacture Nationalism and is Nationalism in fact some worthy to foster? One commentator suggested that the British culture was built on understatement and, well, celebrating Britishness is perhaps not British at all. I suppose it is OK for us brash Australians to flag wave and celebrate, for those Irish to find another excuse for a booze up on Saint Pat’s day and the French to Frenchishly cry passionately viva la France but for the British it was a question that left many here scratching there head as they considered the prospect.
Now while a national day was burning a hole in the national collective conscience the G8 leaders were assemble at a beach resort in northern Germany. For a delusional moment I went into roll as a teacher and there was little Vladimir playing in the sand pit. Everything was going fine until naughty Georgy decided to bring some toys to school that were banned from the play ground some time ago. Vlady was stamping is feet up and down and saying, ‘I don’t want to play this game again and how come you always get to decide what game we play’. Then they both started stamping their feet and yelling. Vlady yelled, ‘we have played this game before!’ And Georgy responded, ‘no we haven’t!’ Then it just went in a circle; have, haven’t, have, haven’t and so on. I didn’t know what to do. Vlady’s behaviour had improved recently yet I wasn’t sure what happened outside the school yard and there are still rumours that he gives boiled lollies to gain favour. Georgy on the other hand is one of those students who is always first to put his hand up and loves attention although much of his work seems to have cognitive conflict, and his reassurance that work will be handed in ‘shortly’ a starting to wear thin. Anyway, thankfully this Vlady and Georgy managed to work out without my intervention. Vlady got a stick and drew and area in the sandpit and said, ‘if you put the toys there then we can play’. Before long they were swapping sandwiches again and life in the sandpit seemed to find its old order again.
So, where was the National attention during the G8 meeting? More focus was on the imprisonment of celebratory Paris Hilton and the eviction of a housemate from the Big Brother House for using the ‘N’ word to describe a black person. Isn’t it great when media is the news itself! Isn’t it great when the news agenda is given over to a group of hapless individuals navel gazing and tantrums of a daughter of an American hotel chain with calls of ‘Mummy, mummy, why did they put me in here!’
Now the last main news event while here was the unveiling of the London 2012 Olympic logo. Now that did get the talkback lines running hot. Is it just the poms enjoy a good whinge or was it actually a fairly poor logo. I tend to believe it is more the latter as it tends to look more like a graffiti ‘tag’ than anything else yet I suppose if I’d been paying four hundred thousand pound to create it I’d certainly be able to justify it in terms of ‘reflecting a youth dynamic’ ‘unconstrained and spontaneous’ ‘raw yet intentional’ blah blah blah blah.
I’m sitting at Heathrow airport with plenty of time before my flight tonight at 10 PM. I have an exam to sit in Bangkok the day after I arrive so I decided to get out here a little early and use the time to finish my readings. I have a better run through security this time and allowed to keep my shoes and my pants on. (Dam, I was looking forward to Immigration twister again). I’d like to return to Britton some time but not in the short term as this place is unbelievably expensive. So, might have to wait until I’m given the platinum corporate card, lol. My return to London from Hemsby went fairly seamlessly. I did have another of those, ‘where the hell am I’ moments though as the train pushed through the English countryside. I am sitting looking out a misted window, a few seats up a woman takes a phone call and for the rest of the journey is speaking in distraught French. I don’t know what the call was about but I’d expect from her sobs and crying that there had been a tragedy of some kind. A man of around thirty five sits opposite drinking beer with his girlfriend and picks the scabs off his sores for most of the journey. At the end of the journey the woman gets off and as I’m getting my bag from the luggage rack the sore picker turns to me and says, ‘at least we don’t have to listen to her anymore’. I felt like turning to him and saying, ‘tomorrow she will feel a lot better but you’ll still be a dickhead’. Then you think to yourself why afford such a jerk any recognition gave him a quick your a nobody glance and ask, “did you say something’. Boarding call for flight BA 09 to Bangkok please proceed to gate 23.
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