At the British Indian English school, I had hoped they would give up asking for my teaching certificate, but, unfortunately, they didn’t - and after putting it off for a while it reached a crisis point. It was a pity because I had taken a liking to my role as an ambassador for British education – so much so that I tried to think of a way out of things.
“Sanjeet, I need to talk to you,” I said. “I’m gutted, that school I went to in Egypt was a fake. I am really sorry.”
I handed over a letter from Cambridge Schools Certification Organization confirming that the Al-Fayed school of English was indeed a fake. The lady I emailed had been most sympathetic, even giving me a helpful warning about unscrupulous schools.
“Ah, this is from Sarah Richardson, I know her…Well, anyway, what are we going to do now? I think we keep this between for the moment, but I would like you to do a TEFL at some later juncture,” he said. “I’ll let you into a little secret: I have never set foot in England. Just between us of course...”
That explained his positive view of race relations in the UK, I thought.
I may have got away with the teaching certificate but they were still after a copy of my M.A. which also didn’t exist – and I guessed was a bullshit bridge too far. However, other events took over before I was found out.
“We can’t teach here for a while. Now we are going to a coffee shop for class,” said Sanjeet. Bad timing meant classes had started before they had got their Bushiban (private school) license. Ordinarily not a problem – the police were not particularly vigorous in their pursuit of illegal schools – unless someone wanted you closed down. Sanjeet’s old company did, and the police had reluctantly dragged themselves over.
It then got more ridiculous: Two days later, at incredible expense to the owner of the school, they were now teaching in the conference rooms of a five star hotel. The boss knew the owner of the hotel and the staff had been told not to tell anyone.
…Then just another five days later I was off home half way through class, my position in the high echelons of the English teaching profession short lived. Sanjay’s old school had caught up with him, and he was on the five o’clock flight to Rome, all expenses paid. A few hours earlier, the chief of police had called the boss – it was the courteous thing to do as the boss knew everyone – to say the police were on the way, and if they found Sanjay then they would have to expel him, never to return. If he left the country he could lie low for a week or two and then come back.
A week or so later the owner called all the teachers together to explain what had happened and when the school would open again. He had his rich guy line: As usual he talked about what a nice guy he was, and he wasn’t doing this to earn money, but because his wife was interested in setting up the school and contributing something back to society. He said he would pay them this month’s salary regardless – I had already started working somewhere else.
They still wanted me to work at the school but I figured there was no need to continue the lie. “I am sorry. I have had a change of plan and I have to go back to England,” I said. It would be strange going back to working in dark, second division schools and kindergartens in Taipei County where no questions were asked, when I had managed to work in a spanking new school in the center of town in my suit. Still I had proved to myself the only difference between me and the teachers in these schools was the piece of paper.
Showing posts with label englishman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label englishman. Show all posts
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
An Englishman in Taipei VI
As an Englishman, after a while in Taipei, once you had learnt how to teach, and that there were many Taiwanese who appreciated a British accent, you could be more indulgent when you got a bad interview.
“You have a strange accent, but you can try to see if the students accept you,”said the boss of the school.
"Really? You are so kind," I replied. "Mmm…shove your job up your bald eagle fuckin’ ass...”
“You have a strange accent, but you can try to see if the students accept you,”said the boss of the school.
"Really? You are so kind," I replied. "Mmm…shove your job up your bald eagle fuckin’ ass...”
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
An Englishman in Taipei V
John, because he was macho and desperately fighting a craving to punch someone out, was particularly affected by the stereotyping of English in Taipei. Here is one rant he went on.
“You know, before, I never gave a flying fuck what the rest of the world thought about the Englishman. I hadn’t talked to more than 10 people from abroad and I didn’t plan to talk to 10 more, but now I am forced to take an interest and it is disturbing. We are only thought of as prancied up ponces, unsociable, aloof, cold. Either that or perverted psychos. But worse of all, and most disturbing, as wimpy, effectual, sensitive, gentleman who couldn’t punch their way out of a tissue bag. And it mostly our fault - In Hollywood our actors specialize in playing wimps, psychos, and weirdos because they are the only characters they think are interesting. Otherwise, they specialize in playing twits without a macho bone in their bodies. Bollocks! The good guy is also interesting. Britain is full of wholesome, stoic, individuals who do the right thing and fight for it. Fuck, I got thrown out of the bar last week, because some silly little ABC boy thought all British were nerdy. He is now minus some teeth and I can’t go back to the bar.”
He continued, "At home we ain’t much better, obsessed with our past or with making stories about the shite elements of our society. I am getting sick of people asking if I have a butler or was one."
“Don’t you?”said Eric.
“Shut up! Listen to me finish what I have to say!” He was snorting and managing the difficult job of eye-balling me, Eric and Josh all at the same time. John had a thing about people listening to him. You could disagree, rip him to shreds and question his existence for living, but don’t look away. That made him angry.
‘All the fucking Steven Frys, Kenneth Branaghs, Ralph Fiennes fucking Oxford and Cambridge lot spend all their time making films about the past or writers, dredging history books for what they think are interesting stuck-up twat like characters ...All because they can’t fit into modern society or understand the motivations of normal heterosexual, stand up guys. If they want to do someone from history, do one of our heroes. Do they loathe themselves and the world so much they can’t play good? Then, as they get a little bit of clout in Hollywood they use it all up persuading a producer to finance their crap play. We have been in Hollywood for years but now fucking Australians fill any role that requires someone to be macho, wholesome and silent. Look at fucking gladiator! Look at X-men! Now doubt that if they had got a British guy to do it, then he would have insisted on playing it as a cross dresser who’s boyfriend had been murdered by the emperor. Most people now think Joaquin Phoenix is British, because he took the role slotted for the British guy. Some of the world's best actors and we can’t play NORMAL. The British army is the best in the world and everyone thinks the SAS is an American unit."
“What about the gardening and the tea?” said Eric.
“Yes, we like to do gardening, DIY, and drink tea. But if someone jumps over the fence and tries to stamp on our roses we take a rake and shove it up their arses. We don’t stand there fretting and dithering. Same with the chicks - we don’t stand there tongue tied but grab her and drag her back to the bedroom we have spent a lot of time decorating and fitting out. Then offer her a cup of fuckin tea in the morning if she not too much of a dog.
John continued: “Another one i am always asked, 'Is there any nightlife in Britain?' - I don’t think so. We are not repressed! Go to club back home or in Ibiza for the summer. Your Cancun spring break faggots wouldn’t last 2 minutes, there.”
“You tell them, ‘What about that DJ who is at Luxy or Plush tonight? You like the band - blah, blah, blah - they are English. And they look at you like, well maybe, I am sure there are a few people who go out in England. Or, like I am sure, like, people go out, but everyone is sat in a dinner jacket at tables, sipping their champagne before clapping politely at the end of each track by the Prodigy. Either that or a guy with a woolly jumper is self-consciously twisting one arm in the air with no rythmn.”
“I used to be a great supporter of the royal family and all the traditions and the history and that shit. Maybe it does bring in some tourists – but it also alienates a lot of people who want to go somewhere they think is fun. And, it especially makes it hard for normal Brits abroad who have to listen to stupid stereotypes of themselves all day. Anyway, why can’t we present both to the world – come to Britain we have cold aloof snobs, out-of-date institutions and kicking nightlife.”
Josh: “I agree, dude! But you still boil your vegetables too long - My grandfather was English.”
Eric: “I will always remember the cream tea and the doorman at the hotel in London…Alright Jeeves...Carry on sir...Brideshead Revisited. Why can’t you all be more like that?”
That night a taxi driver knocked John off his bike and was the unfortunate recipient of a lot of anger...
“You know, before, I never gave a flying fuck what the rest of the world thought about the Englishman. I hadn’t talked to more than 10 people from abroad and I didn’t plan to talk to 10 more, but now I am forced to take an interest and it is disturbing. We are only thought of as prancied up ponces, unsociable, aloof, cold. Either that or perverted psychos. But worse of all, and most disturbing, as wimpy, effectual, sensitive, gentleman who couldn’t punch their way out of a tissue bag. And it mostly our fault - In Hollywood our actors specialize in playing wimps, psychos, and weirdos because they are the only characters they think are interesting. Otherwise, they specialize in playing twits without a macho bone in their bodies. Bollocks! The good guy is also interesting. Britain is full of wholesome, stoic, individuals who do the right thing and fight for it. Fuck, I got thrown out of the bar last week, because some silly little ABC boy thought all British were nerdy. He is now minus some teeth and I can’t go back to the bar.”
He continued, "At home we ain’t much better, obsessed with our past or with making stories about the shite elements of our society. I am getting sick of people asking if I have a butler or was one."
“Don’t you?”said Eric.
“Shut up! Listen to me finish what I have to say!” He was snorting and managing the difficult job of eye-balling me, Eric and Josh all at the same time. John had a thing about people listening to him. You could disagree, rip him to shreds and question his existence for living, but don’t look away. That made him angry.
‘All the fucking Steven Frys, Kenneth Branaghs, Ralph Fiennes fucking Oxford and Cambridge lot spend all their time making films about the past or writers, dredging history books for what they think are interesting stuck-up twat like characters ...All because they can’t fit into modern society or understand the motivations of normal heterosexual, stand up guys. If they want to do someone from history, do one of our heroes. Do they loathe themselves and the world so much they can’t play good? Then, as they get a little bit of clout in Hollywood they use it all up persuading a producer to finance their crap play. We have been in Hollywood for years but now fucking Australians fill any role that requires someone to be macho, wholesome and silent. Look at fucking gladiator! Look at X-men! Now doubt that if they had got a British guy to do it, then he would have insisted on playing it as a cross dresser who’s boyfriend had been murdered by the emperor. Most people now think Joaquin Phoenix is British, because he took the role slotted for the British guy. Some of the world's best actors and we can’t play NORMAL. The British army is the best in the world and everyone thinks the SAS is an American unit."
“What about the gardening and the tea?” said Eric.
“Yes, we like to do gardening, DIY, and drink tea. But if someone jumps over the fence and tries to stamp on our roses we take a rake and shove it up their arses. We don’t stand there fretting and dithering. Same with the chicks - we don’t stand there tongue tied but grab her and drag her back to the bedroom we have spent a lot of time decorating and fitting out. Then offer her a cup of fuckin tea in the morning if she not too much of a dog.
John continued: “Another one i am always asked, 'Is there any nightlife in Britain?' - I don’t think so. We are not repressed! Go to club back home or in Ibiza for the summer. Your Cancun spring break faggots wouldn’t last 2 minutes, there.”
“You tell them, ‘What about that DJ who is at Luxy or Plush tonight? You like the band - blah, blah, blah - they are English. And they look at you like, well maybe, I am sure there are a few people who go out in England. Or, like I am sure, like, people go out, but everyone is sat in a dinner jacket at tables, sipping their champagne before clapping politely at the end of each track by the Prodigy. Either that or a guy with a woolly jumper is self-consciously twisting one arm in the air with no rythmn.”
“I used to be a great supporter of the royal family and all the traditions and the history and that shit. Maybe it does bring in some tourists – but it also alienates a lot of people who want to go somewhere they think is fun. And, it especially makes it hard for normal Brits abroad who have to listen to stupid stereotypes of themselves all day. Anyway, why can’t we present both to the world – come to Britain we have cold aloof snobs, out-of-date institutions and kicking nightlife.”
Josh: “I agree, dude! But you still boil your vegetables too long - My grandfather was English.”
Eric: “I will always remember the cream tea and the doorman at the hotel in London…Alright Jeeves...Carry on sir...Brideshead Revisited. Why can’t you all be more like that?”
That night a taxi driver knocked John off his bike and was the unfortunate recipient of a lot of anger...
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
An Englishman in Taipei IV
Being English in Taipei could even slow your progress to the bedroom if you used the wrong word.
Lucy Chen was an English major at University getting ready for her life changing experience in the great USA.
She was a nice girl, but clearly interested in practicing her English, hanging on my every word and not because she was interested in anything i had to say.
I enjoyed dating girls like this, watching their expressions and nervous excitement. She had been studying for 10 years, and she had always feared that it might not work, but now she was talking to a foreigner - The foreigner asked questions, the answer she had studied worked, foreigner understood, we were communicating...Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
Still it could be slow waiting while she sought to check the word or phrase against the million textbooks she had memorized word for word. You could see her systemically dredging up chapter, unit, and then page, remembering the context in which it was used, cross-referencing with what you said before interpreting a meaning.
That day had another problem. In the afternoon I had spent alot of time talking to English people and slipped back into English mode. She had already asked several questions when I had used 'Englishisms' and this had slowed things down. I had to concentrate really hard on at least removing as much British English vocabulary as i could. I was afraid i might blow this - and she was really pretty.
“Let’s move onto a question from chapter five customs and culture…Sub-heading one, Going to Strange Western Man’s Flat!”I said before realizing my mistake.
“Flat? Why you say go to flat?”
“Sorry, apartment!”I said.
“Why you say flat?” She was beginning to panic: maybe, the book was wrong and it had all been for nothing.
“Doesn’t matter!”
“No, please why you say flat?” I knew I was going to have to explain. A pillar of her existence had been challenged.
“It is English for apartment. Same meaning.” She made a sentence in her head, but she was worried now that she was wasting her time talking to an Englishman.
“England has a lot of different words?”she asked.
“Not so many! Now come back to my apartment…flat…there you go, one new word already tonight…and I will explain some more later. I heard Americans don’t understand, ‘shag.’”
“Shag? Yes…No, I never hear that.”
She came back to my apartment, looked through my photos, and said she thought we could be good friends.
Oh, the pain of being English.
Lucy Chen was an English major at University getting ready for her life changing experience in the great USA.
She was a nice girl, but clearly interested in practicing her English, hanging on my every word and not because she was interested in anything i had to say.
I enjoyed dating girls like this, watching their expressions and nervous excitement. She had been studying for 10 years, and she had always feared that it might not work, but now she was talking to a foreigner - The foreigner asked questions, the answer she had studied worked, foreigner understood, we were communicating...Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
Still it could be slow waiting while she sought to check the word or phrase against the million textbooks she had memorized word for word. You could see her systemically dredging up chapter, unit, and then page, remembering the context in which it was used, cross-referencing with what you said before interpreting a meaning.
That day had another problem. In the afternoon I had spent alot of time talking to English people and slipped back into English mode. She had already asked several questions when I had used 'Englishisms' and this had slowed things down. I had to concentrate really hard on at least removing as much British English vocabulary as i could. I was afraid i might blow this - and she was really pretty.
“Let’s move onto a question from chapter five customs and culture…Sub-heading one, Going to Strange Western Man’s Flat!”I said before realizing my mistake.
“Flat? Why you say go to flat?”
“Sorry, apartment!”I said.
“Why you say flat?” She was beginning to panic: maybe, the book was wrong and it had all been for nothing.
“Doesn’t matter!”
“No, please why you say flat?” I knew I was going to have to explain. A pillar of her existence had been challenged.
“It is English for apartment. Same meaning.” She made a sentence in her head, but she was worried now that she was wasting her time talking to an Englishman.
“England has a lot of different words?”she asked.
“Not so many! Now come back to my apartment…flat…there you go, one new word already tonight…and I will explain some more later. I heard Americans don’t understand, ‘shag.’”
“Shag? Yes…No, I never hear that.”
She came back to my apartment, looked through my photos, and said she thought we could be good friends.
Oh, the pain of being English.
An Englishman in Taipei III
The British actors penchant for only playing homosexuals, wimps, weirdos, pyschos and reserved snobs in Hollywood, had done real damage to the average Englishman in Taipei's macho credentials.
The average date:
“You English are gentleman, right?” said Lucy.
“What about the football hooligans?” I said.
At first I had been so overwhelmed by the stereotypes of an inferior English accent, and American superiority I had decided to keep my mouth shut; I almost believed them. But slowly I had found a few people who appreciated the English accent, and didn’t think it was a stuffy, rained every day, bowler hat doffing giant Merchant Ivory Production and I felt I could retake some of the ground between perception and reality.
“I don’t know, but the English are shy…don’t like trouble,”continued Lucy.
“What about James Bond? – He is British,” I pushed.
“Yes, but he is very American-style.”
“Hmm…Anyway…"
The average date:
“You English are gentleman, right?” said Lucy.
“What about the football hooligans?” I said.
At first I had been so overwhelmed by the stereotypes of an inferior English accent, and American superiority I had decided to keep my mouth shut; I almost believed them. But slowly I had found a few people who appreciated the English accent, and didn’t think it was a stuffy, rained every day, bowler hat doffing giant Merchant Ivory Production and I felt I could retake some of the ground between perception and reality.
“I don’t know, but the English are shy…don’t like trouble,”continued Lucy.
“What about James Bond? – He is British,” I pushed.
“Yes, but he is very American-style.”
“Hmm…Anyway…"
An Englishman in Taipei II
This was petty and silly, but after a year of pretending to be an American in Taipei, I needed to exact some kind of revenge. Stand up for my fellow Englishman.
It was parents' evening at the school and i had had to teach the kids some good American folk songs to perform tonight.
The boss of the school was perpetually afraid her American English teacher – that she knew wasn’t - was going to be found out. “You talked to your friends, yes? You learn some good American nursery rhymes. You know the parents want to hear some American songs for the competition today,”she asked.
“No problem. These are good mid-western folk songs…My friend is from Mississippi.”
First team up.
“Where be that blackbird be.
I be after 'e
E be up that blackbird tree and I be after 'e.
E sees I, I sees 'e,
Buggar if I don’t get him,
With a gert big stick I’ll knock ‘im down
Blackbird I’ll ‘ave 'e.
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!
Blackbird I'll 'ave 'e.
I found the idea of kids singing the wurzels - a west of England comic group - to their mother, father and grandparents extremely funny, but I forgot the wurzels were so obscure I would never be found out…And without a hint of suspicion, or doubt there really was no joke.
It was parents' evening at the school and i had had to teach the kids some good American folk songs to perform tonight.
The boss of the school was perpetually afraid her American English teacher – that she knew wasn’t - was going to be found out. “You talked to your friends, yes? You learn some good American nursery rhymes. You know the parents want to hear some American songs for the competition today,”she asked.
“No problem. These are good mid-western folk songs…My friend is from Mississippi.”
First team up.
“Where be that blackbird be.
I be after 'e
E be up that blackbird tree and I be after 'e.
E sees I, I sees 'e,
Buggar if I don’t get him,
With a gert big stick I’ll knock ‘im down
Blackbird I’ll ‘ave 'e.
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!
Blackbird I'll 'ave 'e.
I found the idea of kids singing the wurzels - a west of England comic group - to their mother, father and grandparents extremely funny, but I forgot the wurzels were so obscure I would never be found out…And without a hint of suspicion, or doubt there really was no joke.
An Englishman in Taipei I
Besides the accent, as an Englishman in Taipei you will be continually asked whether you enjoyed national holidays that are not yours.
“You miss your family today?”asked the boss of the school.
I thought about whether it was my birthday or an anniversary of being in Taiwan. “Not especially today,” I replied.
“Really? I know Thanksgiving is very important for you.”
Always the fucking same, they will never get it, I thought, that, and the pumpkin pie, which I have never eaten, and never will - even after teaching the word a thousand times. I am going to get Guy Fawkes integrated into the curriculum in one of the schools before I die. Put a fuckin’ bomb under the school and then they’ll know.
I thought about giving him the talk about it not being a British holiday. “Same every year, eh. Should be okay to give it a miss once,” I replied.
“You miss your family today?”asked the boss of the school.
I thought about whether it was my birthday or an anniversary of being in Taiwan. “Not especially today,” I replied.
“Really? I know Thanksgiving is very important for you.”
Always the fucking same, they will never get it, I thought, that, and the pumpkin pie, which I have never eaten, and never will - even after teaching the word a thousand times. I am going to get Guy Fawkes integrated into the curriculum in one of the schools before I die. Put a fuckin’ bomb under the school and then they’ll know.
I thought about giving him the talk about it not being a British holiday. “Same every year, eh. Should be okay to give it a miss once,” I replied.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
