I'm leaving...

...and moving here:

http://thaino.wordpress.com/

It's a non-anonymous blog about my adventures in China.

Thanks for all the comments, nudges and nonsensical conversations. See you on the other side (where I promise to write more often...)

BYE

Duke Fandango

Doctor, doctor...I'm a lazy bastard.

As a completely untrained medical practitioner (although I do quite like Scrubs), I feel it is my prerogative, nay, my duty, to alert the general public of a new and destructive infection.

Sloped Shoulderitus.

'But how will I be able to accurately recognise this horrific condition?' I hear you wail like a stuck pig.

Welcome to the Dr Fandango medical advice line...

General Comments:

Sloped Shoulderitus is a condition found in any number of medium to large sized organisations. It often collects in the abdominal cavity of middle to senior management or anyone who has a modicum of responsibility but lacks the motivation, wherewithal or ability to perform what should be their job thereby forcing the unlucky surrounding workforce to do not only their own job, but pick up the slack from suffers. Basically, feckless cunts.

Symptoms:

The main symptom of Sloped Shoulderitus in sufferers, is a complete inability to take responsibility for what is ostensibly their job. When asked to give some vital information or work they will exhibit the primary symptoms - shoulders raised into the 'up' position, hands outspread and a roll of the eyes. This will often be followed by a 'tut', often used to imply that it isn't that person's job and they are 'extremely sorry mate, no it hasn't been done'. You are supposed to infer this as 'someone else has fucked up'. This will strike a non-sufferer as somewhat odd. Primarily because you will have irrefutable evidence that you are in fact asking exactly the right person. These symptoms will probably make a non-sufferer want to ram a ball point pen into the victim's pseudo-sympathetic right eye. This is a natural, evolutionary, reflex action created to prevent the spread of the disease.

Prognosis:

People infected with Sloped Shoulderitus will undoubtedly be seen by those in senior management as streamlined and efficient. This is because they spend the vast majority of their time picking fluff from their genital region, arranging Post-It notes into scale models of the Reichstag and downloading CCTV footage of attractive interviewees onto their hard drive, only shifting their pathologically lazy arses to do work given from above. They will ultimately be promoted, creating a cascade effect as the tasks given slide effortlessly off of their sloped shoulders. If we could harness the energy created by fast flowing work, we'd be off oil in a week.

Treatment:

There is no known cure for Sloped Shoulderitus. As such, preventing the spread to the disease is the only course of action. I recommend a double tap to the forehead. If circumstance prevents you having access to a firearm then do your best with a Sellotape dispenser or failing that, a paperclip.

Beaten, never broken.

It was a hot day. The sun beat down on me as I walked across the hard, barely green, ground. My right hand was taped to support my weak fingers. I brought my forearm across my brow to sweep the sweat before it slipped into my eyes. My bare knees showed the cuts and scrapes of last time. My left ankle creaked as I walked. No matter; the pain would soon be replaced by adrenaline.

I looked over the field and took stock of what was about to happen. Fourteen men looked back - grim determination etched deep into their faces. I knew that this was going to be hell but my brothers in arms were there. They would sacrifice their bodies for me. I would do the same for every single one of them. As one we turned and looked at the enemy. Rage, aggression and fury took us. We would fail today - we all knew it - but by all that we were, all that we could be, we would fight until we could fight no more. We were determined to show that no matter the odds, no matter the outcome, we would be proud to call ourselves a team.

The ball went up. We chased. I pumped my legs to get there, to stop the play, to prevent an early shaming. I drew close and watched their receiver brought to the ground. I joined the pile of bodies that surrounded the break down, forcing my weight over the ball, feeling the rough embrace of my team bind on and drive. Every fibre of my being willing the opposition back. The smell of musk, dust and Deep-Heat filled my nostrils.

Later, there was a break by the terrible opposition. I ran, feeling the turf pound the soles of my feet, towards him barely considering his huge physical advantage. I flung my body towards the giant. My hope was that the contact would be good. I smashed my shoulder into his stomach and started to club my feet into the solid earth. He caved, dropping into touch as he went down. We won the ball.

A lineout. I leapt clear towards the hot sun, reaching for the most precious thing on the pitch. The lifters in front and behind held me suspended. I was in their trust. One wrong foot and they would let me crash back down, thudding my fragile body against the ground. I leaned, caught and passed, relieved that I had won the contest and that I wasn't lying mangled on the floor.

One of us tackled one of them. He dropped the ball forwards in the contact as he crumpled like a rag-doll. We scrummed down, sixteen men locked together in our own private battle. We didn't have the weight or power to compete. We lost the ball back to them. The ball was picked out and passed to their fly-half spinning gently through the air as it was caught. I detached myself from the scrum and ran as hard as I could. The ball carrier set his body into the curious half-sit, half-crouch position he adopted to kick. His kicking had been sound all day and we were growing weary of his ability to push us back deep into our own territory. I knew I was the only player chasing; knew that if I didn't get there fast enough we would be back the other side of our ten-metre line. His boot struck the ball as I leapt into the air, arms outstreatched, looking like a bedraggled Superman. The white flash of the ball struck my wrist and tumbled sideways into the awaiting arms of our full-back. Safety for now.

On our try line desperate not to concede any more points. Everyone knew that we were beaten. Hammered by try after try being scored against us, we had very little left to give and even less to play for, the result already decided. But yet, tackle after tackle went in. Bodies were given up to prevent another score. Nobody took a step back. Everybody fought.

This was my last match for the team. I was disapponted by the huge loss we took but proud to have represented the club. Proud to wear the black, gold and green.

Proud to be a man amongst men.

Duke, Stop Fucking Around and Pay Attention!

I've never been diagnosed as having ADHD but working with a number of pupils who have I find myself coming to the conclusion that I show many of the symptoms.

It affects me in a variety of ways. I get bored quickly and often find myself being distracted by anything other than what I should actually be doing.

I have great plans for my blog. I think of running jokes or thematic posts that I feel would be hilarious. Look at the manifesto post. Sure, it's a bit overlong and somewhat wordy but I thought it was quite funny. I then thought I'd run a series of posts based on a fictional parliamentary candidate getting into all kinds of amusing scrapes. Once again, plenty of room for cringe-worthy humour. Then I got bored writing about it. After ONE post.

I've done it before. I wrote a political profile on Lord Mandelson which I thought would turn into a series of satirical pokes at major British politicians. Didn't do it. How about the teaching advice posts that you promised us, Duke? Meh, other stuff happened.

How about my grand scheme to report the news in the style of a 1920s old time imperialist ("Today in the colonies there was some shooting. No white people were hurt.")? Or my plan to use literary critical theories to deconstruct the lyrics of modern pop songs (a Marxist reading of 'Single Ladies [Put A Ring On It]' anyone?) None of it happened. None of it will happen. As such my blog drifts aimlessly between personal mewlings and social commentary without any form of overall structure.

And it's not just on my blog. I can pretty much get any class I teach to be absolutely silent and working away like happy little things. That's great. Some teachers can't. The trouble is that I get bored so quickly that I start to wind the kids up. Stealing their pencil cases and hiding them. Pulling faces. Singing a nice song (currently my number one choice is 'Free Nelson Mandela' - I know not why). The other day I made a shadow puppet of a dog on the projector screen and pretended that it was throwing up the words on the PowerPoint I was using (yes, with sound effects). The kids generally ignore it or tell me to go away. One pupil once told me to 'grow up man-child'. Fair play.

This mucking around can occasionally turn a peaceful classroom into something approaching Brixton circa 1981. I then have to battle to get them quiet again.

Why do I do this? What possible use could it serve?

And when I have to complete work on my own I procrastinate like a mother fucker. If I have an 'absolute-must-finish' job I will spend twenty minutes working for every forty-five minutes of fucking about. This could be checking my blog, walking to the other side of the school to tell someone something (rather than send an email), try to improve my juggling, researching technical rugby moves that I will never pull off or even just staring at the light reflecting off the white board onto my ceiling. Sure, it looks pretty but I don't need it in my life.

It means that I'm 'okay' at a number of things (playing guitar, cooking, writing) but don't have the attention span to learn properly. Most of the computer games I buy are half finished. I listen to a CD non-stop for a week then put it away for the next twelve months.

There are however, some advantages. For instance, I have a knowledge about a lot of things. You could ask me a question on Roman civilisation, Russian literature or science and I'm usually pretty good at giving a half-decent response. I know, for example, that light can function as both a particle and a wave, that it is based on probability and can be in two places at once. That sounds impressive but that is the limit for me. I can't draw the equation that shows this for two reasons - I suck at maths and if I sat down, determined to get better, I would get distracted by a bee or something.

Anyway, I'm getting bored writing this. I'm off to play in my last match of the season. Have I told you about rugby?

Oh man rugby's great! So are 'Tool'! Dude, you've gotta listen to 'Tool'. They rock! Oh, have you ever eaten scallops? What about proper homemade jam? Do you watch 'Lost'? Yeah, I got bored too. How about 'The Wire'? It's great!

Ooh, look. A bee.

Call the Election Off...Volcanic Death Cloud Wins By Default

At least that's what the news would have you believe.

I was working the other day (that's right bitches, I work in my holidays) and had BBC News 24 on as I marked some work. During this time the whole of UK airspace was closed due to the eruptions of an Icelandic volcano and the subsequent ash cloud it created.

I have just recounted the entire story for you in one sentence.

What the BBC decided to do was devote and entire day's worth of coverage to this very simple item.

To this end, they sent every available member of their reporting staff to what seemed like every single airport up and down the land in a desperate attempt to squeeze some kind of newsworthiness out of the dead, swollen corpse of an idea it actually was.

From the studio we were flung hyperactively to Stansted airport where surely there would be some kind of riot in place as disgruntled passengers demanded the blood of whomsoever was in charge.

Quite the opposite - "well, it's a nuisance but it can't be helped" quoted the generally genial British public.

Clearly this wasn't dramatic enough for the hard-nosed editors. So we instantly cut to Glasgow where another reporter was desperately trying to think of something to say. I can understand their thinking. Glasgow, full of angry Scottish people who will probably blame the lack of flights on 'poofy Englishmen who won't fly through a bit of cloud'. Surely the good people of Glasgow would be enragedly throwing concrete bollards through plate glass windows to show their displeasure?

Nope. It was very quiet. No one around.

And that was the story for the entire country. We went from city airport to city airport looking at banks of empty check-in desks and silent terminals to prove the no one was able to fly. In fact the only sound to break the cloister-like silence was the noise of waxy-faced failed actors trying to make the cleaning lady walking past sound like groundbreaking stuff.

There is of course a sure fire way of milking a story like the fucking cash cow it isn't and that is the rolling out of a collection of experts.

One even brought some volcanic ash with him to show what it was like. We had to sit through a full fifteen minutes of the reporter rubbing it between forefinger and thumb next to the microphone just to give us poor non-volcanic ash owning plebeians a sense of just how abrasive it was.

"Can you hear the rasping?" she spluttered like she'd just discovered the female orgasm.

She then, for reasons best know to herself, smeared it over the sleeve of her coat and held it to the camera as if she'd managed to do a poo in her training potty. "Look I'm so fucking clever, I can defaecate like a grown up".

After that almost sexually exciting period of reporting the whole hideous cycle started again. No airport was left unseen. There must have been a competition to see how many different ways the journalists could say 'usually this airport is really busy but now there is no one around'. Well, no shit. All the flights have been canceled.

My favourite quote had to be "it's no longer an airport, more like a shopping centre that you aren't allowed to leave". What a simile! What imagery! What bollocks!

In any case it made me realise that rolling news is at best an amusing way of spending an afternoon if you have nothing more productive to do with your life.

I say this because watching highly paid telly types attempt to make 30 seconds of news last for twenty minutes was like watching The Office.

Cringing, uncomfortable but ultimately one of the funniest things you'll see.

Campaign Diary - Day 1

To start my campaign to become the youngest (and I believe best) Prime Minister that this fine nation has ever seen I have decided to embark on a series of meet and greet opportunities that will allow me to get to know the great British public on a face-to-face basis. Over the next three weeks I will be keeping a diary of my experiences - I will share them with you via this blog.

Dear Diary,

Day one of this campaign starts in the key constituency of Upper Crotchdon. I've decided to avoid the standard overblown photo-op much loved by other parties to get on with some old fashioned door knocking. Up early to catch the fruits of my (non-political) labour.

Started the day in glorious sunshine. Just me, the open road and my entourage of thirty. There is nothing like the feeling of being on your own that compares with the sense of anticipation of that crisp morning air.

Knocked on the first house I came to. Spoke to a delightful old lady. Real salt of the earth type. I asked if she was planning to vote in the up coming election. She said yes and nipped inside and brought out a small wooden box. I asked what she was planning to show me - she smiled and with a twinkle in her eye opened the box and produced an Iron Cross, a Tottenkopft cap badge and a Luger.

Great! My first house of the day and it's a Nazi sympathiser. Still, these things are sent to test our resolve. It can't get worse.

Door two looked more promising. It had swings in the front garden and a number of toys scattered on the grass. Bingo! I thought, families are a key voting group in this election. I knocked and introduced myself to the two chaps who answered the door. I asked if they were happy with the government's policies on families. They both looked a little confused. I kindly explained that surely their children were their number one priority. They looked more puzzled - and then told me that they didn't have children. I looked round at the toys on the lawn, at the swing and back to them. It was at this point that I noticed the dog lead around one of the feller's necks and the strong smell of baby oil.

It turns out that 'Terry' and 'Bitch' hold gay-friendly BDSM parties at their place and both have 'Daddy and Daddy' fetishes. After chatting for a bit I turned down their offer of tea - 'busy, busy' I explained wanting to get away before the local press arrived.

The next few houses had nobody in. At least all sounds of conversation suddenly stopped when I knocked on the door. This must be how Jehovah Witnesses must feel!

At this point the weather started to turn. A cold wind brought a few smatterings of rain but come rain or shine, I would bloody well campaign. Not like Cameron who insists on set weather conditions before he leaves his regeneration unit.

My next successful house was a young woman in her mid-twenties. 'Young votes' said my internal swingometre. She even invited me in for a cup of tea and a chat. I walked through the hall way and noticed a conspicuous lack of Nazi memorabilia or sex aides. At last - someone in Upper Crotchdon who isn't a nutter. I sat down and asked if she had any idea on who she was going to vote for on May 6th. She said she was standing herself as an independent. Now, I've always encouraged the incorporation of a myriad of viewpoints in the party, as my alcoholic grandfather used to say 'alloys are stronger - now fek off you slimy little bugger' - what a man.

I asked the young woman what issues she was hoping to stand on - if there was a way we could work together to prevent splitting the vote.

She looked me straight in the eye and said "I believe that if we don't stop destroying the planet we will be forced to pay". I explained that we also were a party with green issues at heart "yes" she continued "we will be attacked by the Halthraxian Galactic Empire by June if we don't stop the torture of Mother Earth" I looked at her blankly "In fact Gethina, our High-Priestess believes that it is too late and the only way we can prevent our impending doom is to do the dance of placation".

I'll be honest I'm quite liberal minded but when the young woman removed all of her clothes and started gyrating in front of me I didn't know where to put my face. Of course this was the moment when the local press decided to arrive and started taking photo after photo. I felt like Princess Diana in a strip club. I can only hope that the Upper Crotchdon Echo doesn't run those photos tomorrow!

After hastily extricating myself I decided I needed a bit of lunch and a break. Luckily there was a local pub just on the corner of the street. I walked in, proud to support the fine tradition of the local pub and the vital community service it provides.

"Pint of your local brew, barkeep" I said to, what looked like, Quasimodo's ugly twin. "Why?" he/she/it responded "it tastes like shit". I accepted the proffered pint and took a large swig; "hummm..." I said as my face puckered up "that's quite sour". The bartender just muttered under his breath. I'm sure it was complementing me on my desire to be one of the locals.

I felt the hunger pangs start to rumble in my stomach and decided to order some food. "Do you have a menu, my good man?" He thrust a stumpy finger towards a blackboard which looked like it had been decorated by a blind man with Parkinson's. "That looks like it's been decorated by a blind man with Parkinson's" I said aloud, pleased at my witty simile.

At this very moment a local rouge clapped a hand on my shoulder turned me round and said gruffly "are you takin' the piss outta Gerald?" as he did so he jerked a thumb towards the corner where an elderly chap with dark glasses and a white cane was sat shaking gently. Next to him was a pile of coloured chalk.

I came round outside in the gutter.

As I sat on the kerbside watching the traffic and trying to ignore the dull throb at the base of my skull I pondered if campaigning was always this hard. If perhaps, just perhaps, the main parties did it their way for a reason. "No point dwelling on the negativity" as my Laudanum addicted grandmother used to say before jacking up.

As my head cleared I espied a group of youths hanging in at a local park. Surely I should have little difficulty dealing with the X-Station playing, Hippty-Hop listening, crack-headed youngsters. I mean their brains should be so addled with virtual reality and illicit substances that I should have no difficulty in winning them over.

"Hey guys" I said as I walked to them.
"Oh, look who it is" one of them responded "you're Duke Fandango, leader of the The Neo-Post-Anti-Pro-Social Liberal Party." I immediately felt uneasy. This wasn't the brain washed youth the media promised.
"Yeah" said another spotty teen as he casually flicked his cigarette butt at my feet "your manifesto is nothing short of a joke - you try to set yourself up as a new way in British politics but you insist on twisting the socialist teachings of Marx into a conformist centrist point of view in a cynical attempt to acquire more votes".

I felt sick.

"Well" another started "I would actually place him closer to a Lloyd-Georgian classical interpretation of Liberalism when it came to economic issues with a direct ripping of the Social Democratic Party's social doctrine rather than having any direct influence from Marx".

I slowly backed away from the group until I could no longer hear the teenage gestalt equivalent of Jeremy Paxman.

"One more house" I said to myself "then I'm leaving this town full of Nazis, sexual deviants, cults and jumped up youngsters - I can see why the Conservatives are likely to win here".

I selected a house at random. Walked to the door, took a breath and knocked. The door immediately opened and I was face to face with a copper. He took one look at me then battoned me to the floor, flipped me over and handcuffed me. "We've got the bastard sarge" he yelled up the stairs.

It turns out that due to an unfortunate coincidence I knocked on the door of a police sting operation. It turns out that I may have interrupted the capture of 'El Gecko' the most infamous people trafficker in Western Europe. I hardly think it's my fault that he looks like me but apparently I'm due in court on the 24th for perverting the course of justice.

It's been a tough day. Still, as my zooiphilic great-aunt used to say 'keep your pecker up' before mounting Henry, my family's African Bull Elephant.

I can only hope that tomorrow is easier...

Join the Party

After too many years of being under the thumb of INGSOC we have an opportunity to change the face of Britain. Leader Bot Brown has finally called a general election and change is called for. We can change. Change, change, change.

With change.

However there is a problem. Change is hard to achieve with parties that are, in essence, identi-fit airfix models of one another. As a fully paid up member of the British democratic system I find this truly untenable.

Time has come my brothers and sisters (and hermaphrodites) to look to a new leader. One with drive, determination and stunning facial hair. One who can take this once great nation and turn it great again. Someone with an understanding of words and stuff. A humble person who desires nothing more than the betterment of the lot of the average family/cohabiting partners/individuals who live on their own (or possibly even in a flat share arrangement with a couple of friends - they may have a girlfriend/boyfriend but haven't taken the decision to move in with each other. That's cool too.)

'But Duke' I hear you cry 'who is this inspirational, sexy and hirsute leader that we have only just heard of'.

Well, it is I. I, Duke Fandango hereby announce the formation of a radical new force in the gambit of British Politics. The Neo-Post-Anti-Pro-Social Liberal Party

Unlike some political parties I could mention I have actually thought of some policies that I feel will help the average person in the street. And at home. And in their car. Even at work.

As such, here I will submit the party's manifesto for the upcoming election.

Healthcare

We believe that being healthy is important. As a consequence of this breakthrough in thinking we propose that there should be a cut off point for an individual's BMI. If that person goes over a set limit they will be forced to provide community service by becoming rickshaw drivers in our inner cities. This will have the double benefit of making fatties lose weight and will help reduce congestion as well as our carbon footprint. Win, win, win.

Doctors and Nurses do a great job however, there are times when they accidentally let people die for no good reason. To stop this from happening too often we will instigate a policy of having those in the medical profession followed by a camera crew 24 hours a day. Any fuck-up will be broadcast in high-definition on Five. The public will be able to vote out 'Killer Carers' once a week using the premium rate phone number. The money generated from this will be plowed back into the NHS.

Education

We believe that being educated is important. However, recent Government policy has led to a nation of barely literate cretins. I mean, the 'Three Rs' only includes one 'R'. It's this kind of woolly thinking that has destroyed pupil attainment in schools.

Radical changes that we would bring in include (but are not limited to):

Making sure kids can actually read and write by the age of 11. We would do this by...well...teaching them how to read and write. It's not fucking rocket science, is it now.

Parents also have to attend detentions with their kids. Yeah, Jimmy's constant fucking around in class isn't so funny now you have to take the afternoon off work.

OFSTED inspectors have to actually live the life of a pupil in the school they are inspecting. This will include staying up to 3am playing Call of Duty, listening to parental rows through thin chip-board walls and avoiding being 'shanked' by a rival gang. If the HMI can then perform to their best the day after then fair play. It may make them realise that social issues play a bigger part on a child's education than the current thinking allows.

We promise to stop fucking about with education like it's out electoral prison bitch. Rather than overload already harassed teaching staff with fifteen separate initiative a day we will give them a bit of respect. And a pay rise. And a person to give them a hug (two for NQTs - let's be fair, they need it more).

Foreign Policy

We believe that having a foreign policy is important. Other countries tend to laugh at you if you don't have one. A bit like wearing school uniform on a non-uniform day. You'd never live it down.

All conflicts will be fought using a new breed of fighting force. The over 65s. They constantly harp on about how great national service was - well, time to put your money where your mouth is gramps. I also believe that giving an elderly person a gun and telling them to kill foreigners is the best possible use for a generation of ingrained racists. Other benefits include taking the burden of looking after the elderly off of the shoulders of their families, they're almost dead anyway so will accept suicidal missions and the Army will ensure they have not only hot food but regular showers. This can only be a good thing.

However, we feel that force should only be used only as a last resort. So, before we commit our Elderly Elite Killer Battalions we would attempt to reach a peaceful conclusion to any international issues. To this end we would have a slumber party with the prospective belligerents where we would read magazines, do each other's hair and make-up and talk about boys. Hopefully by day break we would have bonded over a late night game of 'I have Never' and be BFFs forever.

This is not to say that Britain will become a soft-touch. We will advise our diplomats to use the phrase 'yer mum' in any difficult negotiations. If this fails to have the desired effect then screaming 'come and have a go, if you think you're hard enough' into the opponent's face, followed by the diplomat breaking a glass bottle on the edge of a table will be the recommended course of action.

Sports and Culture

We believe that sports and culture are really important. We've had enough of the international community looking on us as the fat kid that is always chosen last to take part in sports. No longer will the UK have to sit on the bench. Or be the referee because the PE teacher can't be arsed to take part.

As such there will a special test for all 4 year olds to see if they have any aptitude in throwing, catching and running. For those who do we propose setting up sports schools where pupils are only taught about sports. Once this new social class of Uber-Athletes (above the upper class, below aristocracy) have nobbed the rest of the world at every sporting event they will then become the trainers for the next generation. Once the retirement age of 65 arrives they will go on to provide the back-bone of the military. It's this kind of joined up thinking that separates us from the other political parties.

Culture seems to be doing okay. Although we propose to fire Tracey Emin into the heart of the sun. Nobody cares who you slept with you horse-faced abuser of tents. Fuck off.

Community Cohesion

We believe that the community and how cohesive it is is very important. This is because we all live in a community. Sometimes this community is dispersed. Whereas it should be cohesive. Like jam on toast. In recent years Britain has had issues with having a sticky group of people. We have two main policy areas that we believe will help us to become a bit more cohesive as a community.

Tickle a Total Stranger. This policy is designed to create goodwill amongst all people. At the hours of 11am and 5pm every member of the public will be forced to go outside, introduce themselves to a complete stranger then give them a tickle. This would help to break down barriers between different social groups as it's very difficult to hold a grudge against someone who who've had rolling on the floor crying 'stop it..hehehe...no...hehehe...arrrggghh...hehehe...'.

Together We Are Tremendously Strong. Or TWATS for short will be a programme where we encourage people to return to the blitz spirit. To this end we will be running bombing raids on major towns and cities throughout the night. People will bond in their hastily constructed Anderson shelters drinking ration tea and singing Lady Gaga a cappella in four-part harmony (T-Telephone...*BOOM*...T-T-T-Telephone...*CRASH*)

The Economy

We believe that the economy is really fucking important. Currently it is right up the shitter. We suggest the adoption of the Monopoly Trading system. When people drive their cars over a certain square they will be taxed £200, other squares will give people £200 in tax credits. There will also be system of chance cards delivered at random throughout the life of the government. These will cover things such as dental bills, beauty competitions and maintenance of houses and hotels.

All bankers will be forced to dress like Victorian business men. This will allow the general public to spot the money-grubbing bastards a mile off.

Law and Order

We believe that law and order is super-duper important. We want a return to bobbies on the beat and not even in a sexual way. Police will therefore be trained in how to be human statues, those women who give you a ticket outside of changing rooms in shops and charity collectors on the high street. With these three strategic areas covered crime will fall exponentially. This will also reduce the need for blanket CCTV coverage which will save loads of money that can be spent of other policies/my salary.

Parliamentary Reform

We believe that the reformation of parliament is so important that if we did nothing about it our eye balls would implode out of sheer incredulity. We believe in straight talking, no nonsense politicians. After years of dicked around by wax-work, PR trained, facsimiles of real people the country has had enough. We would pursue the adoption of the 'three strikes and you're out' method of asking a politician a question. If they haven't given a straight 'yes' or 'no' response to a simple question they have their patellas removed and turned into canastas before being forced to listen to a Flamenco version of 'Flight of the Bumblebee' played using their knee caps for 12 hours solid. Take that you slimy bastards.

With these crucial policies in place it can only be a matter of time before we knock this beleaguered country into shape. I reckon we can show Obama a thing or two about change.

All hail the revolution!

The Neo-Post-Anti-Pro-Social Liberal Party.

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If you think that you can help the NPAPSL Party win in your area, even if you aren't British, don't live in Britain or haven't even visited this fine nation, please get in contact - a comment is a sign of support.

I'd be a Terrible Parent...Thanks for Asking.

Teenagers smell.

This may not come as a surprise to any of you but I have just had experience of sitting on a coach for 23 hours with 42 of the little treasures.

Currently, I've had two baths, shaved my entire body and double washed my clothes just to get the heady mix of body odor and Lynx Africa out of my system. My nostrils are saturated with the honk of feet and I doubt I'll be able to smell properly for the next three weeks. The coach was close to having a special committee formed at The Hague to see if it was in fact a basic yet effective form of biological weaponry. I'm surprised customs let us through (although I'm glad, from an animal welfare point of view, that a sniffer dog wasn't used - the poor bastard would have spontaneously combusted).

I didn't put myself into this situation for no reason. We were returning from Switzerland (home of Heidi, Chocolate and Nazi Gold) where we had taken the kids on the school ski trip. As one of the two trip leaders I was directly responsible for the well being of the kids.

For the first time in my life I felt what it was to be a parent. The kids even started calling me 'Papa Fandango'. I'll be honest with you - I hated it.

I have never been so emotionally, mentally and physically shattered in all my life. I've bandaged feet (urrghh), looked after sick kids, raced to accidents on skis (actually, that was quite fun), doled out encouragement and bollockings as required, made sure that kids were asleep on time, made sure they had all their things (what do you mean I need a hat on to go skiing on a glacier?), checked their rooms were tidy, sorted out squabbles and falling outs, cheered up grumpy kiddy-winks, dealt with homesickness, travel sickness, nut allergies and Hindu children being given veal for dinner (the hotelier said 'It's not beef, it's veal' and it took some time to convince them - in my piss poor French - that veal happens to be baby cows).

I realised that I'm okay doing this for a week. Maybe two. Possibly three, tops. Anymore and I think I'd either physically lash out when asked 'Do you know what's for dinner' for the eighteenth time or just start drinking at 11 in the morning letting the whole horrific experience wash over me in an alcoholic haze.

It has made me reach a conclusion. I'd be a rubbish parent. I like kids, a lot. Hell, I work with them on a daily basis. The crucial point however, is that I usually get to give the children back at the end of the day. I don't have to worry about where they are going or what time they will be back, who they are going with, are they being safe, are they taking drugs? God no, not drugs! It'll be a short hop from here to prostitution and then they'll be dead in a skip by the age of 23 riddled with bullet holes all because of an altercation with a dealer.

You see, I'm too emotionally immature to look after another human being. It's hard enough to look after myself. I can barely get ready in the mornings without asking the Duchess where at least three items are. My routine is like this:

It's six o'clock and you're listening to the Today Sh...

*Hit snooze*

It's ten past six...

*Hit snooze*

Time now is six twenty and the markets were fairly steady overnight with...

*Hit snooze*

...ix thirty and the headlines again. Politicians do dirty deeds done cheap...

'Fuck'

Arise slumber like from my duvet sarcophagus. Stumble sleepily to bathroom. Scratch balls. Run bath. Reach for shampoo.

'Hun, where is the shampoo?'
'On the side.'
'No it isn't.'
(under breath) 'Fucking retard' (aloud) 'yes it is, next to the shower gel'.
'Got it'.

twenty minutes later

'Have you seen my brown tie?'
'Is it on the tie rack?'
'Do you really think I'm that stupid that I didn't check the tie rack first?'
'Fine, I'll check. Oh look at that - it's on the tie rack.'
'I swear it wasn't there a minute ago.'
'Must be that tie delivering eagle that I recently invested in.'
'Woah! We have a tie delivering eagle now? Sweet!'
'Were you starved of oxygen at birth?'

ten minutes later

'For fuck's sake...'
'What is it now, Duke?'
'Where the fuck are my car keys?'
'In your hand.'
'Oh...shit'

Now add in having to look after a baby as well? No thanks. I'm sure I'd be the sort of parent that keeps social services on their toes. Not through malicious intent, just because of my lackadaisical approach to life. If I did have a kid the conversation would probably run like this.

'Where's Ryu?'
'For the last time Duke, the baby's name is James - I allowed you to put three names into the running and you chose 'Ryu', 'Sub-Zero' and 'Zool' none of which are real names for real people so were laughingly discounted out of hand.
'James is a gay name.'
'So is 'Ryu'.'
'Fine. Have it your way. Where is James?'
'You had him literally thirty seconds ago.'
'Yeah, I was teaching him how to do a Haiduken.'
'And where was this?'
'In the bathroom - I was using the toaster to create the special effects...'HAIDUKEN!'
'You wha...oh fuck!'

Maybe one day I'll grow up. Maybe one day I'll say 'I want to increase the population by a few'. Maybe one day I'll stop making aeroplane noises and reenacting the space battle scene from Return of the Jedi in the bath (I use the sponge as the Star Destroyer bridge and a bar of soap for the A-Wing 'Shields Up!' BOOM!)

Will I actually change? Probably not.

I don't care really. Being immature is far too much fun.

Social Pariah...Moi?

It appears that I have become the scourge of society. Not me personally - I'm not currently living in a hollowed out volcano planning to unleash my super-mega death ray on an incredulous and totally deserving society. Not until I get that bank loan at any rate.

No, what makes me the social equivalent to a Pol Pot memorial awards dinner is that I'm a smoker.

The current societal view of a smoker is that we are nefarious outcasts bent on polluting the whole of society with our tobacco based addictions. Scuttling around in hastily constructed 'smoking areas' outside of pubs planning the overthrow of the Government. If there is a child in the surrounding area we will no doubt chain said child to the ground before forcing them to name every county in the country and laughing when they forget Rutland.

We are the new hate figures. Wreathed in the gray-blue smoke of pure, unadulterated evil.

This is clearly absurd. Yet smokers are increasingly penalised through this country's obsession with criminalising every possible sector of population.

This has come to a head this week with the proposal that smoking should be banned in every car. I could understand if this was for safety reasons. Using a mobile is rightly banned due to the distraction it creates. Eating is a bit of a gray area but I assume popping a sweet into your mouth when behind the wheel is kind of okay whereas consuming a roasted boar in the style of Astrix the Gaul would most likely end up in a humorous yet ultimately punitive court case. Likewise, playing squash, performing major heart surgery on a stoat, receiving oral sex, fishing, whittling, constructing Airfix models, dancing the Gay Gordon, watching cheap Dutch porn, and reading Dr Faustus are all banned when driving.

The thing is safety isn't the cited reason. No, it's to protect children from breathing in smoke.

Now this I don't really get. If this proposal ever becomes law (which I admit is unlikely) I will be banned from smoking in my car because I may cause a child to breath in second hand smoke. Ignoring for the moment the fact that I never drive children in my car, don't have children and don't plan on ever having any children I would be barred from making a personal choice in my own private space.

Er..what?

The justification for this was that police may not be able to see if there was a child in the car so it's best to just ban it all together.

Now I respect the police. They do a tough job and get a lot of stick. But what utter cretins must they be employing if they can't see a person in a car. I mean, are there only boss-eyed coppers on patrol now? Do they struggle to differentiate between a child and, oh I don't know, a seat with no one sat in it? Do they have to actually be certified blind to get called up to the force?

That's not to say that I don't think that children should be protected from the smoke of an adult. I do - I smoke as a choice, I don't have the right to inflict potential illness on another person, especially a child.

Likewise, I shouldn't be told where and when I can and can't consume a perfectly legal substance. It's just not cricket.

To this end I propose a radical rethink on this issue. Don't ban smoking in cars, ban children in cars.

Lets look at the pros and cons.

Pro - children are sticky and will infect your plush new car seats with a cocktail of snot, sweets, saliva, Farley's Rusks, milk, juice and extreme cases excrement.
Con - children have to get places to do children stuff.
Pro - children are really noisy and can distract even the best of drivers.
Con - people get funny about leaving their children by the side of the road.
Pro - you won't have to listen to 'are we there yet', 'I'm bored' or that fucking 'wheels on the bus' song again.
Con - no longer will you have an excuse for playing DVDs in the car.
Pro - fat children will be forced to walk their pudgy arses to school thereby loosing weight.
Con - car seat manufacturers will go bankrupt.
Pro - we will never have to see one of those self-indulgent 'Baby on Board' stickers again (yeah, well fucking done - you managed to procreate).
Con - ...nope, can't think of any more cons.
Pro - less inner city mums will feel compelled to drive what can only be described a scale version of the Challenger 2 main battle tank the 0.5 of a mile from their house to the school that their insufferable offspring attend.
Pro - I don't have to change my behaviour to conform to a frankly ridiculous and unenforceable law.

If smoking is this much of an issue just ban it. Totally. Make it a class A substance. Really. Force the whole of the nation to go cold turkey.

Can you imagine the consequences...

A whole nation shaking with withdrawal symptoms, licking the shelves in Boots for the trace remains of the nicotine replacement therapy patches. Perhaps we'll all make illicit trips to Amsterdam to smoke in cafes. Soon HM Revenue and Customs will be uncovering a Marlboro Mule trafficking system where large quantities of tobacco is smuggled into the country wrapped in condoms in an Eastern European's stomach.

Of course this is never going to happen. The Government makes far too much money on the duty from the sale of tobacco products.

But if they did bring in a total ban, everyone would know where they stand.

At the very least it won't be outside in the rain.

Oh Fuck STED

On Monday we had the call. The call that strikes fear and untold panic into the hearts of every teacher in the land. The one that loosens bowels and compresses bladders.

OFSTED were coming in.

OFSTED is a portmanteau of Office for Standards in Education. They are the government's inspectors. They give you notice two days before they are due to arrive and then descend - in flash cars I might add - like a biblical plague.

They operate like the SS at the start of Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds. They come in all smiles 'yes we're here to help you improve' before whipping out the MP42s and shooting at the floorboards.

No stone is left unturned. They will scour your school for any hint of something not quite right. This could be on any one of the 15 billion initiatives that have come into force over the last ten years. "What do you mean you haven't included a policy on creative development in lower school with a focus on community cohesion and its application across the Every Child Matters agenda? That is a 'Focus 12' priority and as such should have picto-implementation by now you twat" to someone who spluttering between sobs mummers "I just want to teach kids how to play hockey".

But that's an issue for the people with much larger pay-cheques than I. What I care about is when they just saunter casually into your classroom and stony faced ask for your 'Lesson plan, data sheets and motorcycle'.

I had this happen to me first period on Wednesday...

I was midway through my lesson. The kids were working well and I was circling the room checking the pupils' work. There was a thud on the steps leading to my classroom. I knew what was outside of the door. The handle slowly turned. The glass on the window was misted by the breath of the unspeakable horror that lay beyond it. The door opened with a sickening and somewhat cliched creak.

"Is this Year 9" the thing said, reptilian sibilance rasping in its voice.

"Er...yes. Yes it is." I stuttered with terror forcing my speech to quiver.

"Good...I will require a lesson plan and a data sheet". Its words inflicted primordial terror, my flight or fight response was coming into the fore. "Don't look into the eyes" I reminded myself aloud. She looked at me quizzically. "At the back" I squeaked, pointing to the chair I'd put everything on.

She sat. I had to do everything I could to be normal. I realised after three minutes that I had marched around my room thirteen times. I needed to calm down. A deep breath and a sip of water. Better.

The troll moved towards me.

"Lovely atmosphere in here"

"Well, I think that's unfair I jus...what!?"

"I said it's a lovely atmosphere in here - are you alright?"

"Yes - I've never had a compliment mid-lesson from an HMI before."

"Well, we're not monsters you know."

"*Ahem*...quite..."

And then it dawned on me. This wasn't a hideous creature sent from the bowels of hell to torture my yet still living soul. This was a middle aged lady in a skirt suit. Now there is one thing that I know I do better than anything else on this Earth...

Charming middle-aged ladies.

So I cracked a few jokes. Talked about what I was doing with the kids and why I was doing it. How the kids were being loyal and working so well because they knew I was being assessed. She smiled and made notes.

At the end of the lesson I dismissed my pupils and stood awaiting my fate.

"That was fantastic" she said "I'm grading you as '1s' across the board. As an English specialist myself I'm very impressed by the quality of the learning that took place in a class that is quite low ability. Well done."

She left me shaking with relief.

I've worked 18 hours a day for the majority of this week. I've lost sleep. I've panicked like nothing else. The Duchess has had to put up with a gibbering wreck of a man slumped over a laptop - something she did with aplomb and great kindness.

But to be officially graded as an 'Outstanding' teacher made it all worth it - there is no higher accolade in the profession.

Next week we'll be watching videos. Outstanding be damned - I'm exhausted.

I Say Gerald, This Shit Just Got Real...

I'm really fucking excited!

I've just had through the accommodation spec for China.

How this may seem like a small thing to get worked up about. Some facts about how big the rooms are and how many bathrooms there are? This should be enough to send any sane person into a catatonic state only surfacing to take on some more ale.

What it does for me is make me put the hood of my hoodie over my head and run around the room like Superman.

It has been a week of excitement in this regard (not running around like Superman - that's next week) as my current job was advertised and has been filled.

BY TWO PEOPLE!

This means one of two things:

1) I'm like a messiah when it comes to the teaching profession and my Jedi-like understanding of pedagogy is so vast that the only way to compensate for my leaving is to get two people to do my job.

2) I've fucked up so much that the only way the school will be able to unravel the matted, unwashed and infested rug of my mistakes is to get two people working on it full time.

I'm going with number one (although I suspect I may be wrong).

It's a strange feeling being involved with the interview process for your own job. I have to say I was also frustrated by my workplace's lack of imagination when it came to possible interview techniques. None of my suggestions were taken up. These included:

§ Wrestling on the field (yes Seb, it was muddy and yes Seb, they were all female),

§ Asking the candidates to hum the Brazilian national anthem,

§ Getting the candidates to demonstrate how a cat would perform star jumps,

§ Holding up a red card and asking 'if this card wasn't red, what colour would it be?'

§ Requesting that the candidates say 'penile dysfunction' without giggling.

In the end though the people who got the (my) job are both fantastic teachers and they will do exceptionally well.

What all these little things do is make it all seem very real. I only have fifteen weeks of teaching before I bugger off on the biggest adventure of my life.

I do however foresee a problem with my current levels of excitement. In that I still have to do my job. I have to do it well. Or I'll be letting the school, the department and the kids down.

There are only so many times that I can be asked 'Duke, have you done this?' and I reply with:

'FUCK YOU MIDDLE AGED LINE MANAGER! I'M GOING TO CHINA'

I suspect once. On my last day.

There is another slightly more sobering side effect of this unbridled joy that I feel. The more excited I get about it the more 'real' (in a hippity-hop kind of way) it seems to the Duchess. The more I skip about singing 'I'm Going to China' to the tune of 'La Cucarachia' the more she realises that I'm feking off 8,000 miles away in a few months. That's not to say she isn't excited for me, or that she doesn't understand why I'm going but that she knows that it will be really hard for her to be alone. She is scared of the possibilities. The what ifs. The maybes.

So I have a bit of a dilemma. Either, I can be a proper boyfriend, go a bit low-key on the whole 'YIP-A-FUCK-A-DO' and acknowledge all the support that she has given me in getting this far in my career; or I get t-shirts made up with a photo of my face hovering over China and a massive shit-eating grin slapped on my chops.

Nah, I'm not that much of a cunt.

Open Letter To Women

It has oft been said that communication between men and women is about as easy as playing tennis blindfolded. In a tar pit. With no legs. Under the sea. Whilst riding a dragon.

Or really fucking difficult.

Having had recent experience of this, I feel it's fitting that I add my rather profane views on the matter.

Open letter time!


Dear 50% of the population,

Why do you have to toy with our simple minds? Why do you feel compelled to confuse our basic jar-opening, heavy-stuff carrying, beer drinking, barbecuing, flat-pack making brains with your complex and frankly unnecessary mind twisting illogicality?

For example, if the Duchess is upset I will approach her with the logical reasoning that her situation is but a trifle in the grand scheme of things and that she should be happy with the good things in her life.

ABSOLUTELY WRONG!!!!

What you all actually want us to do is just nod, say 'it's going to be okay' and give you a hug.

Fine.

There is one small problem. We don't fucking think like that. When you say 'I hate it all, I'm going to decapitate everyone who crosses my path' we're on the phone to the police saying 'sorry to bother you but I've got a Grade-A nutter in my house...yeah, very excitable, incoherent really. If I'm honest, I'm concerned for my safety. Okay, see you in five.'

Obviously you don't really think the things you say but the only way you seem to be able to communicate your emotions is through a verbalised version of the enigma machine. The only way we can decipher this code would be through the employment of a team of highly trained scientists, the world's most powerful computer and the combined back catalogue of Sex In The City and Desperate Housewives on DVD.

However, I feel that there are a number of ways that we can work together to create a better, brighter, future:

§ When you are having a 'crisis' I will listen patiently to what you have to say without interjecting. At key points in your tear fueled tirade I will hold up a number of flash cards with 'True', 'False' and 'Fuck Off' written on them. Merely nod when the appropriate card is shown.

§ If your bad day coincides with your menstrual cycle you will push the emergency button that will sound the alarm 'WOAH, BODYFORM!. I will bring chocolate and tissues before hiding myself in the 'Man Zone Bunker' (otherwise known as the pub).

§ You will promise not to be angry through the use of text messages. I feel that getting yelled at for 10 pence a pop isn't cost effective and makes me feel like shit FOR SOMETHING I DIDN'T DO! Please wait until I see you so I can hold up my flash cards.

§ You look funny when you're crying (and kind of cute). Don't take my grin as a sign that I don't give a fuck. I do. But to be honest your mascara and snot has made a vision of the Virgin Mary appear on your face.

§ Please put on your special 'Anything I Say Should Be Taken As A Cruel Joke' stetson when you are about to unleash the spoken equivalent of the Waffen SS. Otherwise I will take what you say as literal truth (and notify the appropriate authorities).

§ Please don't compound the misery of feeling bad by feeling bad about making ME feel bad because you were feeling bad. It's too confusing and makes me want to cry. Which will then set you off again and the whole horrific cycle starts over.

§ If it's only a small issue, can we jump to the bit where you get horny because to be honest we'll both enjoy that more.

§ Please understand that everything I do is to try and make things better. It may be clumsy. It may not be what you want to hear right at that moment. It may well be like trying to put out a forest fire with Napalm. But it is sincere.


If we can do these things then I truly believe that everyone will be prepared for, and in a much better position to deal with, your pendulum-esque emotional states.

Yours Sincerely,

Duke Fandango

The End of Days

Many people believe that the world will end fairly soon. There are a number of ways in which it is believed to happen.

Firstly, we could keep using Earth as our collective bitch, abusing her sweet ass until she gives up the ghost and then tips us all into a nightmarish maelstrom of ecological disaster that will throw the survivors back to the stone age.

Secondly, a rogue state (North Korea - I'm looking at you) goes 'ah, fuck it' and pushes the big shiny red button that delivers hell on toast.

Thirdly, bankers decide that they will take the combined economic output of the planet and put it all on red. When the ball of inevitability lands on black they will act surprised before downing another bottle of Hennessy, wiping the swan grease from their jowls and paying themselves a huge bonus. The rest of the world collapses into a fight for the last packet of Pringles which, due to inflation, now costs Thirteen Billion Pounds.

Finally, Jesus does actually come back and, to be fair, he's going to be pretty pissed off.

I have a different theory. I believe civilisation as we know it will cripple itself through over bureaucracy. We will come to a shuddering halt, unable to actually get anything done.

The reason?

Forms.

Forms are the bane of my existence. Everything I do in my life is dictated by a fucking form that I have to fill out. For every hour I teach I must spend around 20 minutes filling out paper work. That adds up over a week to be seven hours.

Seven soul-crushingly dull hours of writing neatly in little boxes so I can report on this or file that or access whatever.

To give you some idea of the amount of paper work that is involved. I have to, on a regular basis, complete:

Behaviour incident forms,
Continuing Professional Development Tracking Sheet,
Key Stage 3 Departmental Tracking,
Key Stage 3 School Central Tracking,
Key Stage 4 Departmental Tracking,
Key Stage 4 Follow Up Tracking,
ITT (Initial Teacher Training) Mentor Sheets,
NQT Observation Sheets,
NQT Evidence Tracking Sheets,
Teaching and Learning Audit,
Year 10 Pupil Mentoring Minutes,
Year 11 Pupil Mentoring Minutes,
Year 9 Choices Recommendation Forms,

Are these forms simple to complete? No, of course they sodding well aren't.

And that's just for your regular, run of the mill teacher. Woe betide anyone who wants to take a pupil off site!

However, it isn't just limited to my job. Oh no. The endless amount of forms consumes my life like Amy Winehouse consumes class-A drugs. From registering at the doctors to getting a fucking Tesco clubcard I have to spill my details in increasingly complex ways.

As such this is how I predict the 'End of Days' will actually happen:

Deep in the bowels of hell - just off the A33, near Basingstoke:

Beelzebub: At last, the forces of Heaven cannot stop me now!

Minion: Oh, master. What hast thou created?

Beelzebub: The most devilish (if I do say so myself) of bureaucratic nightmares! A change of address form for the DVLA - mwahahahahahahah...ha.

Three weeks later:

Jesus: For fuck's sake - why has it been returned this time?

Angel: I'll just check the supporting notes. Have you filled out the former address?

Jesus: Yes.

Angel: Have you put your mother's maiden name down.

Jesus: Yes.

Angel: In section 14 box Q did you cross reference the registration with the post code using the Fibonacci sequence.

Jesus: I thought I had to use Pi for that?

Angel: No, I think that's section 14 box R.

Jesus: I thought I only completed that if I'd had the car before 1987 or if I had ever been convicted of using a goat to lure killer whales onto the beach?

Angel: Er...hang on, I'm not sure if...

Gabriel: Er...chaps, has anyone checked on Earth recently?

Jesus: Fuck off Gabriel you wanker, I'm busy - did I sign in all five hundred and eight places?

Angel: I'm sure we checked that before...

Gabriel: I only ask because there are four tall lads on horses at the gates and they want a word. Apparently it's Armageddon?

Jesus: What? Oh, shithouse!

Angel: Ah! Got it - we didn't attach a colour photo of you in the car smoking a pipe and wearing a dearstalker.

Jesus: Twat.



======================================================================================

So there we go. It's not mankind's obsession with power or resources that will lead to our end. It'll be the fact that we can't seem to function as a society without block capitals, a black or blue ballpoint pen (NOT felt tip) and a series of small boxes on a page.

And that is a crying shame.

If you've enjoyed this, or any of my other posts please leave a comment by filling out the form...bollocks...

Duke Fandango: Better When Pressured.

There are times when the pressure becomes almost too much. When my life seems to become a dizzying leap from one terrifying moment of 'must act or fail' to another. When everything else becomes a facsimile of importance. Things like a social life, or a girlfriend, or remembering to phone your mum on her birthday. Things that actually matter and will cause untold damage to your standing as person.

The terrible thing is, I live for those moments.

At the time I hate it. I moan lots. I swear more. I contemplate getting an office job. I have been known to flick idly through the jobs pages of the paper looking the the pay an office lackey gets and saying "£25,000 for looking at Facebook?! Score!" but something always holds me back.

I've decided that it is my intolerance of humanity, coupled with my mild ADHD that would prevent me from ever getting an office job. Can you imagine it:

Them: Hey, Duke - we need the report on the projected Austin account by twelve - you FYI'd on that?

Me: What the fuck is 'FYI'd' and why do I give a shit about the Austin account?

Them: Look, Dukey - mind if I call you Dukey?

Me: Say it again and I will hold a candle of hatred for you until the day I die.

Them: Great. Well Dukey, we need the Austin account to balance the TPF stock orders and without them we're back to the Tobin Spectrum of estimated recall. And that, Dukey, would be awful!

Me: I'm going strangle you with my mouse

Them: Dude, It's wireless.

Me: I know...

I need the absolute challenge of actually making choices that will have a genuine social effect. That will make the young people in my charge better individuals with better life chances so they can have the opportunity to actually do what they want to with their lives.

Now, I'm not saying that I'm making life or death decisions. I'm not a doctor or a nurse. I'm rarely found rushing with the ol' blues and twos to arrest a serial killer. If I'm honest I'd be rubbish at fighting fires because I spend far too much time pissing about with the hose:

Me: Hey, Frank!

Frank: Yeah?

SPOWOOOSSSSHHHHH

Frank: Muummphhh!!!

Me: Heh heh heh.

But what I do is to tell a group of young people that they are better, much better, than they ever thought they could be. I can teach them to respect others. To not judge. To be someone who stands up against the accepted wisdom and say 'this is wrong'. To have faith, both in themselves and in others around them. To be happy.

But to make them do these things I need to do my bit. To be pressured. To get the billion and one bits of paperwork completed. To basically, give a fuck.

And if I don't, I don't lose a faceless corporation money. I don't lose the respect of the general public. Hell, I probably won't lose my job.

I'd just lose the life chances of a group of teenagers for them.

And I'd never be able to live with that.

Ouch...again...

I believe in Karma. No, really I do. I believe that a good person will have good things happen to them. Likewise a bad person will have horrible things happen to them.

But I'm at a loss to figure out what it is that I've done to piss Karma off so much.

Put simply, I've broken another finger playing rugby.

Some people make it through a good number of years of playing without any kind of break. I break two fingers three months apart.

At this rate my hands are going to be as effective as the Tiny Tim Long Jump team.

They will also look like the gnarled twistings of a Baobab tree as drawn my MC Escher after a heavy night on the mescalin.

At least I can do some kind of old school horror acting with my newly formed claw like mits. It'd be a laugh that. Living in a castle. Having a servant called Igor. Creeping up on virgins in the middle of the night...actually no, that'll get me fired and the Duchess will shout at me. Lots.


So I say 'fuck you' karma. I'd raise my fingers to you, but it hurts.

Beer? Motorway? Golf Buggy? Welshman?

Last Saturday Andy Powell, Welsh international, celebrated his team's win by having a few beers. Obviously this would be the case for any half decent Rugby team. Also it is fairly true that these celebratory drinks can - at times - spiral out of hand.

We call them 'Beerventures'.

In Andy Powell's case his beerventure ended up with him being arrested on the M4 motorway driving a golf buggy absolutely pissed out of his taffy skull. What sequence of events led up to this point may well never be known (well, until he cynically produces an autobiography). The point is that in a moment of pure brilliance (or stupidity) Powell took the step from mindless drunken behaviour to beerventure.

You may well ask 'what constitutes a beerventure and how do I know I've had one?' Well fear not dear reader. I have produced a guide.

The Duke Fandango Guide to BEERVENTURES!

Every now and then whilst drinking, a number of complex factors balance each other out to create the optimum conditions for beerventures. This can be expressed using the equation:

Intoxication [times] Mates Egging You On [divided by] Basic Motor Skills = Beerventure.

Put simply you need to have the requisite amount of alcohol coursing through your body to completely remove your usual inhibitions and a group of mates yelling 'go on, it'll be fucking funny' whilst still retaining the ability to coordinate your limbs to operate things like ticket machines, steam trains, gates to fields, tin openers etc.

Beerventures usually happen in a state of semi-consciousness. When you wake up the next day you will most likely not remember much about it. There will however, be a number of clues to help you piece together what happened:

You wake up in a field.

You wake up in a field in another county.

You wake up in a field in Poland.

You wake up in a field in Poland with a Swastika tattooed on your forehead, an Ox heart in one hand and your trousers around your ankles.

You wake up in your bed...which is in a field.

You wake up on a cargo ship bound for the Philippines and everyone starts referring to you as Manuel.

You wake up on a roundabout stark-bollock-naked. On the A3. At around nine AM.

You wake up in what you assume to be a prison cell but through your blurry vision you notice the chains on the walls and the 25 inch pink dildo cemented to the floor. There is the strong smell of baby oil.

You wake up in hospital covered in jam and bee stings.

Once you shake yourself out of your alcohol induced catatonic state there are a series of steps you need to take to get your shit together.

Step 1: Finding out what happened.

Firstly check your phone. You may have texts/missed calls from your friends - this may give you a clue (especially if it says "Dude! Can't believe you stole that horse and rode it all the way to Exeter" or "You utter twat! Why did you sleep with my Gran/Sister/Girlfriend/Mum/Cuddly Toy I've had since childhood?") Also check the pictures. If you have a camera phone you may have photographic evidence of what happened. If these involve you stapling your nut sack to a giraffe then best get rid of them.


Step 2: Finding out where you are.

If the roadsigns are in a different language then you have had a monumental beerventure. Ask a local for directions to the nearest port. You will need to be wary of approaching just anyone as your beerventure could be the starting point for a small-scale diplomatic dispute. It is essential that you complete step 1 before any interactions with other people. If you jump headlong into conversation you could be asking someone for help whose fence you jumped last night, landed on their dog house and inadvertently killed 'Scruffles' the rare breed show dog that was the family's only source of income in these harsh economic times. They will probably want to kill you; you bastard.

Step 3: Getting Home.

You may be lucky and hitch a lift with a trucker. If this is the case you will only have to perform one act of oral sex. Be thankful that you can get that post-drinking taste out of your mouth. If not you may have to order a taxi/find a bus stop/buy a aeroplane ticket (depending on the extent of your beerventure).

Once you've done the above you will be able to look back in years to come and laugh about the events.

Unless you get arrested and sent to gaol. If this happens then you'll look back on your beerventure as the point your life started its downward spiral.

But when you decide to ride that golf buggy up on one of the nation's major roads you can say with pride in your heart and vodka in your stomach "I too am on a beerventure and I'm fucking a grapefruit!"

Andy Powell, you sir, are a legend.

I take it all back...there is a god!

And that God has a fucking grade A sense of humour.

Point in case is the fact that the BNP has been forced by the Equality and Human Rights Commission to change it's admissions policy to allow non-whites to join.

For those of you who don't follow British politics all that closely allow me to explain. The BNP (or British National Party for those of you with an aversion to TLAs [Three Letter Abbreviations]) is a far-right bunch of racists whose central policy is the forced repatriation of all non-white people to their countries of origin.

The BNP is led by the cycloptic charisma-void, toad-faced and all round twat, Nick Griffin (pictured) who is without doubt the single most reprehensible life form to be forcibly ejected from a uterus since Salome. And at least she could dance.

Nick Griffin used to be a holocaust denier arguing that the numbers were a bit on the unbelievable side. Well Nick - that's why it's the single greatest tragedy to face humanity. It's also why it's called the Holocaust. It's not the sort of thing that happens all the time. You don't get two elderly people in a Post Office muttering about how Maureen's 'feeling a bit under the weather because she's suffering from 'a bit of holocaust'.

I say used to be a holocaust denier because he's given up. He went on to the holocaust denier replacement treatment. Such as 'Jew-Hate' patches which give a steady dose of antisemitism over a 24 hour period to help reduce cravings. He's now completely off holocaust denying (although he still fancies it when he's got a beer in his hand).

Other BNP policies include the reintroduction of the death penalty and the use of judicial corporal punishment. Which, ignoring the giant step backwards in terms of human rights this would bring, would put us on a par with Saudi Arabia. A fundamentalist Islamic country. This is interesting because the BNP is constantly bemoaning the (frankly non-existent) 'Islamification' of Britain by radical clerics and the like whilst failing to see that they themselves are promoting an Anglicised version of Sharia law.

The reason that the BNP are a bit of a hot topic at the moment is that they managed to somehow get two of their members elected to the European Parliament. And yes I use 'members' as a synonym from 'penises'. What this does mean is that they actually have a modicum of power. They actually represent people from this country in Europe. They ACTUALLY have a say.

For a while this was a worry. Britain did a bit of collective soul searching to see if we'd all become a bit more racist. If perhaps this most cosmopolitan of nations had lost its tolerant outlook. Perhaps multi-cultural Britain was a pipe dream. One that could never exist for the differences that made us so vibrant, so interesting, so unique were the same that would ultimately tear us apart as cultural divisions became societal then finally political rifts.

No, what actually happened is that in true British style nobody could be arsed to vote in the elections. Indeed the BNP's ability to take power (however small that power may actually be) isn't because of a growing number of people who are drawn to the extreme-right but because they are being forced away from politics in general. Apathy, not ideology, gave the BNP their seats.

The beauty of the recent announcement from the Equality and Human Rights Commission is that it allows at least one of the following to happen:

§ Either, Islam4UK will have a whip-round and get all of their members to join the BNP. Ostensibly this will be to provoke some kind of mass media reaction to promote Islam4UK's saying they're going to do things then not doing them. For the rest of us it will be an opportunity to see the first artificially created black-hole as the enormous amounts of hate-loaded spittle reaches critical mass and rips a hole in the Space-Time Continuum. Take that CERN!

§ Or, the fundamentalist, hardcore, nutters who actually believe in the venom they espouse will realise that the party they had believed in so fervently has just well and truly shafted them by not actually having a spine and at least attempting to stand up for them. Put simply the BNP will lose members faster than the world's largest eunuch-factory (which is just outside Hamburg). It will quite quickly cease to be any form of threat to anyone. Like a bull with no balls - looks scary but runs away when you wave a stick in its face...not sure how this simile works...figure it out for yourself...

Either way I will now be standing for the BNP in the next elections. My policies will include the following especially designed to piss off the rest of the party:

The Duke Fandango BNP Policy

1) Gay men and Women MUST hold hands and kiss in public for every 30 metres they walk. If anyone objects within earshot every homosexual person in the area must dance around the offender in a lewd manner.

2) If Nick Griffin really believes in what he says then I would campaign for him to spread his good news; in central Brixton. I feel it's only fair.

3) I think that joining the Euro isn't liberal enough. We should suspend our entire economy and hand the reigns over to Brussels. At the very least we'll be knee deep in chocolate and fruit beers.

4) I believe that we should change the national anthem to include a verse in the following languages:

Arabic,
Polish,
Urdu,
Hindi,
Mandarin,
Farsi,
Portuguese,
French,
Tagalog,
Swahili,
Gallic,
Maasai,
Basque,
Klingon.

Admittedly it'll take about 45 mins to sing and sports coverage will be somewhat elongated but hey, if England can work their way through all that and win a match then fair play.

5) Whenever Nick Griffin is about to speak the theme tune from Bucky O'Hare plays to remind everyone that he looks like the toad bad-guys.


At the very least we can all have a fucking great laugh as this is the crucial moment where the party becomes its own parody.

This my friends is the holy grail of satire and the Equality and Human Rights Commission is our saviour. Let us pray...

Religion

Now don't let it be said that I don't tackle the big issues. Sure, a lot of the time I'm just ranting about utter nonsense but I'd like to think that every now and again I go for some kind of apt social commentary.

As such, I would like to provide a definitive guide to the various religions that populate this world so that you, my loyal readers (all twelve of you) can make an informed decision if you decide to take up a religion.

Here it goes:

Atheism: Some would say not a real religion but if you're going to believe anything you might as well believe nothing. Atheists are generally found either 1) laughing at creationists, 2) make snide comments about religions in general, 3) creating shrines to Richard Dawkins. Bizarrely they see no contradiction in this.

Agnosticism: For those who like to behave immorally but occasionally have twinges of guilt about it. Generally persuaded by whomsoever is talking to them at that very moment but primarily so they can wing a free drink.

Anglicism: Like tea, hate putting anyone out. Constantly found apologising for the bad bits of the bible and offering pieces of cake to anyone who will listen to a sermon for more than a picto-second. Generally quite nice people.

Buddhism: Probably the gentlest religion going. Believe in the sanctity of all life...whilst training to kick someone's spleen out through their left nostril. Basically hardcore hippies.

Catholicism: Do you hate yourself? Great! Become a Catholic! Many times you will be afforded the opportunity to combine the mysticism of the ancients through the use of a long dead language whilst constantly being told that you, yes YOU, are at heart, evil. Good if you like wine. Best thought of as Anglicism with a spine.

Hinduism: Believe in about fourteen trillion gods, demi-gods, demons, devils, angels and monkey type thingies. Believe in the sanctity of cows and good at stretching. Dhalsim from Street Fighter II was a Hindu. He was awesome. Not sure anyone else can do 'Yoga Flame'.

Islam: Seemingly a peaceful religion that is full of hotheads. A bit like football in that respect. Best not to draw comics of Mohamed. Tend to get upset when people take the piss...um...Not big drinkers.

Judaism: Bit of a rocky road. Kind of a cross between Catholics and Muslims but with the ability to laugh at themselves. Have a heinous amount of rules so if you're a bit slack about working on your days off or eating bacon then probably not for you. Good range of beards.

Mormonism: Crazy Horses! Whaa, whaa. That's all I know. Oh, and they can have more than one wife. Will try and stop you in the street and convert you by reasoned logic despite the fact that their beliefs are based on a warped reading of a fictional text.

Neo-Paganism or Wicca: Believe in the transcendence of the human spirit to be able to float above the conscious plane which is basically utter shite. Primarily an excuse to go and dance in the woods with no clothes on. Which, lets be honest, you can do without believing in the healing properties of crystals.

Puritanism: YOU WILL NOT HAVE FUN! Tried to stop people having fun in England where they were told to 'bugger off'. Founded America. Killed natives. Like whitewash and wood. Thought mince pies were papist decadence. Banned Christmas. Not great at parties.

Rastafarianism: The only major religion in which dope is used for religious purposes. Presumably so are Doritos. Believes in the imminent overthrow of Babylon. Which turned into Constantinople. Then into Istanbul. It's nobodies' business but the Turks.

Scientology: Heh, heh, heh. The crazed rantings of a sci-fi writer where basically you give them all of your money and then you get a space on the space ship that will take you to...oh, fuck it...it's too mental to explain. Look at Tom Cruise. Do you want to end up like him? Didn't think so.

Shintoism: Everything has a spirit. Rocks. Trees. Sheep. Bags of Sherbet. Jam. Bits of old string. That fluff you get in your belly button, yep that's got a soul. It's a wonder that anyone gets anything done with all these chuffing spirits floating about. Although Samurais believed in it and they were double-hard bastards. Will make you good at fighting.

Sikhism: Turbans and blades. Never need to cut your hair again so you might save an absolute fortune at the barbers. Believe that God is the universe and that the universe is God. Quite an interesting idea when thought about properly.


I swear to God, gods or Dawkins that I should have been an R.E. teacher.

I am actually going to China

Well I got the job.

It's been a bit crazy here and somewhat emotional but in August I will be heading to work in China. Thanks for all the comments and messages of support, they were greatly appreciated.

What it also means is that I will be able to give one hell of a farewell speech. Obviously it's early days but I've got a couple of initial ideas kicking around. Let me know what you think...

Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers. I'm off to work for much more money in a country where education is respected and there are no OFSTED inspections. I will be getting more holiday than you and I'll be able to travel and explore the whole of Asia.

I will most likely keep in contact with the few of you who I actually respect - if you don't hear from me within two weeks it means I think you're a cunt. I thank you for my leaving present of [insert name of object] but I can pretty much guarantee that it will go in the bin within five minutes of me getting home/be on EBAY faster than Michael Jackson's hair [delete according to value of gift].

For those of you who I have had to cover for due to your illness then I humbly ask you to write a cheque for one fifth of your salary. Either give it to me or a charity because quite frankly, you don't deserve it. Everyone else makes it in when they're feeling a bit under the weather why should you be different? Twat.

I would however, like to make a special mention to whomsoever uses my classroom last thing on a Thursday. Why do I have to clear up your shit? Also, why can't you control your kids enough to prevent them writing 'I fucked Jamie's mum in the butt' and 'Terry has a cunt face' on my wall before I have a parental meeting? Why do I have to apologise to Mrs Hysterical and Mr Greatly-Offended about other people's classes?

Anyway - thanks for the references.

Bye...

I know it needs some work here and there but I like the mixture of profanity and general finality it currently has about it.

Obviously suggestions would be welcome...