English teaching at College - disgraceful!

Here's a question for you! How do you put off a teenager from reading for life? That's it! Make them read an already mind-numbing text, analyse ambiguous concepts to such a tenuous link it's non-sensical and get them to write a bloody big essay on it!

Surely the principal of English teaching - especially literature - should be to encourage people to engage with books and different types of texts? The method of teaching I've encountered so far is so exam-driven that the principal point of the subject is lost and, indeed, does the complete opposite!

It needs a complete overhaul. It shouldn't be forcing a certain text upon an individual who's tastes might lie in something else - whether it be forcing a novel on a poem fan or the contrary. It could be argued that other subjects, such as history or maths, force topics upon people - but English isn't the same. It's about understanding texts, being excited by texts and above all enjoying them! All of that will conspire to the student being able to craft and analyse the language!

Surely that's what it's about?

It's been long...

Far too long. A mixture of College and other things has supplied enough entertainment for me to be distracted enough to not write - well, anything. It's a shame, but surely everyone must go through periods where they just can't write and if they try, they see it as useless and screw it up, adding it to the ever-growing pile of half-filled pieces of paper in the bin?

I've been reading George Orwell's collection of 'essays' recently. It's a 1369 page book containing all of his 'non-novel' writings starting from 1928 and covers things from reviews to social commentaries. I've read quite a few all on different subjects and I wonder - how can someone from over 80 years ago entertain someone like me with a topic about a cheap newspaper and not only that, but leave me smiling at the end?

That does make me feel bad. If he can do that (and he's not really seen as one of the greats) then surely I should be able to produce something worth while? I sit down and try to fashion something and fail again and again, thinking back to that essay on a bloody farthing newspaper and trying, in an exercise, to replicate that. But I can't!

"I'm allergic to cats."

Since my girlfriend has effectively broke up with me, I've been thinking about the saying "I'm allergic to cats." The last two girls have both said that and within a day have declared a sudden disinterest - completely out of the blue. What's in this magical saying that seems to put nubile teenagers off of me altogether? The strange thing being I've always had an odd relationship with my pet cat, and always subconsciously thought that she'd be the final judge on whether I'm with someone or not. And suddenly that decision is looking to be eerily accurate.

That cat has always been scarily 'in touch' with what I'm feeling. She goes to bed when I do, comes into my room when I wake up, leaves when I want her to, and is there when I want her to be. And she only ever comes to me. It's possibly no surprise, if you believe in that sort of cross-specie connection (which I don't, or didn't), that she monitors my girlfriends!

It seems that this in-built weakness to cats (the scary thing being - the last girl wasn't actually allergic to cats - it developed entirely from when she met me) is a sure sign of a faltering, or soon to be faltering, relationship with me.

So I think when I next go looking for a better half, instead of cheesy pick-up lines, I think the first thing I'll ask is: "are you allergic to cats...?"

A quote I want to share!

Just finished reading 'The Exorcist' (nicely well-written, crafted book) and there's a long-ish quote from the Exorcist himself, near the end of the book. It's incredibly thought provoking. I'm pretty sure some people looked at me quite quizzically as I stopped reading to ponder its message - I don't want to know how that looked!

"How many husbands and wives... must believe they have fallen out of love because their hearts no longer race at the sight of their beloveds! Ah, dear God!"

And then further down the page:

"... senseless, petty spites; the misunderstandings; the cruel and cutting word that leaps unbidden to the tongue between friends. Between lovers. Enough of these... and we have no need of Satan to manage our wars; these we manage for ourselves."

In the words of a great football commentator - Andy Gray - "Take a bow, son!"

Life is passing me by.

I've had that horrible realisation of what date it is.

27th July, 2010.

I've lived in 3 decades ('90, '00, '10) and I'm not two decades old. It's little over three weeks till my first year results and I still get lost around college. The football season starts in 10 days and I'm still reeling from the last. I'm going home tomorrow and it feels like I've only just got here (my dad's, in Portsmouth). I've been with my girlfriend for - what? - 7 weeks? Yet I'm still paranoid and feel like I know her little, let alone have a deep and meaningful understanding.

It's difficult to fathom that I'm nearly a golden and important age; legally an adult; so close to taking responsibility for myself. It's difficult to take that when I get home, I'm going to have to trawl the streets and shops looking for a job to pay for a car and the things attached to it. Like insurance. That I'll have to start saving for University. A flat, maybe, if I'm feeling brave. Or at least accommodation for university.

I still remember needing a stool to get to the sink at my dad's house. Now I'm taller than him - my dad. I remember looking at my elder brother with admiration and warm sibling love and now - nothing but a distrust and a wish that he'd grow up.

Too quick. Far too quick.

The 60's music.

Now, I'm only young, but I would challenge anyone to disagree with me about 60's music.

The complete, honest truth is - it was, and is, simply awesome. Far too often is it bypassed and locked in a safe, bound by time and advancing musical tastes. Take Apache by the Shadows and compare it to this week's new release (in the UK at least) - Jedward. Jedward is like adding negative numbers together: -3 + -3 = -6. By putting themselves together all they've done is doubled the annoying, shitty, untalented Pontin's act they are (I'm sorry to Pontin's entertainers - you're actually far better).

At least way back then when I'm convinced people actually saw black and white, there was talent to it. Now we have Photoshop and a variety of other image and sound altering gear to make some jumped-up street kids like JLS famous. I'm bitter of course. The day of a four-piece band is dead, and that was when real musical quality flourished.

It has no title - but I like it :) It's not finished, though.

Anton sighed. I’m getting too old for this.

As that thought escaped him, his years of working flickered in his mind’s eye. The bending over, lifting, pushing.

The war, the imprisonment.

And suddenly he was grateful the worst he had was aching muscles and a touch of arthritis.

He arched his back and groaned. Using a gnarled fist he slowly massaged the tight knots that plagued his muscles. He lay on his bed, one arm curled at a dangerous angle so he could reach the most awkward muscles. The other arm supported his head, with his fingers gently kneading his pounding, wrinkled temples.

Suitably satisfied that his pains were eased, Anton lifted himself off the bed and shuffled into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on. He looked out of the window as the kettle began to whir. He was in one of the highest towers in town, which was previously used for University accommodation but was now little more than prison. Below him, a few people dragged themselves along the concrete and grass heading towards the main complex or into one of the two towers after a hard night shift.

The kettle bubbled and steamed and he lifted it off, pouring the hot water into a dirty cup. Water was regulated between seven and eight in the evenings and the same time in the morning. It was only six, so the washing up would simply have to wait. Tea and coffee was rationed too. He opened one of the cupboards above his head and took a sugary sweet from a container and dropped it into the cup of boiling water; he stirred it and watched the sugary clump dissolve.

A rap at the door made him jump. The water sloshed up the side of the cup and onto his hands; the cup crashed to the floor, cracking and sending the liquid into the air. Anton yowled as his feet were scolded and he bounced from side to side trying to ease the pain. The knock at the door came once again.

He made his way into the living room, sidling around the furniture and State Books. “Yes, bloody...!” he shouted, before remembering who the only person that came to his door was. “I mean, right with you!”

Nursing his hand with the other, he opened the door just enough to see through the crack. The person was not who he was expecting. Dressed in the same livery as himself, he could only have been a comrade... and social visits were frowned upon by the State. Anton knew what this was about, and the thought dropped in his stomach.

“Hello,” the person whispered, “Anton – I need to speak about-”

“Sorry, I’m not interested,” Anton lied, “I have work soon.” He held a crooked finger up to his lips, and then pointed to his ears.

The visitor nodded. He opened the door further, though the man remained at the entrance. Anton scuttled over to a small desk by the side of his chair and pulled out regulation State paper and pencil and wrote in small, shaky letters:

Common Gardens, half the hour.

The visitor nodded again and left. Anton listened to his footsteps fade away down the hall, echoing in the emptiness.

He breathed out and looked up at the ceiling, head lolling on tired shoulders. He could see the cracks where the microphones were unashamedly disguised and closed his eyes, his past occupation bringing a quiet tear to his eye.

--

The lift clattered open and Anton stepped outside. The sun was weak, enveloping the complex in a wintry light. He winced as a frosty wind, carrying the smell of early-morning dew, chiselled at his bare skin. Shivering, he began the short walk to the Common Gardens, pulling his collar up against the wind.

Anton’s eyes focused on the concrete underfoot as the world around him began to wake. Cars and buses choked into life, breaking the halcyon morning silence; from the town centre, the Industry Zone began to pump thick smoke into the air with a sickening gurgle. Voices were raised. The original town bell let out seven dolorous clangs. Anton breathed in deeply, hoping for the fresh dew and grass smell, but what came was the waft of petrol, gas and smoke - and in just a few minutes the facade of purity was shattered with precision timing.

Anton stepped into the Common Gardens, looking around for the visitor. The Common was a large and artificially made flower garden – the smells were weak, if present at all, and the effect was nullified by the grey-brick buildings which flanked every side. He was happy for the first time that there was a crowd here. Most hustled and bustled and muttered cruel language under their breath. Anton knew that his conversation wouldn’t be overheard here.

He saw his visitor through the crowd. He was nearer the centre, where a cracked fountain spluttered unclear water. Anton said nothing when he reached his target, but instead signalled for them to walk away, into a deeper throng of people. The fountain was bugged, he knew that much, at least.

“I guess you know what this is about, don’t you?” the visitor whispered, close to Anton’s ear.

“I have an idea, my friend. I knew after that cull that I’d be wanted eventually.”

“Indeed – you hid very well from that, by the way.” The visitor laughed quietly. Anton faked a chuckle along with him.

“We don’t have long.” Anton urged after a period of silence.

“Quite. Take this. Read it. Memorise it. Burn it.” The visitor whispered vehemently in his ear. They were so close Anton could feel flecks of spittle on his ear and the warm breath that accompanied it. The visitor slipped a small sliver of paper into Anton’s half-open fist. “It has my phone number on too. It’s a mobile, it’s illegal, so don’t ring from your home. If you want no part in this, don’t bother. You’re a last resort, a last chance. Sorry to have dragged you into this.”

Anton watched the man walk into the crowd and dissolve into the other bodies. He fingered the crumpled paper in his fist. Before leaving, he glanced around to see if anyone had noticed and then, he thought – they wouldn’t have anyway. That would be using their own sense, and many have forgotten how to do that. But just in case...