I've found my home

2009 baby 2009

I've been making a list and checking it twice. Now it is time to see who's been naughty or nice. Yep, it is time for the fourth annual review of the year, here at I've found my home. (2008's, 2007's, 2006's reviews can be found by clicking on the links.) Obviously this is a very personal choice but, you're reading a blog, what did you think you were going to get? 

Film

We haven't been to the cinema as much as we would have liked to this year. Somewhere, round about the Summer, we got caught up in all the big blockbuster movies that destroyed any love for cinema we had. I'm looking at you GI Joe. However, we managed to catch some films that we really enjoyed. Totally unexpectedly maria fell in love with Star Trek, dragging me back to the cinema to see it twice (and forcing me to watch it another couple of times on DVD). It was good fun and I loved all the lens flare. The highlight (for me) was the performance of Simon Pegg as Scotty. He (Simon Pegg) also managed to save an awful two hours watching Ice Age 3. So my actor of the year would be him. Up reduced me to a blubbering wreck within 10 minutes of it starting. At the time I thought it was fantastic. Having caught it a second time I'm not so sure. There were a lot of films that promised much and delivered little: Coraline, Wolverine, Terminator, The Proposal, Public Enemies. But three films that got little fanfare (at first) I found totally stunning. District 9 and The Hurt Locker stopped me breathing, literally. There were moments when I had to physically remind myself to breath. The tension in The Hurt Locker is amazing. District 9, which starts off as a mock documentary,turns into an action movie that races through,leaving you wondering where the last couple of hours went. (And also demanding a sequel). Both films had a message to them, both films made you think, and both films made you care about (basically) unlikeable people because they were caught up in circumstances that were beyond their control (maybe the guy in The Hurt Locker wasn't that unlikeable, just a bit off kilter). However the film of the year was:

The Hangover

Brilliantly funny. Totally quotable. Difficult to explain as to why it is funny. We first saw this on a Monday afternoon in a packed cinema. With no particular knowledge about the film (except for the fact that Mike Tyson was in it singing a Phil Collins song) we weren't too sure what was going to happen next. We laughed. We laughed and laughed and squealed and laughed and winced and laughed. Three days later, because we couldn't believe how funny the film was, we went again. And laughed more. We've since watched it another two times, and it is still funny. Sheer genius.

[Turkey of the Year: Transformers II. Nikos was so excited as we queued for an hour to see this. I sat (in a totally packed cinema) next to a man who thought this was the best piece of cinema since Transformers. Danny (sarcastically) clapped at the end, which led to a standing ovation in the cinema. I have never sat in a situation where so many people enjoyed what was presented to them (including football matches/rock concerts). It was dire. It was terrible. It was awful beyond belief.

Television

The boxed set has really come into its own this year. Much of the time has been spent working our way through episode after episode of programmes that we've suddenly remembered or have been recommended. We are going through Spooks, Outnumbered, In The Line of Fire, Burn Notice, and Deadwood. However live television has been on the menu as well. Dexter approached some of the greatness of season one thanks to John Lithgow's performance. Friday Night Lights maintained its brilliance. The Thick of It was a fantastic find. The Good Wife is a strange beast that has me hooked but for the life of me I don't know why. And then there is V. I have no idea if this is good or not, four episodes isn't enough to make a decision one way or the other. That said, the television programme of the year was:

Modern Families

This is so fast and funny that we cannot watch it live. We actually download it, so that we can pause and rewind. Sometimes it isn't even the words or the situation that is funniest, it's the look on the person's face (and that person is often three people behind the character you are focusing on). Great writing, great acting. The best televisual 24 minutes a week.

[Turkey of the Year: I would have said the last season of Battlestar Galactica, except I knew where that was going (down the toilet). So it has to be Flash Forward. Episode one set up a brilliant concept, and half way through episode two the writers had managed to destroy it. Episode three and four were car-crash awful. We finally noticed that at one point, in episode four, we were both sat in rooms that didn't have the television in them.]

Book

Not been a good year for me when it comes to books. I've barely read 12. That's a book a month. Which, for me, is awful. Fortunately, before my inability-to-see-the-page-without-glasses-that-I-couldn't-be-arsed-to-go-get-from-right-over-there became overwhelming I managed to read a couple of noteworthy books. Only one was first published in 2009, John Peel's Olivetti Chronicles. This was a wonderful book, but highly personal. I read it with a pencil in hand, writing footnotes for maria. I really enjoyed Michael Chabon's Two Gentlemen of the Road, but my book of the year is:

Blindness by Jose Saramago

It is difficult to describe how brilliantly written this book is. The author uses no speech marks to distinguish who is speaking. However, the (nameless) characters are so well defined that you immediately know who is speaking. And (in my head) they all had their own voices as I read.

[Turkey of the Year: I Love You Beth Cooper. As I look back at this year and wonder at how I didn't read more books, the most puzzling fact would be that nearly 10% of my total reading was this book. Why?]

Sport

Too often most sporting events end for me with what could have been. Sheffield United again made the play-offs and again failed to gain promotion. Santos Laguna made the play-offs and failed to go all the way. The Chargers made the play-offs and failed to go all the way. Of course, the thing that keeps me going is that there is always 2010 when the mighty Blades with be promoted, Santos will win Clausura, the Chargers will win the SuperBowl, and England will win the World Cup. Until those things happen the sporting event of the year had to be:

Winning the Ashes.

Yep, it's cricket, a game described as intrinsically English because it is a non-contact game with a lot of staring involved. Basically, slightly active chess. But I love the game. And there is nothing better than beating Australia. So, I was that one person in Mexico who was walking two feet above the ground the day we regained The Ashes. [And yes, I realise that Mexico beating the USofA was probably the most fun but it was over in 90 minutes. Hardly compares to a game series that lasted 25 days, 5 days a game!]

[Turkey of the Year: I would really, really, really love to go to a Baseball match. A live baseball match. It is one of those things on my list things-to-do-before-I-die. However, the Padres manage to make baseball look so awful that I have no interest in going. Thus I live longer.]

Music

God I'm old. There was the new Coldplay album, the new Snow Patrol album. Thank goodness there was a new Foo Fighters album (oh, don't greatest hits compilations count?). Musical highlight of the year was:

Radiohead at the Grammys

Somehow their new album had gotten past me, therefore I had no knowledge of the track 15 Steps. Their performance at the Grammys totally blew me away.

[Turkey of the Year: Lady Gaga. Just. Don't. Get. It.]

Food

I'm not going to go through all the good meals we've had and want to go straight to the one place we both loved:

UNO

We only ate there once this year, however, every time we drive past the place (twice a day) we mention the meal, check out how well the place is doing (long discussions about the fullness of the car park), and talk about when we will go again. There is a wonderful review of the place here, and the chef/owner has a blog here. The food was wonderful, the service was excellent and friendly, and the whole visit was an event. Weirdly it all happened as an after thought, on the way back from work we decided to pull in at this unknown place because we felt a bit peckish. The menu is designed to go through five courses (with added extras thrown your way for the fun of it). We failed miserably to do justice to three courses (sharing two), and promised ourselves we should go back again, hungry! I suppose that is a target for 2010! Hard luck to all of you who don't live in Tijuana!

[Turkey of the Year: The piece of chicken from KFC that broke my tooth.]

Drink

Beer. This has been the year of beer drinking. Oh, there's been the odd foray into other forms of liquid refreshment (I got to drink Sotol for the first time), but mainly this year has been about beer. Which means that my drink of the year is:

Budweiser

[pause for effect] Yes, Budweiser. I love my Mexican lagers. Really enjoy drinking at the Tijuana Bar and Brewery. Those moments when I have a six pack of Dogfish Head or Fat Tyre are wonderful. But, for day to day drinking. For a refreshing, thirst quenching hit. For watching football. For drinking with tacos. I really enjoy a can of Budweiser. In fact, I think I'm going to go open one now.

[Turkey of the Year: Tacate Light. You know it is going to be a long night when all that is available is Tacate Light. And, honestly, it doesn't make the party go better. It's Tecate Light.]

Bestest Thing

I became a grandpa this year. That was wonderful news, however the best part of the news was how I learnt it. My daughter emailed me. I also got an email from my wife's lawyer, which set in process divorce proceedings. This year I became officially unmarried. The intention was to be unmarried for a short period of time. This period of time might turn out to be longer than we wanted. A parent of a student works in telephonic-communication. As a gift to me, he set up a telephone in my house that means that I am in direct contact with England and the USofA. The value of this is enormous, and I'm not talking about financial value but emotional value. I get to talk to my mum regularly, and talked to my son for the first time in 4+ years. But, the single bestest thing in my life is my:

MacBook Pro

This was a birthday present from maria. She got it for me because my laptop was making my life hell. I disagreed with her, and now I've spent the last six months with my MacBook. My life has just been so much happier. Work is easier, communication is effortless, life is better. It seems strange to admit how much easier a life is because of a piece of hardware (plus software) but it has been easier. And a lot less stressful (and a lot less sweary). 

[Turkey of the Year: the cap on my tooth. Oh, it works perfectly well. And the dentist did her best. But the weeks and weeks and weeks of waiting for the damn thing was just awful.]

Place

Everywhere I go, I go with maria. So every place is a wonderful place. However this year we snagged ourselves season tickets to:

San Diego Zoo

I've commented before, the first time I went to SD Zoo, that it was the best zoo I had ever visited. This year I have discovered more and more of the place, and my admiration and sheer joy at each visit is overwhelming. It really is a fantastic place. The added value this year has been maria's acquirement  of a camera that she is happy with. And so the day (or just a morning because we've got season tickets) is spent wandering around, taking pictures, looking at the animals. On the double plus side, I also end up walking nearly 15km each visit.

[Turkey of the Year: the dentist. 'Nuff said.]

2009/2010

It's been a good year. When I started writing this post (three days ago), I wasn't convinced that this had been a great year, in fact I was going with "meh". But as I've wandered through my archives and thought about the way the year has gone, it has been really good. There was the burglary, which was terrible, that for sometime made us hate our flat. But, in the long run, we learnt to love our flat even more, to finally put up curtains, to decide that this was our real home and we weren't going to move. The twisted ankle was bad, the teeth were worse, but I haven't smoked a cigarette in 2009. So I reckon I'm ahead in the health stakes. We've made friends this year. Our normal mode has been to lose friends through the year, however we enter 2010 with a huge group of friends. This is mainly thanks to Twitter and #TwittBC. We've definitely become more settled in who we are and what we do, happier about our lives in general.

I don't do resolutions, I can't really see the point. I know that I would like to read more in 2010 and, considering what happened in 2009, that isn't going to be that difficult. 

And through all this we have been together through out it all. We are more in love now than we were at the beginning of the year. We understand each other more, we are happier with our roles.We know who we are and where we are going. 2010 should see us married, but it isn't the be all and end all of our relationship. We are together, and will be together. 

Hope your 2010 is a good one.

20th century boy

368945. This is the Kay's residence. Who is speaking please?

We had one phone in our house, in the hallway. It had a rotary dial and the handset was connected to the bulk of the phone by a short curly wire. If you ever used the phone you had to go out into the hallway and sit under the stairs on the telephone seat. Of course, we were never allowed to use the phone. If we wanted to talk to our friends we had to use our bikes: ride round and ask them. Sometimes our friends were allowed to phone home, to ask permission for something, but this was preferably done after 6pm. In which case my mother would rather they went home any way. No, the only time we were allowed to use the phone was when it rang and we were allowed to answer it. 

However, answering it was never fun. We would normally be sent to answer the phone because the family was gathered in front of the television. If it was me who was sent this meant giving up my place on the sofa. My parents had their own armchairs, my brother and I shared the settee. My place was the best place, and it was gained in the early hours of the evening, whilst my parents were still wandering round the kitchen, putting the washing up in the machine, filling the ice bucket. While they did that, my brother and I would fight - a power struggle for the best end of the couch. I, due to the fact that I was two years older, would win, keeping my brother in his place with my feet, until a parent walked in. At that point I would release my brother and sit comfortably and angelically (no fighting in front of my parents). Of course, if it was me who was sent to answer the phone, my brother would steal my place. It was now unreclaimable in front of my parents until my brother moved. And it was always me who was sent to answer the phone because my brother couldn't answer it properly.

368945. This is the Kay's residence. Who is speaking please?

The phone would ring, I would hear it, I would freeze, hoping that my parents wouldn't hear it. Obviously they would, however there were times that my parents didn't want the phone answered. If they were involved in something (book, television, parenting, olympic drinking), they were of the opinion that whatever anyone wanted to say to them was either: (1) important enough for them to phone back tomorrow; (b) not more important than what they were doing; (iii) not interesting enough to go stand in the hallway. My father's idea of central heating was to heat places in the house where he would not be wearing a coat (and would also be present). The hallway was an area in the house he would wear a coat, therefore it wasn't heated. Also (in his mind) this discouraged people standing around using the phone. Mainly because he was convinced that, although there was an honesty box next to the phone, no one actually put any money in the box when they used the phone. So, the less standing about, the better. The fall out from this, though, was that when the phone rang at night, neither of my parents wanted to enter the polar region of the hallway. Thus, send the boy.

368945. This is the Kay's residence. Who is speaking please?

........

And to whom do you wish to speak?

I would return to the living room and warmth (heaven help me if I had left the door open when I went to answer the phone). A discussion would then ensue as to whether my parents actually wanted to answer the phone. Was it really that important? And often I would be sent to ask just that question: was it really that important? Once faced with an eight year old boy asking you the importance of a phone call, most people would answer in the negative. I would then make my parents' apologies and hang up. From there I would visit the toilet, visit the kitchen, and make a drink for my brother. The drink I would place at the end of the sofa, his end. Trying to get him to move. However, if he complained to mum and I had to pass it to him, I could then rely on the fact that he would soon need the toilet, and then I could reclaim my place. Genius. Of course, there were the magic moments when one of my parents would answer the phone, the caller insisting that their news was urgent. This would mean their chair was free for claiming. I would sit in it, knowing that once the call was finished they would come back and move me. However, because they had moved me, this gave me the right to move my brother. Result.

I suppose that a lot of this has to do with my reluctance to answer the phone now. It will ring, I will look at it, and then decide how I feel. Do I really want to talk to someone? Often I will miss calls and, to maria's frustration and puzzlement, will never call people back (or even check who called in the first place). I've never really got the immediacy of phone calls. Seriously, why should someone be allowed to interrupt my life when they feel like it? Why should I put my world on hold just to fulfill their desire to check in with me. I'm pretty much the same about emails. Again to maria's total annoyance, emails will sit unanswered for days. Often because I'm not in the mood.   

All of this is fairly archaic and against type. I am the person who has had a blog for most of this decade. I met and fell in love via the t'internet, and spent the first year of my relationship on IM. I've had (and dismissed) myspace/facebook accounts. I had a Twitter account before you'd heard about it. In some ways I am cutting edge, and yet in many other ways I am very old-fashioned. And then something creeps up on me and smacks me in the face.

I'd installed Skype a year or so ago. I'd only used it during my last months of playing Ikariam, when I suddenly disappeared into that twilight region of real-time game playing. There I was, on Skype, planning attacks with people in three different continents, ignoring our time differences. Once I had gone cold turkey over Ikariam, I deleted Skype. (In the way that when you give up smoking you also get rid of your cigarette lighters.) And then I got an IM on my gmail account: was I there? could I take a phone call?

We have this phone in our flat. It's a weird phone because it has two numbers. It has an American number and a UK number. This means that you can dial it from the USofA or from the UK and you only pay for that call, not the actual talking to people in Mexico cost. This, of course, doesn't stop my mum from attempting to hang up the minute contact has been made, wellness has been ascertained, and the weather checked on. It's the cost, think of the cost. Anyhoo, I agreed to my availability, agreed to take the call, answered the phone when it rang. The people on the other end had gone one better. Instead of dialing the number using a phone, they had Skyped the number. Thus no one was paying anything. 

But I have a Skype identity. Within three minutes of the phone call starting, while we were still at the hello-how-are-you-so-Christmas-how-was-it-for-you stage, I had re-downloaded Skype, and regained my identity.   Welcome to the 21st century. All of a sudden I/we was/were in one of those video conference chat type moments. It was fantastic. Two hours plus flew past. All of a sudden we were actually achieving something that we had promised each other would happen one day. One day, we'd promised to sit around, together, drinking, talking, and righting the wrongs of the world. Thanks to technology, that's exactly what we did - except we were in rooms (approximately) 3616 km (2247 miles) apart. Even betterer, two days later we sat at the beach together while the sun set. This wasn't as romantic as it sounds as it was their beach which is on the east coast. (However, again thanks to technology, you can see the sunrise there thanks to a 12 second video.)

At this moment in time I am very excited about answering the phone. So, if you are interested, I'm on Skype, I've got an inbuilt camera, and I'm normally wearing clothes. You might have to email me first, just to get me to open Skype (I tend to keep it closed so I can avoid the drive-by-sluttings), but from then on, I'm all yours. 

I'm mexicowill, Skype me. 

christmas 2009

Christmas Eve

We picked the kids up at 11am from their dad's. Both are excited because it is Christmas Eve. However, their excitement has a slightly manic edge to it. At some point their dad had used the "naughty list" threat of no presents for children who didn't behave/workhard/showreponsibility/findasolutiontoworldhunger. The kids are fairly sure that they have cracked the first three but failed to do the fourth because they got caught up in first solving the problems in the middle east. Hey ho. The good news is, no matter what, they will be getting presents from us, this they know. The bad news is, they know what they are getting.

Back home they spend time going through maria's photo library, looking for one photo they like the most. When they find them (for Nikos it is a picture of a lizard, for Danny it is a picture of herself) the process of tidying them up, printing them out, and framing them takes place. Nikos comes and sits with me in the television room and we surf through channels until we find Christmas cartoons. These are in Spanish, so I read while he watches. In the kitchen maria and Danny are baking. They have decided that the house needs warming up, and if they bake cookies they can use the oven. In the end, all the heat from the oven is wasted as the door to the balcony and the front door are wide open. This was because it was "warmer outside than inside" and the hope was the warmth would find its way in. It didn't. But the cookies were luvverly so I'm pretty sure that we end in the win column.

As a present for their dad, maria offers to take a photo of the two of them under beside the Christmas tree. This turns out to be a lot harder than first envisioned. Danny has to do hair/make-up/go shopping for a whole new outfit. Nikos is a bit easier...oddly enough he has brought a change of clothes with him (as you do). The bad news is that maria and her ex are having a power-play struggle over Nikos's hair. Just to prove who is the boss of Nikos, his dad hasn't let him have a haircut since the time that maria cut his hair. This means that Nikos now possesses a hair-style that means if Santa brings him a skateboard/bicycle he already owns a helmet that will protect him from any concussions (hell, he could probably bungee-jump with the thing). Once we have found a hat to cover up his Elvis wig (although the sideburns needed to be plaited and tucked behind his ears) the photo is taken. 

All together in the television room, we turn the gas heater on, snuggle under some blankets and watch Elf. During the film I sneak out the room and start cooking the chicken (no turkey but a very big chicken). Danny, as per usual, falls asleep. Then it is time for A Christmas Story. I don't get to see much of it because the cooking has reached the frenetic stage: Yorkshire Puddings in (to rise), chicken out (to rest), gravy on (to boil), carrots in (to roast). The kids have asked for mashed potatoes (how quickly they have tired of my roasting-every-fucking-thing method of cooking), so maria is making those (I boiled the potatoes!). 

We sit at the table together, serving ourselves from the piled-high plate of chicken. The kids are being careful about how much they take. In an hour (or so's) time they will be going back to their dad's and will have to sit through yet another Christmas Eve meal (with, according to Danny, a fuck-off [she didn't swear] huge turkey). At the end of the meal we give them their presents. But wait, what is this? The gifts that maria is carrying aren't the photos, they are at the side. Yeah, presents. A huge Shamu for Nikos and a cat necklace for Danny. They both get a money box (dad has been keeping their allowance for them, letting them have bits of it when they need it, except for the time that it got spent on schoolbooks/electricity/toilet paper), so Father Christmas thought it would be a good idea to give them a money box. That way dad can give them their allowance every week and they can learn to save, instead of saving with the bank of dad. [Can you see what we did there? Huh? Huh? Can you??] Plus they each got $50 to start off their savings - or buy a present if Father Christmas doesn't come (Ben 10 toys, a trip to Claire's, toilet paper, whatever).

Phone calls are made to grandparents, great grandparents. At one point I am passed the phone to have a talk with my dad. I agree to look after his daughter, and ask him what he is doing for Christmas. He tells me he doesn't believe in Christmas. I ask him why he phoned tonight, of all nights? ......I pass him back to his daughter. The kids go back to their dad. We come home. Open a couple of bottles and drink until Christmas morning arrives. We go to bed at 1:30am.

Christmas Day

We're woken by the phone ringing. It's the kids. Father Christmas forgave them their failure to solvetheclimatecrisis and brought them presents. Loads of presents. iPods and laptops and Ben 10 toys and thingamajigs and whatchamacallits and stuff. Loads of stuff. It's time for me to call the UK. My son's mobile goes straight to answer phone (which refuses to take a message). My mum is out of the house already (partying like it's 1999). My younger brother is sitting down to eat having survived the toilet-blocked-disaster which only took up three hours of his Christmas morning (and four bath towels). My elder brother seems to have eaten his mobile??? 

We lie in bed, maria is reading, I'm surfing. We fall asleep again and are woken by my mum calling me. I finish the conversation. Go back to the bedroom. We argue. One of those totally-out-of-the-blue-where-did-that-come-from arguments. We take the sensible mature option: maria rolls over and goes back to sleep; I clean the house and do the washing up. An hour later, back in bed, we talk it through. All is right with the world. We get up and make chicken sandwiches with the left-overs. I try to explain what Branston is, what Picalilli is, what pickled walnuts are. It's a lot harder trying to explain why. Why Branston? Why Picalilli? Why pickled walnuts? We sit in front of the tele watching the San Diego Chargers play. The talk box in gmail informs me that friends are going to call. They are calling via Skype. I install Skype and suddenly, two hours fly by. We spend two hours sat on the sofa talking into the webcam, listening and watching two friends sat on their sofa. Bottles of wine get drunk, stories are shared, jokes are told, the wrongs of the world are righted, and Nigel Lythgoe is placed in the correct circle of hell. The Chargers win, easily.

Wine bottles are finished. Downloads are watched. Bed is gone to.

Boxing Day

We are woken by a phone call from the kids. They aren't coming over today (Oh, wait? It's Saturday? You mean it can be Saturday and Boxing Day?). Their uncle is in town and they want to spend some time with him. We'll see them tomorrow, and then on towards New Year. We pootle around the house. We do some computer stuff, maria posts the picture of the kids, I write this post (how meta is this? From now on everything I type is made up because I don't know what will happen next). I've been growing a beard. I've been too lazy to shave since I stopped work and I've got a bit more than a five o'clock shadow going on in my chin area. I don't like not shaving. After four/five days I get ansty/itchy/edgy and shave the thing off. maria likes beards (it's a dad thing - just don't tell her that because it sounds really weird and creepy), and so we always have an argument when it comes time to shave. Because we aren't getting presents for each other this year (we are going to see Eddie Izzard in January at the Kodak Theatre), I decided not to shave after four/five days. Yep, I can be this cheap! There is a chance that I will shave tomorrow. So, we spend the afternoon with me sitting around the house in different poses, whilst maria photographs my stubble beard. 

In the evening we meet up with friends at a Sushi place. We share dumplings and sushi rolls (whilst I have a chicken curry all to myself). We share stories about our Christmas adventures. We drink Sapporo. We right the wrongs of the world. We go round to Nigel Lythgoe's house and give him a good kicking. 

We go home. We go to bed. 

flicking a V

So, I'm out with my homies on Friday night, and it comes time to take the usual group photo. We all gather around, check that we can see the camera, maria pulls out her "psycho" face, and everyone flashes their gang sign.

We settle back down into our seats, sup on our ale, and maria points out that the 'V' sign that most of my homeboys/homegirls have just flashed is actually a rather rude sign in England.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! They say is shock.

YEEEEEEEEEES! We reply.

WHAAAAAAAATTT? They demand.

'Tis giving the finger, except in this case it is giving it twice. We inform.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO! They say is shock.

YEEEEEEEEEES! We reply.

But, but, but...we thought it meant "Peace" or "Victory" or, or, or something. They say in bemusement.

It does, but that is with the palm facing outwards. When the palm is facing inwards it means something totally different. We explain.

Way back in the 1300s, England and France went to war. This was a war that would last (on and off) for one hundred and seven years. Thus it was called: The Hundred Years War. Under the leadership of Henry V, the English had their most successful period of the war. Some of this was due to his leadership (but please don't confuse the play with reality), but a lot was to do with a WMD (Weapon of Mass Destruction). The English introduced a weapon that was to annihilate French armies and bring a country to its knees. This weapon was the longbow. A single piece of yew, aged and shaped for four years into a bow, was capable of launching a 75cm (30in) arrow over 400m. It was either a long range weapon or a highly accurate weapon, not both. At the beginning of a battle volleys of arrows could be aimed into troops, on mass. During battle, single arrows could hit their mark, accurately, at up to 200m away. However, the key to this weapon's domination of battles rested in the hands of the archer or, to be more specific, the two fingers of the archer. To launch an arrow a great distance or to fire it with enough energy to pierce armour, the string had to be pulled back by the forefinger and middle finger, the arrow resting between them, notched onto the string. This was a tiring operation and, even though they would train, most archers couldn't fire more than six arrows a minute, for the first minute. However, this number would drop of dramatically as the fingers tired. Without those two fingers, a longbow was just a piece of wood.

Rumour had it that whenever the French took Englishmen prisoner, they would cut off their fingers. This would mean that they could no longer use a longbow. Knowing this, the English archers they would taunt the French by showing their fingers. They would wave them in the air, flicking Vs at the French army. Yes, all the way back in the 1400s the Gallagher brothers were already hard at work spreading peace and harmony amongst our European neighbours.

And so, flicking a V became the way that English people would say "I've got mine, now you're fucked". 

Over time it simply just became a way of saying "fuck off". 

So now you know.

Peace Out.

all souls day

As any good Catholic boy knows, November 1st is All Saints Day. It is the day that the Catholic church has assigned for all those saints who don't have their own (actual) day. Which means that if you have a Christian name then today is the day you celebrate your saint. Me, I'm named after Saint William (I was baptised in a church called St. William), which means I get to celebrate my saint's day on June 8th.The day after All Saints Day is All Souls Day. A day that is devoted to all the dead people. It was the day my mother would take us to church to light a candle for her parents, who were dead.

When my mother discovered that I had run away to Mexico, the first words out of her mouth were: "Oh, good. A Catholic country." Mexico, like the majority of Latin America, is a Catholic country. Basically that means that 85%+ of the country sees themselves as Catholic. There are slight differences in the national psyche when compared to England, and not all of those differences are based around trans-substantiation, or the viginosity of the baby jaysus's mum. Although the baby jaysus's mum does mean that the country is much more a Matriarchal than England (which I feel is more Patriarchal). The obvious difference is Christmas. Although Mexico is moving towards celebrating the fat man (Father Christmas to you), there is still a mentality that celebrates Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night with a lot more enthusiasm. In fact Twelfth Night, and the arrival of the three kings, is very much Mexico's Christmas, the day they give presents. Mother's Day is a huge day is Mexico. And then there is All Souls Day. The Day of The Dead.

Two days ago I was given a sugar skull, that's a skull that is made out of sugar. As part of the celebration of the Day of the Dead people get skulls with their names on them,  because it is a way that to face your own mortality. A way that shows your acceptance that, one day, you are going to die. I'm not totally sure how I am supposed to go about feeling, when an eleven year old girl gives me a sugar skull with my name on it, but hey ho.

There is no school tomorrow, because it is The Day of The Dead. It is a day when people visit the graves of relatives, and so there is no school. Often people will a make altars to the dead. These altars will include sugar skulls, marigolds, bread (it's a very sweet bread, on the outside, and plain inside), and the favourite foods of the dead person.

Anyhoo, I've got tomorrow off work. I won't be visiting any graves. Nor will I spend hours looking at my sugar skull, reviewing my own mortality. Nope, tomorrow I intend to cross the border to go to The Shakespeare Pub and Grille. The mighty Sheffield United are playing a football match which will be on television, live, in the pub. Mind you, considering the way that the Blades have been playing the last couple of games, mayhap I will be reviewing my mortality, or at least the futility of my life.

plans - mice - men

So, we had plans. Not the best plans, but plans none the less.

A group of friends were going camping this weekend. They'd invited us, which was nice. We'd declined. You see, I don't do camping. As a child I was dragged around England for various reasons. My parents were very into walking, my father was into sailing and fishing. This meant that at odd times we would be whisked away to conquer some mountain, walk some trail, sail some lake, fish some sea. Sometimes this would involve staying in hotels but, more often than not, it would involve a caravan. There would also be camping, with friends, with the school, with the scouts. [Yep, I was a scout - sort of. It's a long story but involves being a conscientious objector.] I married young, had kids young, we had holidays in caravans.

I promised myself, a long time ago, that I wasn't going to do any more camping, ever.

I'm old. It is a struggle to get out of bed some mornings. parts of my body ache. A couple of bad moments during rugby matches means that I have a weak back. Sleep the wrong way, get caught in a draft, my back can lock-out. Bowling, at cricket, put more strain on my back. It also did something to my knee. That, plus years of footy, means that sometimes (actually today) my knee doesn't flex. I have to warm it up. Two years ago I broke a bone in my right ankle, playing footy. Last year I tore something in my left ankle, standing on uneven pavement. My left ankle is still fatter than my right. I really need to sleep in my own bed. I can't sleep on floors, in chairs, in cars. Well, I can but after I can't move.

I can't go camping. No matter how attractive people make it sound. No matter how romantic people make it sound. No matter how much fun people make it sound. I won't go camping.

But we agreed to go along to the camp site, join in the fun, share some quality/quantity time with friends. And then come home.

That was the plan, but occasionally the best laid plans sometimes go awry.

So, you don't get a blog post about us on the beach, watching the sunset, sitting around bonfires, drinking late into the night. Instead you get the total opposite end of the day: breakfast. A video of me preparing tomatoes.

A video of maria cooking eggs, Mexican style.

like a sailor sent to sea without his biscuit

We went to the London Bar on Friday night. I thought I'd mention it because it was really weird being English in a bar where everything "English" is perceived to be cool. That said, it's a really nice bar. The music was good (the non-live music), the beer was cheap ($1 for beer before 9pm), the staff were friendly and helpful. We keep looking for a pub that could become our local. It isn't local but it is next to one of our favourite restaurants. I think we'll go again. See if weird becomes comfortable or stays at weird.

We went across the border on Saturday. Danny had a quinceanera (sweet fifteen party?) in the evening and had to get a dress. maria, who is always very supportive of her daughter, actually imploded with pride in the changing rooms. Let me explain. Danny's dad isn't the most supportive of dads, he can make flippant comments about eating/size/skin condition. You know, the sort of comments that can cause major-girly-meltdown. This means that maria has to work twice as hard to keep Danny's head above water. And before you ask what my role is in all this...pause and think. I (obviously) support maria but I take a slightly subdued role, thus avoiding the whole weirdstepfathercommentingonstepdaughterslife situation. So, Danny was trying on dresses in the changing room, with maria, while Nikos and I were messing around outside in the store. Out of nowhere (well, the changing room area), maria appeared and dragged me into the back of the store, demanding that I see her daughter. She was very proud. And yes, Danny is beautiful - without really trying.

However, that wasn't what I was going to mention. We crossed the border on Saturday. It's been a bad week for the border. Couple of border guards shot at (one killed), a shoot-out at the border, the border being shut (the first time since the Kennedy assassination. Normally, on a Saturday morning, it takes me a good 45-60 mins to get across the border. So, we normally cross early, when the queue is smaller. We hadn't planned to go, but Danny's quinceanera turned up, and we had to cross at 10:30am. Oddly enough, I walked straight across, no queue. maria and the kids went straight through the Sentri. Whole thing done in under three minutes. Normally, crossing the border from the USofA into Mexico is just a case of slowing down for the speed bumps. This Saturday we queued, to get into Mexico. It appears they have changed ALL the border guards on the Mexican side. They all look a lot younger (but I'm of an age when everyone looks younger) and a lot more up-for-it. They've also filtered the ten lanes into three, slowing everything up, giving them a chance to pull anyone and everyone over, for a car check. Hopefully this will slow down the input of guns into Mexico. One can but hope.

Which reminds me. We were woken up Thursday night/Friday morning at 2:30am when a car alarm went off. We lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the (eternal) two minutes it took before it stopped. We drifted back to sleep. Three gunshots woke me up. A (different) car alarm. Shouting. maria got out of bed and I tried to hold her back, gunshots! She said they weren't. At 3:15am the whole of the apartment block opposite had emptied of its inhabitants as they had chased a car thief down the street. Yay them! Especially as, last week, the mosthandsomemanintheworldandheknowsit (I might be a bit bitter and jealous in that statement but he really should stop running out the house to say hello to maria) who lives directly opposite, came home at 3am and was car-jacked at gunpoint.

Anyhoo, after we got home from the shopping trip, we cooked tacos. Or that should read, maria cooked all the ingredients for tacos, the kids got to order tacos, and I got to make them.

I ordered two chicken tacos and two meat tacos,

both con todo.

After eating we attempted to watch all three Lord of the Rings films. In one of those no!really? conversations, it appears that Danny hadn't seen them. However, more importantly, we hadn't seen them together. This is very important in our lives, the seeing-together moment. So, we had six DVDs to watch - we'd gone for the full on, extended versions. We made it through three and a bit. Somewhere, during the siege of Helm's Deep we both gave up and demanded sleep. And not sleep in front of the tele, sleep in a bed!

Sunday follows a certain rhythm. I cook pancakes, we listen to the comedy podcast from BBC Radio 4 (or from NPR), we watch NFL, we watch NASCAR (at the moment), we hop over to the Santos game during adverts, we watch crap. The day is spent in jim-jams. We eat crap, we drink...well, today we drank Clamatos!

The Chargers won, Santos won, I planned lessons, maria ironed, we're ready for Monday, physically. Mentally I'd be quite happy with another day off work, but it isn't going to happen.

here's an interesting fact

Jeremy Clarkson was born in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. His mum designed the handmade Paddington Bears that are sold (exclusively) at Harrods. Interesting enough for you? Of course, it helps if you know who Jeremy Clarkson is, who Paddington Bear might be, and what Harrods is all about. If none of those three things were on your radar then it probably isn't that interesting.

So, I'm sat in a bar, in the middle of downtown Tijuana. It is 11pm on a Friday night, the music is cranked up loud, the beer is flowing like...well like sweat has been flowing all day in temps of over 38°C (that's 100°F in old money). maria who is wonderful and caring and sober and protective of me in my drunken state, has already (verbally) kicked one person all around the bar, leaving his spine in the corner as a trophy. He has left, in search of whatever shred of dignity he can beg/steal/borrow that might ensure he can walk upright once again. (Gotta lurve maria when she protects me, she doesn't take prisoners.)

Into the recently vacated stool beside me, slides another person. For a second or two, the whole bar holds it's breath, Depeche Mode take a break from singing, the guy with the mop and bucket tenses for action. He speaks:

him: Hi, I've just joined #TwittBC, earlier this evening, came to the party, who are you?

And then everything is cool, everyone breathes, Depeche Mode reach out and touch faith, the guy with the mop and bucket goes puts them away. 

me: I'm @willkay.

[I love the way that I actually introduce myself as @willkay. This is "third-person-speak" beyond anything that Mary J Blige ever says about Mary J Blige because it is up a level. Not just talking about willkay but talking about ATwillkay. Genius.]

me: Sorry, I'm will. Good to meet you. You Twitter then? Member of #TwittBC? That's really great. Nice to meet you. How are you doing? Isn't it hot?

[I did mention that I might have partaken in a small intake of alcoholic beverage?] 

him: Are you from Gloucester?

[This is a show stopper of a question. The majority of geographical placement questions put in me in the USofA. A small percentage like to plant me in Australia. Some get as close as Ireland ("Slappin' da bass!"). And one in fifty go for England. But no one has been as specific as Gloucester. My future father-in-law once commented, upon hearing my accent, the first time, that I was from obvious working class stock, which amused me tremendously. I laughed so hard I had to ask my manservant to dab at my cheeks with a special 'kerchief I keep, just for those moments.]

me: Gloucester? That's a bit specific isn't it? I mean, I can understand someone going England. Often people will have a go at London, or Liverpool, or Manchester. But Gloucester? 

[For those of you who aren't sure where "Gloucester" is, it is a town in England, just in England. It is very near to Wales. It is in the west of England and the accent tends to be a little bit more sing-songy. Totally different to my flat Northern accent.]

him: Yes, Gloucester. I'm a big fan of Top Gear.

[Top Gear is a BBC television programme that is presented by Jeremy Clarkson. Jeremy Clarkson was born in Doncaster, South Yorkshire. He was born one year before me and 20 miles away. The basic "back tone" to his accent is the same as mine. He has flat vowels. All of this I know, plus the fact about his mum.]

me: But Jeremy Clarkson sounds like me. He's from Yorkshire, Doncaster. He's not from Gloucester.

[At this point I should probably point out that I don't like Jeremy Clarkson. I don't like his politics. I don't like his way of talking. I don't like his self-absorbed, self-centred, egotistic wankiness. Don't like him at all. However, I like the guy opposite me. I've only just met him but I'm pretty sure that one day he will be my bestest friend ever...or I'll never see him again. Either way, it is Friday night, I've had a few beers, I've already seen one person eviscerated in front of my eyes. I know how important it is to some people that I like The Beatles, drink tea, support Chelsea, and think the queen is a jolly good thing! Pip, pip!! So, I smile as I say Jeremy Clarkson's name.]

him: Jeremy Clarkson? I hate him. He's the worst thing in the show. No, I watch it for....

[I never heard who he said because at that moment he became my bestest friend ever. My real, bestest friend. My besterest friend in the whole wide world.]

Oh, if anyone can remember who I was talking to in the bar, at about 11:30pm, could you email me his name or his email or his Twitter id because I have no idea who he was/is.

isn't it ironic, don't you think?

I'm being bullied.

Oh, it's subtle. So subtle that I hadn't really noticed. At first I'd put it down to cultural differences. Then I'd put it down to the fact that it was my fault. Then I'd just thought it was this/that/the other. But stuff happened yesterday and it upset me. Upset me enough that I woke up at 2am and sat up all night getting angrier and angrier. Of course, the angrier I got, the less chance there was of falling back to sleep, so I thought some more about the problem. This made me angrier. At one point I snapped the screen off my laptop and then tried to stick it back on with lick and masking tape. It was at that point I realised that, at last I'd fallen asleep...ten minutes before the alarm went off. I know it was ten minutes before the alarm went off because I woke up, scared that maria would find out that I had snapped the screen off my MacBook.

Have I mentioned how wonderful maria is recently? I don't think I have and this is incredibly bad of me. In theory all of my posts should, at some point or other, mention how wonderful she is. Obviously her beauty, wit, charm, sense of humour don't really need to be mentioned because they are obvious to all (although, I suppose, that doesn't really excuse me for not mentioning them as often as I should). However it is her wonderfulness that I have failed to comment on at every possible moment. I can see some of you wondering what specifically is her wonderfulness. Well, you know how you go on about how amazing it is that I can move to another country, keep a job, make friends, ignore the violence, and get out of bed every morning ready to face the world a new with a smile on my face. It has little to do with me, it is maria's wonderfulness that keeps me going. Case in point: the alarm goes off this morning, maria wakes, rolls into my arms, asks how the night went. I start to mumble about the neighbours/dogs/people going through the rubbish (trash) and then drop straight into, full-bore, no-holds-barred I-hate-these-two-fucking-women-at-school-and-it-is-probably-my-fault-so-I'm-not-going-to-work-today mode. So, she asks me to explain. And I explain. And she listens. And she asks me what I intend to say. And I tell her. And she listens. And she agrees, tells me to go ahead...if I'm a fucking moron (she can be quite kind that way). So, I ask her to explain. And she explains. And I listen. And I ask her what I should say> And she tells me. And I agree. 'Cos she is wonderful.

She explains that it isn't me. She is amazed that I've been pootling along in my own world, not slapping these women. She explains to me that it has nothing to do with my blond hair blue eyes and everything to do with their brown hair and brown eyes. They hate themselves because I am what I am. And that hatred has extrapolated to them becoming petty/snide/nasty/horrible bitches, bullying bitches. What they are disguising as "harmless fun" is in fact nastiness that might lead to, ooooo, let's say, a 48 year old man sitting up all night and then being scared to go into school the next day. How close is this to being bullied? It's all but the damn definition of the word. I'm a victim!

And then I realise that these people, the people I work with, aren't really friends, they are hardly acquaintances, they are just people I've met. And for a second I feel very alone.

Except.

Except there is maria, and she is wonderful.

Oh, and did I mention social-networking? Now breathe (inhale, inhale, you're the victim...sorry that song is stuck in my head at the moment). Yes, I know what they say: social networking isn't real friends, it isn't real. I can see some of you getting all hot under the collar because you've read, somewhere, that this computer malarkey doesn't lead to real friendship. Nope, if I want real friendship then I should be hanging around the water cooler, chatting with me colleagues, getting face-time not facebook time.

And I would, of course, agree with you...except...well, except blogging got me to where I am today. Blogging was the way that I found maria. And, lo-and-behold, social networking is actually getting me out the house. I realise that social-networking is supposed to tie you to the house, force you to sit in front of a computer screen, messaging, writing on walls, throwing sheep, buying (imaginary) drinks but someone forgot to tell the members of #TwittBC the rules.

The last two Fridays, unlike the previous 28 Fridays in 2009, I could be found with friends. Oh, and then there was that other Friday night in July. Today, as I have been struggling with the evil-bitches-from-hell, I have been invited to go camping (I declined. I didn't get where I am today by camping beyond the age of 19). I have also been invited out to someone's birthday party. Suddenly, thanks to sitting in front of a computer screen, I have a busy social life outside the flat.

Which is a bit ironic, don't you think?

footprint

It's not what you know, it's who you know - according to the old saying. I was once offered a job, at the age of 18, in a bank. Small(ish) bank, at the time. The job meant that I would have to travel out to Hong Kong, maybe work five years there, see what turned up next. This was in 1979, just as everything was about to take off. I didn't take the job. The reason I mention it though, is not through some sort of regret, it is because I was offered the job by a director of the bank. At the time I was caddying for my dad, this man was my dad's golfing partner. He offered me the job because he could. It had nothing to do with my qualifications, it had everything to do with who (my dad) knew. It wasn't what I knew, it was who I knew.

A year ago I was in a classroom with a bunch of parents, it was the day that all the parents have to bring in their child's supplies/utensils/stuff/crapola. The parents get a long list of books, notebooks, workbooks, pens, pencils, stationery, packs of photocopier paper, sterile wipes, a bicolour, rulers, stuff - all the stuff that the school thinks they will need for the next year. Anyhoo, the parents bring it in, I tick off a long list, they put the books in their kid's cubby, they stand around chatting, I check off another set of stuff. A dad gets up to leave and on the way out says to me:

Is there anything I can do for you? Seriously, is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can get for you? Anything you want done? 

I look up from the pile of books, laugh, and comment that a drink would be good at this point. He laughs, he leaves. The next day I receive a bottle of tequila.

I have to explain to maria where the bottle comes from and halfway through the story she stops and stares at me. Haltingly, I complete the story, not sure what I've said to upset her.

What? What have I done wrong? What have I done? Shouldn't I have taken the bottle? I should have said nothing? Oh, god. What have I done? I've given up my professionalism? What did I do wrong?

It appears I did everything wrong. Basically I wasted my free wish. This is the man who can do anything. This is the man who can get me anything. This is the man who can get anything done. And I got a bottle of tequila. maria then points out that the-worst-night-of-our-lives might never have happened if only we had this man's card. Why didn't I get his card? What sort of fool was I? 

Obviously a large one. The rest of the year was spent, trying to get the man's card. But, it was impossible - I'm too English and polite, there was no way I could force myself on him. I just didn't get the way that Mexico works. [maria knew the-man-to-know back in Torreon and she knows how things work.] The man and I were on good terms, I would receive regular presents, we would chat, but the offer of anything never came up again and I was too English to push it. And at the end of the year, his daughter left school. The chance to know the-man-to-know had gone.

Except, except at the end of every year I do exactly the same thing, I give all my students my email address, and I give them a promise: If they write me an email, I promise that I will write one back. Some students throw the address away immediately, some write once, some write twice, some I keep in contact with. Hey, it is something I do. And the kid wrote to me. Couple of times, through the holidays the kid wrote, and then, last weekend, asked if I would come to a concert at which she was performing. Now, I'm the sort of teacher who thinks that if a kid has summoned up the gumption to invite their teacher, then that teacher should go. I will stick my head-in and say hello at kid's parties. I will attend church for ten minutes to shout: Mazel Tov! [yes, I know!] And I will turn up at a concert to watch a kid perform. It's something I do. So we went.

We went and had a great time. We sat at our own table but were quickly joined by the-man-to-know. We sat and talked. Talked and told stories. The-man-to-know was shocked when he heard about the-worst-night-of-our-lives, and told how he would have made sure that none of that had happened. The-man-to-know was over-joyed when he heard we were getting married. He immediately offered to find us a judge. Yes, he could get us a judge, anytime/anywhere. In fact, if we wanted, he could also get us a fake judge. Oh, how we laughed. And then maria gave him her card because, well she had pictures of his child from school events, and she could email them to him. And then I gave him my card because he wanted to get me a bottle of scotch, and he needed to write the name Bushmills on something.

And he didn't give us his card.

He has no business card. He has no email account. He does not use the internet. The-man-to-know leaves no footprint. Oh, he has people who write and save and upload and download, and his child has an email account - but he doesn't go near a computer. He's not allowed. (I'll say that again) He's not allowed. The-man-to-know is not allowed to leave a footprint.

But we got his phone number. It's on speed dial. Sorted.