age

I have realised that for the first time I am feeling a little bit older. Not in any big way, I mean I'm only 23, but tiny reminders that tell me I am not 18 anymore.

I travelled round Europe a few years ago and I took it in my stride. I drank like a fish, slept little and travelled thousands of miles. Now I need an afternoon nap to get by.

Jalapeno chilli peppers are a perfect illustration of my slide out of youth. Once I could devour these by the mouthful, their burning taste feeling great as they slipped down, one after the next. Now it's a 20 minute gut-wrenching roller coaster of pain in the morning if I try and tackle the spiciest of chillis. This might be that no one should eat bucket loads of spicy peppers, and that that much chilli should leave you humming that infamous Johnny Cash song after 15 minutes on the toilet. But it might also mean that my body is fighting back.

I used to be able to drink 12 pints when I was 18. I even went through a brief stage where I didn't even get hangovers. I had toned my liver and kidneys to be able to handle the workload, my brain had come to enjoy that much alcohol in my system. Last night I had 4 beers and this morning I didn't feel great. When I was 18, 4 beers was warming up - it's a sad day when you realise you have had your peak. My days of excess are getting shorter.

I groan when I sit up. I don't know when it started, but I was alone in a room the other day and as I sat up I heard a low grunt. It was me. I groan when I stand as well. It's a sobering though to think that from now on, all my life, sitting up is only going to get harder and louder. It will also only get slower, more painful and eventually impossible - and the first reminder of this inevitability? That groan.

I also tire easier, seek out more comfortable situations like sofas (a quick sit down has become a regular phrase. how many times did I need a 'quick sit down' when I was 17??) and teenagers bug me. But that's for a whole other, bile-filled blog.

Anyway, I hope not to depress all you people who are older than me. I must go for my nap now, anyway.

an open letter to australian backpackers

Dear Australian Backpacker,

first of all, be quiet. Shhhh. Shut up.

Good, now I have your attention.

I have a question for you. How are you here? Europe isn't that cheap, especially the central-student areas you prowl. You don't have jobs, and you seem to be massively under-qualified for anything above bar-keeping but still you have the money to be able to go from cheap hostel to cheap hostel, being loud. I know you don't spend a lot while you are here, only splashing out on cheap hostels, kebabs and beer, but it adds up. And I know, I know you save on toiletries and grooming but still, how do you afford it?

Are the Australian government funding these ventures? Is this a cock-eyed way of spreading Australianism round the world? Because if it is, it's not doing that well. Europe is now sick of loud people who sound sort of English in flip-flops.

That's a point. Take off the flip-flops and put on some footwear suitable for long-distance travelling. Like, oooh I don't know, shoes?

Aren't you bored of Europe? there are only so many bars to frequent, only so many naive student girls to impress and so many bad t shirts to wear. Australia is beautiful, hot and clean - so go home. And have a shave.

And when are you leaving? You seem to get older and older, but still seem to infest our tourist hotspots with cries of 'I don't know mate, I was wassssstttteeeeedd!' and 'OI, get us a laaaaaaaager'. I fear for the day when Australia is inundated with late 20 somethings with great travel experience looking for office entry level jobs. 

So Australian backpacker, just tone it down a bit. We all know who you are, you don't need to wear the Aussie flag shorts to prove your nationality. The tan and the burping do that for you.

Love, Lee xxx

culture shock

Leaving Hungary has been a culture shock. We have arrived in beautiful Slovenia and I have forgotten what it is like to be in the western world. People dress nicely, everything smells nice, there are no corrugated shanty homes and there are people speaking English.

We left Hungary early, because we were sick to fucking death of the country. It culminated in having to wait an hour for a bad breakfast (Hungarian table service is like British train services. Shit). So we hopped on a train for Ljubljana, the capital of little Slovenia. Slovenia may sound like yet another Eastern Europe shit hole, but in fact it's delightful. Clean, modern, green and friendly, it's halfway between Austria and Italy in geography and atmosphere. Coming into it's rolling dark mountains, covered in fog was like the Hogwarts' Express. But with less owls.

And there are lots of English people here. People from Manchester, Bristol, Birmingham and London - and it's weird. For those of you reading this in England, or the US, you have taken for granted hearing English all day. I haven't heard accents, or fast speakers for a year. And it hurts my ears. The man behind me with the Bristol accent sounded hilarious, and I had forgotten that around English people I am privy to the fact that people are stupid. All the time.

I am sure there were Hungarians round me all year saying, in Hungarian: "oooh what's that's bread with seeds and bits in it?" but I didn't have the language capacity to shout back: "it's called fucking wholegrain, you moron". So when you finally do have that capacity, standing behind a dimwit at breakfast, it's hard to resist.

But Slovenia is awesome. Everyone has perfect English and they all work hard, something else I haven't seen in a year because the Hungarians are anything but industrious. Lazy, yes, industrious, no. I saw a waiter sweating earlier, I thought he was sick. I'd forgotten what exertion looked like.

So the first night was great. It rains a lot so high up in Slovenia, so we stayed in. We have TV, which is novel after a year of no TV. Although it was Predator, dubbed in german.....Arnie dubbed in german - how fantastically post-modern is that?

And it's raining again, but that's OK because it's so pretty here (i'll post some pics later). Maybe they will have more Austrians on TV, speaking English, dubbed into German.

britwatch

So i have left Szerencs forever. No more blogging about old ladies on roofs* and tractor fairs. I am now going on a summer jaunt round a few hotspots of Central and Western Europe. And while I do this I shall be forever Britwatching. It begins here, in beautiful Budapest.

Britwatching - to seek out and survey British tourists.

It's not hard. In fact it's so easy anyone can do it! All you need to do is look out for any of these people or this behaviour and they will undoubtedly be Brits. Britwatch - search out the scum on your holiday!**

Some hints of Brits abroad - 

The sunburn: We British do not cope in the sun well. We also do not bother with such frivolities like sun cream. So we go a bright red after the first day. Female Brits will have deep red cleavage (because it must be on show ALL the time) while Male Brits usually show off their pink paunches.

The football shirt: It's a fashion classic: garish colours and polyester. Most Male Brits will show off their tribe by wearing said tribe's colours. Usually a large size, colours vary, as does the shorts/trainers combo. The shirt wearing is also accompanied with a loud vocal display for said tribe. Because Male Brits think people give a shit about how great said tribe are, when they don't. If you are not familiar with football shirts, if you spot an obnoxious fat man wearing children's sportswear, it's a Brit in a football shirt.

The tiny skirt: Worn by the Female Brit, the mini skirt is a must. Rarely will Brits travel alone, so the tiny skirt is usually worn en masse by several Females, drunk on cheap wine, singing 'It's raining men'. The tiny skirt will mostly be inappropriate, and will often come with a fat arse and a belly, hanging over the skirt. It acts as a beacon for local men, telling them subtly that the Female is 'up for it' and 'will go almost all the way, but not all the way'. Other variations on 'slutwear UK' include plunging neckline, comedy Playboy bunny outfit or the classic tight black T (larger Female Brits think this hides the years of alcohol abuse. It doesn't, tubby.)

Public drinking: The Brits are on holiday, so they think this means a holiday from public laws also. Even though the Brit will consume 15-20 units of alcohol in the local bars, it is necessary to 'warm up' on the street with a few cans of local beer or a bottle of local wine. Public drinking may occur alongside public urination, public displays of grotesque sexual affection and public displays of falling over and laughing. After 2am, The Brit will resort to fighting. This will at worst mean a scuffle between unfit men who cannot fight, at best a crying, tiny-skirted Female Brit screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOKIN' AT, AY?!!!'.

The loud voice: Brits are under the illusion that foreigners do not understand English only because they are hard of hearing. So Brits remedy this language divide by shouting the English phrase a few decibels higher than the usual bellow. Never, repeat never, will the local language be used. Brits try to help their position by adding an -o suffix to their words, the occasional Spainish/French word remembered from remedial language classes and flailing arms. example: "WHEREO IS THE PUBO POUR FAVOR?' (gestures drinking motion, followed by pointing in all directions with exasperated look of desperation).

Other signs of a Brit are shocking displays of disrespect, an aura of superiority and reckless spending (Brits understand correctly that their currency is fiscally superior to most others in the world right now. This correct assumption is coupled with a total disregard for basic numeracy skills). Also no Brits will be found at cultural attractions.

*(why isn't it rooves?) 

** when spotting these acts, be careful to avoid confusing the Australian with Brits. Although the cousin of Brits in genetics, misguided self confidence and a disgusting contempt for the rest of the world, the Australian tends to be louder and will not have the sunburn. If you are on Aussiewatch, look out for summer wear all year round no matter how cold, a deep tan and even more profuse swearing.

case of the crazies

Szerencs entertained us during our very last weekend with a sort of fair. It was mainly a tractor sale, but out here that's a day out.

So lots of tractors, combine harvesters, and other vehicles which did stuff to plants and the ground. The kids enjoyed themselves, sitting on said tractors. I didn't. It was set to be a boring, Hungarian, crappy afternoon. That is until we wandered up to the Scientologists.

Scientologists in Szerencs. Scientologists at a tractor fair. Hungarian Scientologists.

I thought these loons were saved for LA and to a lesser extent, London. There are lots of people in those places who are prime scientologist bait - vain, insecure, feelings of self-importance, self-deluded. I thought it was just a c*** (see below) for people who looked in the mirror a lot. And that's OK, I mean we already have Kabbalah, what harm will another c*** do?

But it seems they are pushing further afield. They got Cruise, got Travolta and it seems like they got Will Smith too. But now they want the backward, rural Hungarians too.

Why?

There were about 10 helpers, all with their Dianetics polo shirts, giving the famous stress test (hold some metal rods!) and trying to sell their bad cheesy literature. Confused, simple Szerencians sat at the tables and looked as though they were truly terrified. It wasn't washing with them, at all. 

They came to sit on tractors, eat breaded goods and watch the wholly inappropriate afternoon teenage lingerie show. They didn't want to be told about L. Ron Hubbard and his bad sci-fi. The Dad probably wanted a weed whacker and mum just wanted to be out the kitchen. Then before they know it, they are tied to a stress test and asked if they are thetans. 

It's tough enough explaining to a Hungarian that they are not the grand old masters of central Europe, let alone tell them they have come from the souls of aliens who were trapped in a volcano. 

Scientology works on the wack jobs in the western world, so eaten up with guilt, consumerism and the media shit storm, they attach themselves to alien stories. But people who live here, literally the edge of Europe, are just not so easily swayed by the crazies are they? Actually, I suppose they were convinced by the Nazis, the Communists and the anti-fashion police. Maybe they are gullible enough to become scientologists.

----------

c*** - noun, a system of religious veneration and devotion directed towards a particular figure or object. (I have heard they take offense to being called a c***, so I have blanked it out for fear of a law suit via google searches). I am shit scared of scientologists. 

If you haven't got it, it rhymes with Kult.

ants, the war continues

Day 3: Morale is low. The sun is beating down from the midday sky. The smell is unbearable.

The ants in my kitchen are having a tough time too.

Stragglers pace between the bit of cheese and the smudge of peanut butter. Stores are depleted and hoovering is a constant fear.

Ant #2564890 bought it while nibbling on a bit of brown crap near the fridge. What a waste. The hollow futility of war is not lost on the ants of the kitchen skirting board.

Latest count: Ants, 9. Lee is still in the accedence.

ants

It's hot here in Hungoland, so the insects are out in force. I have been eaten alive by mosquitoes, and have discovered a new bug outside my flat (it looks like the flesh eating things on The Mummy) and we have ants. Lots of ants.

We have had one or two scouting parties into the flat in the last few weeks, just sniffing out the place. They were brutally, promptly murdered at the massacre of the big giant adidas trainer. The scouting holes were then made redundant thanks to piles of the finest Hungarian paprika. We thought the war had been won. But that first skirmish was just the start of the vicious war.

It seems the main attack route for the ant army is under the skirting board in the kitchen. The first troops found some gunk on the counter top, but a second wave thoroughly tucked into the crap that has accumulated down the side of the oven. By the end of the weekend a full force had eaten through the dirty dishes, many had drowned bravely eating some cereal, but all in all it had been a successful campaign. 

Returning home and finding the enemy flaunting their gains, I got mad. They had to die, these bastards thought they had won, sitting there so cocky. It was like when Bush declared an untimely victory on that carrier in 2001. After realising the previous execution method of stomping would take forever, I found one of my new, more perverse joys in life - vacuuming up battalions of ants. None survived the second massacre of the war, simply referred to as 'the hoovering'.

By monday they had come back, many ants deciding the shit at the bottom of the oven grating being worth the risk of another vacuuming. I wonder if they are now ruing their decision, at the bottom of the vacuum bag.

I made a tactical move yesterday, taping up the entire skirting board. The genius of my move came to me while on the toilet. I hope other great military tactics were created on the bog. I bet Nelson came up with Waterloo just after dropping a log.

I digress. Anyway, the tape was a partial success. Some ants got though the sticky, I can only assume choking wilds of tape and got back to munching on a bit of stuff near the sink. Their last memory was a deafening noise and a dark, dark tube from which there is no return. 

Jesus, I am really enjoying sucking up ants, so much I am creating prose about it. I am messed up.

Well the war is still being waged, I added tape at some of the weaker parts of the tape line and sucked up some vagrants. I can only hope their forces are depleted. Tomorrow the war continues.

bank accounts

As I edge closer to marriage, the details are being discussed. Little details we didn't think about, but will inevitably need addressing. Like Nicole having to call me 'sir'. Haha, I joke. She will only speak once spoken to, addressing me as 'your liege', 'm'lord' or 'your majesty'.

Anyway, we were talking about money and I realised we need to share a bank account. And seeing as we will be living and working in England, we will have to share MY bank account. That was weird.

Your bank account is sacrosanct, like your diary or your porn collection. It's your business and yours alone, no one is to touch it nor is anyone allowed to take from it. Like your porn collection. Passwords, codes and statements are just for your eyes only, like your porn collection. And it works well that way - until you are getting married.

But as my wife, Nicole will be privvy to all my monies. My money is her money, so she is as free to spend it as I am. My hard earned money, mine, being spent on colourful scarves and public radio, Cuban cocktails and donations to uber-liberal MidWestern Democrats. Am I OK with that?

My money is usually spent solely on me. I earn it, it's mine. Beer, is the main outgoing. But also stylish foreign t shirts, hair wax, contact lenses and the occasional eBay purchase (always hasty, nearly always regretted) do pop up now and again. But that's OK, because that's what I like.

I have never wanted to share my money. Not even with my closest friends and family (when it's my turn to buy a round, I usually fake cramps and run out the bar). It's my money. Not anyone else's. But after I am married it will be, it will be as much hers as it is mine. And in the same vein, her money will be as much mine as it is hers.

And I thought about it, and I'm OK with it. I want her to have it. She will be my partner and we will share everything. And I want to share everything with her. My money is her money. I mean what would I do with it without her anyway? 

Well, I suppose my statement would show a few more late night £20 being taken out (when you are alone and sad and have had enough beers, walking 3 miles to an ATM for money for drugs is NEVER a bad idea) and I guess there might be a few more £2.99 payments to that innocuous, harmless web company (porn is so discrete these days). But nothing else. No weekends away, no holidays, no savings, no gifts - nothing worth while.

So after august 1st, bank account number 5******5 (you thought I would be dumb enough to give you my, nay our account number?) will be the bank account of both of us. And I for one am looking forward to that.

szerencs vs. mars

I just spent a while perusing the shots of the Phoenix mission and it got me thinking:

1. It's difficult to get to

2. It's barren

3. There isn't a cinema or a Pizza Hut

4. There are a lot of rocks

5. I would be quite bored if I was there

Yep. Szerencs is a lot like Mars. 

a new tribulation

I have big news. Maybe the biggest news of my life. I am going to be getting married to Ms Nicole Robinson, my girlfriend of 18 months (the shorter one in the photo). This blog entry is my version of one of those creepy announcements in the local paper. 

It's not something I have not run head first into like those sad old guys that 'find love' in the Philippines or the Ukraine. We have been friends for nearly six years and most of you know our romantic tale. We met, I fell in love, she didn't, we lived apart for years, she caught up and fell in love, we crossed the Atlantic a few times and now we find ourselves in Szerencs. Phew.

And we aren't getting married to prove our funky international love to the world. Thanks to an age of Terror and a few very powerful moronic Americans, I can't live in the USA as a single UK citizen any time soon. And Nicole can't live in London thanks to equally moronic powerful British officials. So we either split up, do the long-distance thing or marry. Marry it is, then. Really, spend a few minutes perusing the immigration websites for either the UK or the US - as someone on a forum so eloquently put it "We are supposedly cousins, but a British person trying to gain access to the USA is suddenly demoted to the international level of an illiterate Palestinian goat herder".

So we are becoming Mr and Mrs Jones this August. From there we have free access to either shores whenever we like - all it takes is a lifetime agreement, thousands of pounds and millions of forms, copied and verified. Piece of cake.

And neither Nicole or myself like attention. We shy away from any form of focus upon ourselves, we don't like shouting from the rooftops and we don't have egos. So the idea of a big, white wedding terrifies us. As a result, we decided not to have a big deal - just our immediate families in a registry office in my home town, Watford. Essentially signing a bit of paper in a crappy office in a crappy town. It's no Charles/Diana fairytale, put it that way. 

Then it's to 'Old Orleans Family BBQ Restaurant' for the lunch afterwards. Previously 'Quinceys', Old Orleans is an American-themed restaurant that I enjoyed throughout my childhood where one can get sticky ribs, shakes and huge burgers. The walls are adorned with Hollywood stars, license plates and baseball bats (and a canoe). It's as tacky a restaurant as anyone could find, but it is a perfect homage to our Anglo-American situation. And the father of the groom can eat ribs. He likes ribs ("I just like food you can get involved with")

I am leaving Szerencs in a matter of weeks, so this blog will cease to document the Hungarian world I find myself in. Instead it will document my life as one half of an international relationship, and our lives in London and Minneapolis. Lots more tribulations and lots more muffins, of both the American and English variety.

queuing

This is by far and away the touchiest subject for me when it comes to Hungary. It makes my blood boil, it makes me want to hurt people and it makes me want to stamp up and down in the middle of the supermarket. People in this country can't fucking queue up*. At all.

British people can pride themselves on few things: Our language for one, that bunch of German incestuous slugs we call the Royal family second and of course our capacity for drinking gallons of cheap lager while abroad. But nothing says Rule Britannia like a good line. No matter your age, your creed or your colour, if there is a queue anywhere in Britain you get to the back and wait your turn. There is no exception - why the Queen herself might one day fancy a 99 with a flake** and if she came upon a line in front of the ice cream van, by God she would get to the back of it. Queuing - it's what separates us from the animals. It's our art form.

It's not hard to master - first come, first serve. First to cometh upon the establishment, the first to be serveth by the establishment. If I have finished my shopping before someone, logic and politeness dictates that I should be able to pay for my shopping before that person. If we didn't have this startling simple system it would be anarchy - why without the order of queues we may as well throw our shopping basket down, rip off our clothes, sling some shit against the wall and start mating with whatever we can get our hands on. 

But for Hungarians it's just not that simple. It's more first come, 'better keep your wits about and stand as close to the shop assistant as possible' served. You have to have eyes in the back of your head. Standing in the queue....standing in the queue....turn around for one billi-second...BAM! An old lady has shoved past you and begun placing her various sandwich meats on the conveyor. And does she have remorse? Is she wracked with guilt? No, she just stands there counting out her coins with a 'I have had a hard life' grimace on her face.

I have been in situations where there have been 10 to 15 people in a line waiting to be served, bustling for position like it was the start of the Olympic marathon, when out of the blue a man just waltzed in front of me. Then, then he smiled at me! Smiled! The nerve! The bastard took my place in the line....and smiled! I didn't know what to do. Should I smile back? Is the V sign a gesture of anger here? Is it OK to hit a man in his sixties?

The post office is the worst. It's so bad that I am not going to regale you with the heinous tales. Just think of the most hideously unjust situation you have ever been the victim of, add the stench of a lot of unwashed old women and gypsies and you are close to what it's like to try and post a letter from Hungary. 

But it's something they have grown accustomed to. Like the smells, or the unerring sense of doom. It's not impolite here, it's just the done thing. 

I must finish as my blood pressure is rising to dangerous levels for a young non-smoker of 23. There are many things that shock me in this country; acts of sheer stupidity or lack of foresight that make you want to cry - but nothing, nothing beggars belief like experiencing Hungarians waiting to be served.

*For all you Americans, queuing is "standing in line"

** Again for the johnny foreigners - a 99 with a flake is a soft ice cream, usually costing 99p, with a Cadbury's flake stuck in it, sold by an immigrant in a van. It's a British summertime tradition, like socks and sandals or donkey rides.

writer's block

I know my blogs have become quite sporadic, and for all those who are fans of my musings (and there are many of you) I am sorry. It's just right now I am having some writer's block.

'But how Lee?' I hear you all shout, 'you are so good at writing, so funny and witty, how can it be difficult for you, this century's Oscar Wilde, to come up with regular posts of unequalled genius?'

First, thank you fans, you are too kind. But it's because right now I am working two jobs and it's tough to keep up the dynamic creative flow that you have got so used to. My first as you all know, is to be a babysitter for classes of Hungarian teenagers. This isn't the best job in the world, but I don't work hard and I don't think I really do my job properly (I have a new lesson plan, it's called 'playing outside'). My second job is more demanding - I am a copywriter for an online mortgage brokerage. I know, glamourous right?

I have to churn out hundreds and hundreds of 500-word articles about how great self-cert mortgages, offset mortgages, adverse mortgages and buy-to-let mortgages are. It pays the bills but it doesn't fire up my soul exactly.

And it's a good job. The guys who run the site are good guys, and I can essentially work in my underwear, which is living the dream. But it does mean at the end of the day the last thing I want to do is write more. I want to sit, eat and fall asleep. In that order. As a precocious artist I need to be constantly sucking the teat of creativity, not writing things like "with some good advice and some prudent saving you could find yourself the perfect mortgage".

But I will persevere. I have a few dazzling bon mots left before I pack up for a whistle-stop tour of Europe so stay tuned. Next time: Hungarians doing stupid things and looking miserable while they do it.

grades

It's coming up to the time of year when I have to grade my students. I tried this once before with disastrous consequences, so I'm not really looking forward to it this time.

What you must first understand is that Hungarians aren't good with organising. Things are sort of done on an ad hoc basis, with little communication and absolutely no foresight. We were told this is due to the fact that for hundreds of years the Hungarians have had to deal with big problems - famine, war, invasion, poverty - so give little regard to the small problems of life. Like administration, time-keeping and planning. As long as they are not being invaded or dicked over by another nation, things are fine.

So trying to mark nearly 300 kids is no easy feat. There are no computer systems in place, hell there are no systems in place. Basically, you write a mark between 1 and 5 into the register depending on how well they have worked and hope you a) get the right kid b) give them a mark their teacher thinks they should get and c) give them a mark they assume they will get. Hungarians don't do well with criticism.

So I tried it before - I was asked to give the kids monthly marks and to not be too unkind. That was it. I deduced where the marks go and I also deduced that a 1 is the equivalent of an E, 5 an A. So I went through the register giving what I though were nice marks. At school I was taught that if you don't try, you don't do well. This was possibly the best lesson I ever got from my suburban British, pseudo-homosexual, trumped-up, high-standing boys grammar school. So I put this principle into action as I thought it is a good lesson for the kids. If I thought they had worked hard, been good kids and spoken to the best of their ability - 5. If they sat in the corner wit their mouth open for 45 minutes - 1. 

After hours and hours of work I was told this theory was wrong. I was supposed to give all the kids good marks, regardless. Silly me. It seems that just because you don't like to, or are unable to speak English this should not go against you in an English CONVERSATION class. Silly me. So the teachers told me off for giving too many 2s and 3s, and then the kids also went mental. Kids who I previously thought had some sort of brain damage suddenly became eloquent geniuses: 

"Why did I get a 3?" 

"Well, you don't really talk, you grumble and mumble when I make you talk and you only come to half the lessons." 

"But a 3 is a very bad mark in Hungary, why did I get a 3?"

"Because this is English Conversation. if you don't talk to me, you aren't doing very well."

"But 3 is a bad mark."

"But you are a bad student because you never talk to me. Good students in English speaking classes speak English."

"But I can speak English well."

"But you have never spoken English well to me."

"But 3 is not good enough."

Jesus.

I then found out giving a 3 or below is tantamount to raping the child. No teacher gives anything less than 4s or 5s without the risk of retribution. Now I may have been taught at a school where the the colour of your socks was an issue, but I don't think giving shit grades to shit kids is strict. But the kids do. They thought I was another one of those evil foreigners that they hear about, the ones that stomp all over them and generally ruin everything. I gave 3s, so I was as bad as the Ottoman Turks. Or Hitler.

So I will start to grade the kids again. I have two choices - buckle and give all 4s and 5s, even if the kid is a complete retard or stand by my guns. I think I'll buckle.

If I did stand by my guns it would be a lesson to the Hungarian kids. There is no one to blame but yourself for your failings. You got a 2 because I asked you what your name was and you looked at me as if I had just asked you to list Newton's laws of relativity. And I would award the kids who tried hard, even though they suck. And there are plenty of kids who really really try, who go purple with effort just to squeeze out another badly pronounced half-word. They will get 5s and I will heap praise on them. Their good marks would be a badge of honour and merit, like they should be.

But I won't. I have little under two months here and know trying to do anything in Hungary is like slamming your head into a brick wall, again and again and again. The fuck-wits can have their good grades, they are going to need them.

ritchie versus the sharkmen

Yes it's more from Ritchie, Szerencs pimp-daddio. Sometimes Ritchie likes to give me a tirade of bad English/Hungarian/miming to tell me a ridiculous story straight from his own imagination. I never ask for these tales, nor do any other students prompt him. I think I had just asked his friend something about football before he launched into the tale of Ritchie versus the Sharkmen.

It is going to be hard getting across all the subtleties of the tale of the Sharkmen, as this blog lacks the exuberance of a 13 year-old standing on a table, shouting at the top of his voice. Anyway, I digress.

Basically, the Titanic sank because of the Sharkmen shot shit at it. Yes, I know they say it was an iceberg, but that's just propaganda. Trust Ritchie, it was Sharkmen shit. So the Sharkmen sank the Titanic, and zoomed back down to the bottom of the sea. Then some super heores, possibly Dragonball Z men, followed the Sharkmen down into the depths. But the Sharkmen were too tough for them and ate them and shit on them, leaving them to perish with the passengers of the Titanic. It was a bloodbath, according to Ritchie's impressions of blood flying everywhere.

So Ritchie, adorned with a cape, jumped down in the blackness of the Atlantic to avenge the Dragonball Z guys. Lots of shooting and exploding ensued, Ritchie firing balls of fire at the Sharkmen, who were limited to trying to shit on him. I think Ritchie almost bought it at one point (he jumped off the table and did that noise boys do when they are imaginary shot), but he is a pretty awesome super hero so he recovered a la Balboa.

"The Sharkmen were *explosion and shot impression* then I *some sort of fireball impression* and everything was all *louder explosion* and then they were all fucked," said Ritchie.

So Ritchie defeated the Sharkmen. After this tale, I told him to sit down as he had gone very red and out of breath. But he had told his side of what happened that fateful night in 1912, so I guess it was worth the effort.

hungarian funnies

Hungarian humour is strange. And when I say strange I mean it's not funny, and I seem to be the brunt of much of it.

Being a teacher makes you realise that kids are relentless machines of torture, persecution and mockery. And persecution, mockery and torture and pretty much what make Hungarians laugh. So for a few hours a day I am their clown.

Everything is funny to them. I drop a pen, it is met with howls of laughter. A pen? it's not that funny is it? I mean everyone drops a pen occasionally, it's not a big deal. If I dropped a tray holding a ming vase then laugh by all means. If I slip on a banana skin, or walk into a glass door then please get it on youtube, let the world know what a clown I am. But dropping a pen? Give me a break. 

They also laugh at any of my attempted Hungarian, all of them do, it's like I am doing a silly voice whenever I try and say something like 'hello' or 'how are you?'. Which is bitterly ironic as many of them speak English terribly. Some of them have learned for 12 years, over a decade, and still pronounce 'suit' 'swweeeuuutt'. Maybe I should laugh at them.

But this week I got the biggest laugh. And I deserved it.

Having your fly undone is a schoolboy error anywhere in the world. But in the world of Hungarian teachers, it's professional suicide.

'OH MY GOD!!!!!! HE HAS HIS TRUSIERS UNMADE!!!!!'

This was followed by screeches of laughter. Hungarians don't have belly laughs like the rest of us, they only snort in contempt or screech at others' misfortune.

Hungarian humour is no exactly cutting edge. They like slapstick, following the world's unexplainable love of Benny Hill, they haven't got irony, or satire (they don't mock their politicians, they just wish unending torture upon them and their children) and they don't really get self-deprecation. Well, they sort of have it, but most of the jokes go something like this (these are real Hungarian jokes. I know some of it is lost in the bad translation of my students, but still):

'Why was the Russian in Budapest? Because the Russians always invade us and steal our land'. Or another: 'Why was the gypsy laying down? Because he doesn't work and steals our money'.

They don't get self deprecation as they are a self hating people. In these blogs it may seem that I don't like Hungarians, but by God they hate themselves more than anyone else ever could. If you see a smiling Hungarian they are either drunk, not in Hungary or thinking about someone else's misfortune.

So next time you want to punch the joker at work or switch off whatever catchphrase-based comedy is popular this month just take a second and think of me living in the land of anti-humour.

strange things i have seen

I have seen some weird things in Hungary, which although seem like things from tales of the unexpected, here they are regular occurrences. Here is a select few:

Men blowtorching a pig: One saturday I wandered down a quiet street only to see several men on a driveway standing round a black lump. The drive was covered in blood, which is never a good sign, anywhere. As I got closer I realised the black lump was the charred remains of a whole pig, and it was getting more charred as one of the men continued to blow torch the recently deceased beast. I don't know if the animal was killed minutes before by something other than a blow torch, and I am not entirely sure why they were cooking it in this way. I also don't know why three men had to watch one man hold the remains while the other cooked. To be fair, I watched for quite a while myself and the butchers didn't seem to mind. When you don't have TV or a cinema in your town, a pig-torching is quite the event.

Really old lady on a roof: She was just standing on the roof. No reason why this woman, clearly on the wrong side of 85, was 30 feet in the air standing on a flat roof. There were no ladders, there were no other people around and the woman was just standing. She was wearing typical Hungarian babushka-style headdress, five layers of clothes and a gurn of utter contempt. I couldn't stop looking at her and she couldn't stop looking at me. The next day she wasn't there, I don't know how she got down or whether she survived the cold night.

A car in a wheelbarrow: It was a very small car, the type Hu

ngarians have been driving since 1952. These cars, when in motion, sound like someone has a big metal box of old metal and is shaking it really hard. They are called the Trabant and are like a really poor man's Lada. 0-60 in about 3 weeks, downhill. The car was in a very big wheelbarrow, the type they like to carry potatoes in. They are usually attached to Trabants, or horses, or home made motorbikes. I don't know where it was going to be taken or how it got into so many pieces that a wheelbarrow was the best option for it, but here it is. A car in a wheelbarrow.

A student with a sword: My school were allowing students to film their own movies, and one class decided to make their own 'Scream' movie. The star was dressed in the famous mask and gown and asked me if I would do a short scene with him. I was to walk out the staff room, turn, and see him standing behind me. That's it, not exactly oscar-winning stuff, but what do you expect? So I agree, and he pulls out a massive sword from his bag. Not a plastic toy shop replica, but a 2-foot long machete usually wielded by those African rebels who are big on genocide. He told me he had permission to have the sword in his bag at school, all day. So I did the scene and he flung this sword round my head and shouted something in Hungarian. My least comfortable moment in Hungary so far. I saw him later showing it off to some younger students, once again flinging it round his head as one would if you were part of some sort of medieval rampaging hoarde.

As a footnote, I have also heard a dog being shot on my street. Well, I could see some men standing round looking down the end of a garden (they may have been the same ones who were part of the pig-torching gang. It seemed like their bag - standing, animal cruelty), but the garden was obscured from view. I then heard some shouting, some gun shots and then a yelp. One more shot ensued, then nothing....It might not have been a dog, come to think of it. Oh God, I hope it was a dog. Or a elderly sheep, or even a misbehaving goat. I hope.

the smell

Szerencs stinks. Some of the smells are good, but most are disgusting. And it's not a Hungarywide problem, oh no, I have been informed that Szerencs stands out as a smelly Hungarian town. Joy.

The first smell you would whiff, smell 1 if you will, when coming into the town is the only good smell. Szerencs train station is right next to the Nestle factory, which makes Nescafe powder and Nesquick powder. So stepping off the train you are met with smell 1, the wonderful aroma of coffee and chocolate. Its heavenly - the station is quaint, the smell is delicious - anyone would think they are in a Hungarian paradise.

Walk down the road you are hit with smell 2. Smell 2 comes from the factory next door to the Nestle factory (Szerencs has a lack of entertainment facilities, amenities and infrastructure but has an abundance of industrial plants) is the sugar factory. Hungarian sugar factories, this one loving managed by a load of Germans, make sugar from sugar beets. Sugar beets are roots that need to ferment and cook to make the sugar. Unfortunately for Szerencs, this process produces a smell somewhere between manure, wet paper and rotting fruit. It's the same smell as when you open up your long-dead Grandma's cupboard and find some nine-month old potatoes sitting in there. So every day this grim monster pumps out smoke that smells like dead Nan's cupboard.

So as you walk through the centre, smell 2 sticks with you for a half a mile or so, and that's fine because smell 2 is not the worst smell in Szerencs. That particular crown is reserved for smell 3. 

Smell 3 is the drains. Szerencs has a problem removing its sewage, instead of moving quickly to some sort of treatment plant, it kind of sits and ferments right under the houses. Smell 3 is the worst of all the smells because it is literally s*it. Wake up in the morning, step outside, take a breath and....it's s*it. Walk back inside, lift up the unused toilet and...it's s*it. Maybe take a shower which, thanks to the rising smell coming from the drains, smells like...s*it. The only time smell 3 isn't lingering is when the wind is blowing in the right direction smell 2 prevails, or for the few metres in front of the Nestle factory, smell 1. But 90% of the time it's all about smell 3.

Sometimes there is a bit of smell variety in my day. There is a smell 4, which is burning garbage, which comes around at least once a week. Smell number 5 or gypsy B.O., which I whiff now and again, can usually be overpowered by smell 6 a.k.a. old person. 

My school too has it's own magical smell, number 7, which is a heady mix of teenage boy stink and cheap deodorant. That one is particularly potent round the locker rooms. I tried to do a lesson on 'hygene - how to smell good in English' for my 9th grade class but they didn't listen the stinky little b*stards. Actually I have a whole raft of informative vocabulary lessons lined up to help my teenage boys. 'Buying a razor in England and shaving your fuzzy lip', 'ask for clothes that fit' and 'explaining greyish stains on the front of your trousers'.

That's about it. 7 smells that define my life right now, and only one of them is a nice.

strike!

I will be stuck in Szerencs next weekend. Like a bear caught in a trap, I am thinking I will gnaw off my own leg at the prospect of 36 hours in the middle of nowhere. I will be in this predicament because the train company will be strike. For the sixth time in six weeks.

MAV workers, of the Hungarian train company, are pissed off with something. I don't know what has got them riled up, and I don't care. Frankly I am pissed off with pissed off Hungarians. They all have bees in their bonnets all the time. There are so many bees in so many bonnets in this country I doubt you could find a bonnet anywhere that is bee-free. Or a bee that isn't residing in a bonnet.

Everything pisses them off - from 87 year old international treaties (see below) to Chinese people. The warm weather pisses them off, the cold weather pisses them off. Long-dead communists piss them off, as do long-dead Austrian kings and long-dead Turkish marauders. Even other Hungarians piss them off both alive and dead. People are vilified for having more money or less money or the same amount. I even piss them off. Well just the old ladies.

So they will be striking. From what information I can gather, they want more money and the Government doesn't want to give it to them. So they will keep shutting down the railways until their bees have been expelled from their bonnets. But I don't hold out much hope. They might get their money but inevitably they will find something else to be pissed off about. The colour of their uniforms, for instance, is hideous - they might want that sorting. Or they might want toilets on the trains that don't smell of gangrene.

They might find out the Romanians are earning more money than them, or that the Slovakians have nicer toilets and that will lead to more chest beating and indignant outrage. They might get wind of a wage rise for Mongolian railway workers, or a sniff of revolution on the part of the Taiwanese train drivers. The Ugandan Government might give their train companies an extra day off a year, or the Honduran train union might eek out a few more benefits for it's staff. Any of these things might upset the staff of MAV and might produce yet another strike.

So thanks to some huffing and puffing, I will not be whisked away to some nicer town. I still have a lot to see, but without the cheap and efficient MAV services I am stuck.

No TV and no bright lights means a weekend of sitting inside complaining about the complainers complaining about something else that they can complain about.....

.....ouch. My bee just bit me in my bonnet.

ghetto king returns

Ritchie, my 13 year old ghetto king, bad-ass rapper student was on fine form again today. While some students were eating paper or organising shopping trips into the metropolitan hub that is Szerencs, Ritchie explained to the class why girls are always annoying.

"They are menstruating," says Ritchie. I was amazed. This boy cannot tell me where he lives (he jut shouts "sextown!") or why he doesn't like sitting down, but he knows the workings of the woman's menstrual cycle in english. "All the time," he bemoaned, "she's menstruating, she's menstruating, she's menstruating, they are all menstruating. 

"It's menstruation. That is why they are annoying."

Ritchie, ladies and gentlemen. Poet, social critic, P.I.M.P., and now human social theorist.

clinging onto the past

The British haven't got too much to be shouting about. All that made it Great Britain - invention, war, occasional world cup wins - have all slowly seeped into sepia, replaced by binge drinking and X Factor. It's a shame, but history is history and most Brits can go a day without harking back to the good ole' days of stealing Johnny Foreigner's country - we have let go and moved on. Unfortunately the Hungarians are clinging on a little harder to their past glory.

Before 1914, Hungary was part of Austro-Hungary, a grand empire made up of bits of what is now Hungary, Austria, Slovakia, Slovenia, Czech Republic, Croatia Serbia and Romania. For hundreds of years the Austrian Hapsburgs ruled this massive kingdom from Vienna, sort of telling the Hungarians what's what. Fair enough, Hungary is a little fish in a big pond and needs a friend like the Austrians. All was going swimmingly.

Then all us Europeans got fed up with playing nice and decided to have a really really nasty war. And the Austro-Hungarians lost. Now, the Allies were a teeny tiny bit miffed about the whole thing, so in 1920 in Versailles the French split up the mighty empire at the Treaty of Trianon, and the Hungarians lost out big time - two thirds of their lands were given away. This was not good for Hungarians, some of whom suddenly woke up in 1921 to find they lived in Romania, or Yugoslavia or Czechoslovakia. It wasn't nice, but it happened.

Fast-forward 87 years. Most people who were initially affected by said break-up are, if not very nearly dead, very actually dead. Land that was Hungary hasn't been for quite a while, and although many Hungarians live in these other countries now, it's been this way for long enough so as everyone should have got used to it, right? Oh no, no, no, no. They are still very pissed off with the whole thing.

Look at a map of Hungary. Quite a small country, surrounded by seven other European nations. That's not what Hungarians see. They still see the empire that they lost, the huge mass that ceased to be nearly 100 years ago and they are not happy. They talk about it EVERY day, they argue about it EVERY day and they are throughly pissed off about it EVERY day. And not just the octogenarians who still wear their war uniforms and speak with a slightly suspicious German accent - the kids have a problem with Trianon too. I have student wearing t-shirts to class with the map of the empire, students who are too young to shave have beef with a 87 year old treaty.

Every map in the school is old Hungary, every tourist map is old Hungary, every souvenir boasts old Hungary. Hungarians still look at the lost land as Hungary. See how far you get by calling Bratislava Bratislava, or Kosice Kosice. No, they are the 'new' names that are just crude replacements. 87 years new.

Now us Brits had it all and some around the same time. We got in our boats, loaded our rifles and took what was not rightfully ours. And we didn't stop; we literally went all the way round the world telling poor natives here on in we were the boss. One third of the globe was British for a bally long time. Now what do we have? Malta and Gibraltar. Rule Britannia indeed. 

And do we complain? Do we pine for the Empire? No, we just crack open another beer, turn Simon Cowell up and shout abuse at the TV.

The Hungarians need to wake up and smell the cheap sausage. It's gone and it's not coming back. Ever. If they want to move on as a nation, they need to stop with the t-shirts and the stupid maps and thank themselves lucky they only lost a bit of one continent, not five of them.

Still pissed, 87 years on.

living in the middle of nowhere

I live in the middle of nowhere. Literally the middle of nowhere. Right in the middle, slap bang in the dead centre of nothing.

Let me try and illustrate with some wordsmithery. Szerencs (ser-rench) is about 200km from Budapest. Hungary is quite unique in that so much of it's population is congregated in it's capital, one in five roughly, so no one is here, they are all there. We are also 100km from Debrecen, the next biggest city, with 200,000 people. Between there and here are hills, fields, villages, stray dogs, run down communist factories and the litter of gypsies. That's it. 

I have never dared walk out of civilisation yet - I fear the Hungarian wilds. Walk for 20 minutes north of Szerencs to Szerencs Ond, the nearest village, and the path stops. It just stops dead and all you can see is fields and old people walking round with firewood tied to their backs. I haven't dared to venture that far south as I'm convinced the path peters off down there too and that will depress me too much. I am also not brave enough to step beyond the petering path as I would probably just appear at the end of the other path, like a real life freaky episode of The Twilight Zone.

The town also shuts at about 4pm. That means in winter, for 16 hours a day, most of the town is in pitch-black darkness. Grim, enveloping darkness. It's OK, I'm getting a good 12 hours sleep a night now - thanks to Szerencs I have the sleep pattern akin to a particularly lazy new born child or an 85 year old asthmatic whose family never calls. I also have rickets thanks to a lack of sunlight. Living in Szerencs in the winter is like living in sack. But colder.

But not that cold - it's not quite the winter I was promised. I was told tales of piles of snow, -15C, jaunty sleigh rides and carol singers. I have the occasional snow bluster and chilly wind. It's colder than England for sure, but just a slightly irritatingly colder.

Oh yeah, and the old ladies. They are everywhere, like Hitchcock's birds, and they all have their beady old eyes on me. My girlfriend cannot do wrong, she is cooed at and stroked when she walks past. I get the grimacing gurn when I walk past, followed by some hushed Hungarian. And don't be fooled, these old witches are in control round here. So, inadvertently, I seem to have made enemies with the Szerencs mafia.

I shouldn't complain though, there are worse places to live. Baghdad, for example, is a terrible place to live. I joke - I get lots of exercise, fresh air and have yet to meet someone as obnoxious as a Londoner on my travels. I just wish I knew what the old ladies had against me.

ski saturday

I have never, before today, skied. It's not my bag - I don't quite know what my bag is, but skiing has never been it. Skiing is for families that can afford skiing holidays. My family holidays were always more 'caravan - centric' than those on the piste; picnics on drab beaches, donkey rides, vomit-reeking cabaret halls, that sort of thing. So when I was given the chance to try skiing, Slovakian style, I thought it was about time to strap on my skis and get going.

To begin with, it was a bit chilly.  An arse-clenching, -10C chilly. Also, I was dangerously underdressed for the occasion. I'm from England, an extra sweater is all you ever need. It's cold? Oh, put on an extra sweater. So there we are: a few hundred trendy looking Slovaks decked out with the latest in sub-zero ski wear zipping about, and me in an extra sweater. Oh, and women's long johns (the local cheapo clothes shop didn't stretch to real men's thermal underwear). Undeterred, I took a deep breath, shivered a bit, and took my first step into the skiing world.

We found the ski school and booked an hour with an instructor. A really suave attractive, chiseled chin, eyes-you-could-get-lost-in instructor. He didn't fall on his arse once the whole time. Well, he did, but only to show the spread-eagled spaz (me) how to stand up again. To be fair to the spread-eagled spaz, I only fell on my arse a few times. And over an hour, that's like 0.2 embarrasing moments a minute. I would show Mr Impossibly Attractive who was the best skiing guy.

I didn't show him. I barely mastered going down a baby slope quite slowly without looking too ridiculous. He had just came back from skiing in the Alps and could probably ski down avalanches. And I bet he was wearing proper men's underwear.

By the end of the lesson, after a few up and downs on the baby slope I was feeling pretty good. I could technically ski, I hadn't fallen over that much and only three of my toes and one of my fingers were numb. Afterwards, we went to the cafe and got ourselves a hot wine and some lángos (bread and garlicy sauce) to celebrate. My girlfriend admitted although Mr Ski Man was dashing, dynamic and super cool, she had made the right life choices. I wiped the mayonnaise off my chin and jacket and agreed with her.

love is in the air in 8th grade Hungary

Today being Valentine's Day, I decided to ask my 8th grade class to come up with some love poetry based on the 'Roses are Red....' formula.  I expected them to be able to rhyme 'blue' and 'you' and 'too' and maybe, if they are feeling a little naughty, even 'poo'. 

After a few decent attempts from some of the smarter pupils, this then followed from a self-confessed bad-ass rapper from the ghetto (Ritchie, 12 years old), verbatim:

The pussy is red,

The cock is blue,

Today's the day for f*cking,

So I want to f*ck you.

No more poetry for the 8th grade, methinks. Next week I'm getting them exorcised.

I'll start with the muffins

This is my first ever blog. I am now a blogger.

This is yet another time in my life when I have begun to do something that I have venomously berated at a previous time. Harry Potter novels, travelling beyond South East England, cooking, David Bowie, listening to podcasts - all these things have felt my wrath at some point, but all these things have become a part of my life. I think the word is hypocrisy. 

I am a blogger. I am a hypocrite.

So why do I change my tune like the weather? Well because I am constantly, irritatingly, proved wrong. Potter, although a book for kids, it's an awesomely entertaining book for kids. Cooking is full of skill and joy and is sometimes the highlight of my day (I think I once referred to chefs as 'twats who just heat stuff up'). Travelling beyond England has been the best thing I have ever done and listening to Bowie is akin to dripping psychedelic honey in one's ears. So I thought I would, for the millionth time in my life, swallow my pride, and blog.

Also, I have spent the last two years being paid to write what other people tell me to write about, so it's about time I write what I want to write about. True, I won't get paid as handsomely, and I will have a lot smaller readership, but least I can use words like 'psychedelic honey' instead of 'repossession figures' or 'standard variable rate'.

So I will blog. I am now a blogger.

If you didn't know, I am currently living in North East Hungary, 1500km from home, 200km from Budapest, 400m from a gypsy camp, 340m from a post-communist sewage processing plant and 7m from about a dozen geese and a cockerel. So I will blog about my time in Hungary, the trials, the tribulations and the muffins.

I love cooking muffins. It is my passion, it is my joy. Like everyone else, I always enjoyed a muffin of an afternoon, maybe with a big cup of coffee or hot chocolate. But now, oh now it's not just a passing fancy. I think about my own muffins every day. I think of extra ingredients, I think of cooking times and most of all I think of the warm fuzzy feeling I get as I take that first bite. It's like crack, just with more calories.

Cooking muffins is one of the many ways I have changed and have grown. I miss my home, I miss my friends but I have shed a lot of unnecessary things that I previously held dear. So to fill the hole I have begun to cook, I read constantly and I actually enjoy a lot more things now. 

So i will write about my new experiences. I have a lot to tell after six months here, but I will try and fit it all in. Anyway my cinnamon muffins are done.