Child-free zones

And the verdict doesn't love our soul,

The digital won't let me go ..

BBC News story: "Should there be child-free zones on planes and trains?"

Either someone at the BBC is doing a fine job of taking the piss, or WestJet airlines has an ethically questionable board of directors.

Click for full size.

 - EDIT, 6.14 p.m. - 
Oh man. This just gets better and better.

The first serious post in ages

Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread,

And so I come to you my love,

My heart above my head ..

I've recently nabbed a place on a CELTA course, which, if I pass, will give me a well recognised qualification as a teacher of English to foreign learners. The travel and general experience prospects of the CELTA are second to none, but of late, my rational foresight has been throwing around a lot of worries and second guessing.

It begins when I take the base monetary concerns into consideration; even with the assistance of a (not yet guaranteed) grant from the British Council, the CELTA won't be cheap. £1100 for 4 weeks. Even with a kind member of my family offering to pay the rest of the lion's share, it is still a ridiculously sized carcass on which the lion dines. Let's say I do qualify for the British Council grant. Even with that sizeable portion checked off, the remaining figure is still a mountain of agony that someone's going to have to take on. 

It's difficult to take solace at this stage; the old counterpoints to my pangs of uncertainty aren't really cooing me to acceptance any more. This is mostly a side-effect of the practical worthlessness of my current skill sets. The only answer that seems to exist is "If not this, then what?", as though settling for what's obvious now seems the only viable option. 

Honestly I'm not sure what I'm cut out for in terms of career and/or higher education. Surely, one would say, if languages and teaching are an area of true proficiency, then surely I should just do the CELTA, therefore striving for the best that's on offer? This would be a sure-fire option if languages and teaching were indeed my areas of proficiency. I can't help but feel that my carefree year in Germany, during which we were all deemed to be 'good' teachers, has given me only a set of rose-tinted glasses through which I see my future in teaching.

Certainly the technical and practical prowess that I would absorb on the CELTA would be more beneficial than anything I learnt in Germany. Of that there is very little doubt, and it would definitely be a stepping stone towards becoming a similar teacher in reality to the one that I became in my mind. But does my lack of area-specific skill at the outset mean I am pursuing something with no future marketability? And at an incredible expense to others, no less? I remember having similar mental sparring matches with myself when I was considering university, except this time round, the post-uni mentality just seems to amplify the intensity of this inner struggle by a huge amount.

The other main point in all this is that, frankly, CELTA will provide a future that I know (or at least strongly suspect) I will be interested in and gain enjoyment from, whatever my ability may be. The course offers an intensive degree of training, both theoretical and practical, ultimately offering a fantastic and internationally recognised level of competency. And I want it. 

Something at the back of my mind screams at me to look at TEFL courses - less intensive, much less expensive - but another part of me implores me to go the whole way. Seeing and hearing about the contrast between the two courses is one of the few points of light beaming from the CELTA that swings me in it's favour. The idea of elevating myself to being more masterful in my teaching abilities, beyond earning pieces of paper with my name on them, is the only thing that really eases the knots that have been tied at Gordian levels within my psyche.

This isn't me shitting on TEFL courses or any other kind of elitist dickhead notion; rather, this is me putting into perspective what it is the TEFL lacks and that which I want.

So to conclude, I wonder once again if this is ultimately a fruitless path, based on short-sighted justification? Regardless of my desire to improve myself, I feel I'm looking into some kind of future-defining abyss, with no light of reference to shine across. I'm at a position where either I make camp in familiar territory, which would wear depressingly thin in a very short amount of time, or I set out into possible failure, at the financial expense of someone else, with a distant chance of commendable success. There is no answer, nor reasonably should there be, and this is tearing me to shreds inside.

Uhh.

Joke of the week

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free,

I wish I could break all the chains holding me ..

Here's your funny fix for this week. This one destroyed me.

___________

A mother and her 4 year old daughter are driving in their car behind a bin-lorry. As it goes over a bump, a dildo flies out of the back of the truck and bounces off the window of the car.

"What was that mummy?" Asks the little girl.

Embarrassed, and to save her daughter's innocence, the mother replies "Oh don't worry, it was just an insect."

"Oh" says the little girl, "I'm surprised it could get off the ground with a cock like that"

Homophobia

I can see you ahead of me,

But I'm not always forward thinking,

I'll tell you what you want to hear,

It depends on what I've been drinking ..

When I was in Leeds, I once overheard a conversation in a pub between the woman behind the bar, an older male customer she knew, and a girl who knew neither of them. The guy must have complimented the girl in some way, said she looked very athletic or something, because I heard her say that she appreciated the compliment, but that she never worked out. They had a brief chat and she left.

When she's gone, the barwoman leans over and says to the bloke "I'm really glad you said something. I was going to comment on her body too but I didn't want her to think I was coming on to her". And the older gent sips his pint and says "Yeah, well. You can't be too careful these days."

I liked that. These days. As if somehow you'd be forgiven for thinking gay people only got to Leeds not too long ago.

So they chat a little bit more, then the barlady lets out a little laugh and a long sigh and says "God, I'm so homophobic". But it was the way she said it, in a way that I wish I could replicate for you here. It wasn't remotely nasty or negative. It was the same tone you might use if you'd had a long day at work, sighed and said "God, I'm so tired".

Anyway, it made me laugh.

I mention this anecdote because the subject matter has the vaguest of tie-ins with the main part of this post

I saw a thing recently about some ancient scroll which has been discovered which supposedly proved that Jesus had a wife. The BBC news article mentioned something about how this, if true, could call the idea of celibacy and the role of women within Christianity into question. Because, according to Christianity, Jesus never married.

Regardless of whether or not its true, I wonder why arguments like 'Jesus was never married' aren't thrown around as much during debates about the relationship  between  religion and gay people. I think the fact that Jesus was single for all of his 33 years adds some real substance to the theory that he was gay. I would dearly love for that to someday be proved the truth. Gay Jesus. He would become a global gay icon, and America would just consume itself.

But, as it stands now, homosexuality is just a spectacular cop-out answer for angry Christian fundamentalists. There was a programme on a few months back, following groups in the same vein as Westboro Baptist Church, just looking at their sermons and tenets and whatnot. And one of their fucktard preachers said - and I'm not kidding here - something very similar to "We live on an earth made up of water! The water surrounds us! But it does not fall out, because God is holding it in! But he will not hold it in forever, because of evils such as .." (pause) ".. homosexuality! Homosexuality is sin!"

So yeah, thanks a fucking bunch, homos! Your depravity is ruining our oceans! Gay guys - will you please repent and start having lady sex? The future of the planet is dependent on where you put your cock! Won't somebody please think of the whales?

Who is Gary?

When the sale comes first

And the truth comes second,

Just stop for a minute and smile ..

I had a dream last night that I won an Oscar for Best Picture for making the film "Up", and having to go up on stage to make a speech which I hadn't planned. And I remember the whole thing being horribly nerve-racking, except the stuff I came out with turned out to be really awesome and I got a standing ovation. 

I got a haircut the other day and lost a heck of a lot more hair than I intended to. It's not as if it looks terrible, but there was certainly more hair on the floor when it was over than I'd envisaged when I walked in. It was the usual cutter, a small Chinese lady with a Yorkshire accent that just doesn't fit somehow. I like her because she only spends the first 2 minutes doing 'hairdresser chat', and then just asks the usual questions. And I give her the usual "not too short mumble mumble don't fuck it up, yeah?"

So I've been showcasing my new hair today with Pip and Simon at Holmfirth food and drink festival, where I nearly bought a cider slushy, which might have been amazing, and ate a bratwurst, which was a massive disappointment. I did find some pub graffiti though.

Click for full size. I'm still not certain if it says 'suck' or 'fuck', but either way, Gary is a twat.

On the Wirral

If you're looking for love

In a looking glass world,

It's pretty hard to find ..

This is my long overdue post about my (not-so, anymore) recent trip to the Wirral. For those of you who haven't withstood prolonged, subjective bombardment of various Wirral facts and figures as I have, I'll fill you in: The Wirral is a peninsula between Liverpool and Wales, with the river Dee on the Welsh side and the Mersey on the other. Population of about 312,000, accent generally scouse-ish.

Having teased Kellie for as long as we can remember about the Wirral, I had no idea what to expect. It had gotten to the point where all our piss-taking stories of radioactive zones, mammoth hunts and the entrance being through the back of a wardrobe had begun to take precedence over the truth.

Just for the record, it's a pretty sweet place with plenty of decent highlights. It beats Huddersfield into submission in any case. Here are a few pictures of things we got up to. 

The beach. Supposedly the tide comes in and covers this area, meaning you have to time your walks carefully, but if I was the tide, I'd have got pretty knackered trying to do that at least once a day. It was essentially more of a desert than a beach, but it was a good walk and we got some nice views from the three little islands that are dotted around.

The Maize Maze. Retrospect indicates that we were probably too old for this attraction. 

However, still clinging by our worn fingertips to the idea that we're still students and that stuff like this (along with afternoon naps and Disney films) is therefore still acceptable, we paid the entrance fee and went in. And it was awesome.

This is me looking appropriately excited before and during our hour or two in the maze. I think the second photo was shortly before everyone else lost interest and I went back and finished the puzzle book all by myself. Because I am a big boy now.

This is our group at Liverpool Lime Street (minus Directions Girl, who's taking the picture), dressed to kill as per Sophie's instructions. I sensed at the time that strolling through the crowds of Liverpudlians wearing skinny jeans and a peaked cap increased the chances of getting the crap beaten out of me tenfold, but it was such a happy moment that it didn't really phase me.

Other noteworthy things:

• A seagull shat on me while we were eating ice cream.
• I accidentally groped Kellie's dog (debatable) and made it wear a hat, but not at the same time. 

• A scouse wedding photoshoot. Both the photographer and whoever chose the location for the shoot have a table in hell with a 'reserved' sign on it. I've not given any wedding of mine a great deal of thought, but if it ever happens, I'm gonna strive for photos of me and my lady that don't have the Holiday Inn and an All-you-can-eat Chinese buffet in the background.

• Scouse Macbeth. In which the fictional universes of Shakespeare and Hitman coincide.

• And a couple of end-of-the-world repentance preachers. 

I'd choose pleasures over God any day.

The only other thing that really struck me was the people. This was more the case for Liverpool than on the Wirral, but the amount of midriff on display on 14/15 year old girls was just untrue. There were also far too many girls wearing leggings as a viable alternative to trousers, in and among throngs of slutty looking, aged hen parties, who took what should have been sexy and made it grotesque and frightening. And this was before they'd even opened their mouths.

If not for my lovely friends, I would not have seen any attractive people.

...

Will this do for now, Kellie?

Your humiliation must be more severe.

Downtown,

Middle of the afternoon,

Sweet sound,

Everybody's on the move ..

I got out of the shower this evening and when I'd dried off and went to put my boxers back on, I wasn't really paying attention and accidentally put both legs through the same leg hole. Except I wasn't aware of this til I confidently yanked them up and began to walk at the same time, whereby my legs and bollocks got crushed together and I fell into my desk, all in one elegant movement.

I actually have nothing else to tell you until I get back from The Wirral on Sunday night, so here's a clip of Tom Hardy as Bane saying "Mr. Wayne" for 10 minutes.

When you've listened to it so many times that you can't bear it any more .. you have my permission to leave.

Decade.

'Cause everything is out there,

And there's no limits out there,

We could be reaching out for anything if we try enough ..

What are people thinking when they write stuff like "best film of the decade" in 2012? Surely logic dictates, for simplicity's sake, that decades should be identified as starting and ending in years divisible by ten? Otherwise, any film made in 2012 dubbed "best of decade" just starts to infringe on the previous ones. Can't we wait until 2020 before deciding which films were the best of this decade? Or at least throw in a cheeky "so far" at the end?

This is becoming some sort of trend. Browsing on various forums, I've seen numerous cases of people becoming more pedantic than it's worth when it comes to decade identification. The best example I recall was when someone said that 2010 marked the start of a new decade. Then some dickhead had piped up with something like 'no, because 2009 was only the ninth year of that decade. 2010 will be the last one.Why are you saying its a new decade when it's not?'

Historically the First Decade did only have 9 years, but anyone who calls upon this in an argument has probably never gotten over the fact that being the smartest kid in your class counts for jack-all in the real world. And, it's probably safe for us to re-jig the decade system as we see fit, since anyone who was alive in that first century is long since dead. 

With the possible exception of Jesus of course, but he's had over two thousand years to voice any concerns.

People like the Chinese probably don't have these sorts of arguments, namely because they've been playing with calendars and whatnot for more millennia than we have. It probably struck them as unimportant, in the face of thousands of years of history, to argue when a decade begins and ends purely so Westerners can work out which decade The Dark Knight Rises was the best in.

Their calendars probably got all screwed up anyway when we introduced the Gregorian calendar. In fact we're probably due for another calendar-changing tyrant any day soon, so don't get too attached.

And above all remember there will always be people like me in the world, willing to write inane entries about stuff you can find on the internet and deliver virtual karate chops to anyone who declares themself to be the arbiter and watchman of who delivers truth in the world. Ohhh yeahhhh.

Holiday planning and flying

Never believed that I'd ever find myself

Looking up to the upper hand

And loving every minute baby ..

I'm currently in the process of planning a weeks break in Germany for New Year 2013, marking the first time I'll have been back/spoken German in a practical capacity since I came back from Neuerburg in June last year. It feels like an absolute eternity ago so it'll be nice to be back, if only for a week. This time round though I'm aiming at East Germany and hitting up Berlin for the second time with these two gays.

The cheapest flights I can find are with Lufthansa. How nuts is that? I was secretly hoping we'd be flying with GermanWings, if not for their in-flight "happy picnic", then simply because you get to choose your plane seat when doing your online booking and grab the ones by the windows/exits before anyone else.

I remember there was always a disclaimer of sorts when you chose your seat online; something about not being pregnant or ill disabled if you chose a seat near an emergency exit. Of the twelve times or so that I've flown in my life, about half of them were right next to these exits. That was quite a bit of pressure, in retrospect. We all like to think we're gonna be nice and calm in those situations, but I'm fairly certain I'd shit myself and start crying.

In all fairness, there aren't a great many accounts of the person sitting in the emergency exit row really coming to the fore in such scenarios. I've yet to come across a news story that said "The plane and all 200 aboard were surely doomed, were it not for the quick thinking and sprightly actions of the lady in the rear-left emergency exit row".

It feels ages since I've flown. For some people it's always a cool experience, but the novelty has sadly started to wear off for me. I hate the process, too. Make sure your luggage fits. Don't set off the metal detector. Find a toothpaste tube you accidentally left in your hand luggage and have it binned in front of you. Pilots who can't tell you anything without going "uuhhhhhhhh" before they say it.

But having Berlin at the end of it all more than makes up for it. The only negative thing I remember about Berlin was a grumpy incompetent lady in Starbucks on Friedrichstraße. I can't even blame it on us speaking each others language badly, because 50% of it was in Italian and everything else was easy.

Macchiato venti mit caramel, bitch.

Weeing in strange ways.

Postcard from heaven,

Go to where you belong,

Never find the perfect situation

Until you know where you're from ..

There was a bloke at Huddersfield train station today who peed in an odd fashion. The freuqency with which I'm finding odd people in toilets of late is making me re-assess my threshold on 'odd' and making me wonder if it is in fact me who's the weird one. 

In today's example, I walked into the Gents and found a guy at the urinal-trough thing mid-pee. I immediately thought he seemed rather statue-esque, then I noticed he had his hands by his sides. He had his head turned to the right, slightly upwards. It was such a weird pose for a wee. It was as if he was scared of his cock. There was no penis guidance going on, what with his hands being by his sides and the positioning of his head made it look as if he'd just gone "Oh, the horror! I cannot bring myself to look!"

I used the cubicle.

Seeing that strange people in the bogs are becoming an exciting part of my routine, I feel I should join in, so as to share the experience with others. Not like this guy though. Next time I'm peeing, when other guys walk in, I'll be like, "Mate, check out my penis. It's weeing. Yup, been drinking a lot of the ol' water today, so, you know. Lot of trips to the toilet. Gotta pee it all out good style. Hey, where you going?"