It’s 9am and I’m feeling a little tired, which is not a great place to be when you haven’t started work yet. Thankfully coffee seems to have been invented for this sort of thing. However,. I’m a traditional Irishman, reared on eight cups of strong tea a day. So coffee is an alien concoction to me, as foreign as Tiramisu and Falafel. I was sixteen years old before I tasted a cup of Brazil’s finest. My brother, who liked to think of himself as a debonair peacock among the dull grey pigeons of 1980’s Ireland, had purchased a jar of Maxwell House (which I later discovered is the Old Spice of the coffee world) and laid down an instruction to my poor beleaguered Mother that she was to deliver a cup of the said product with a dash of milk and two spoons of sugar to him each morning.
My Mother, as was her way, told him to take a very long walk off a very short pier and so the jar stayed in our cupboard for eternity, alongside the other unused products such as curry powder and soda stream concentrate.
I came in late one night from my high paying job collecting glasses in the local pub and decided to test out the strange elixir in the cupboard. All my TV heroes, for example, were coffee drinkers and even the posh kids at school would come in with stories about whipped cream extravagances that went on in their big houses on the hill. The result was the worst thing I had tasted since I mistook our Dog’s abolitions for a Mars Bar when I was four. Then I remembered that I’d had the same reaction when I first drank beer and that perseverance paid off in that regard.
So I have been an occasional coffee drinker ever since, although I still struggle to tell the difference between a flat white and a skinny latte (except that the latte is clearly made with milk extracted from skinny cows) and the much maligned Maxwell House tastes the same to me as freshly ground premium blend.
Melbourne thinks it has the best coffee in the world so it would be remiss of me not to try it out. I’ve started cycling to work a few days each week and when I do so; I reward myself with a latte and muffin from the little cafe at the base of our building. Li works the coffee machine there like a steam locomotive driver in the19th Century and knows me by name now which suggests that I eat a lot more muffins than I’d care to admit.
She has taken to leaving a little slice of cake on the lid of my cup, which I’ve noticed she only does for special customers and people who by their shape suggest that they really, really like cake. I’m not sure which category I fall into but I like to think that I’m in the special customer club. Some shops do loyalty cards. This one does little cakes and I know which I prefer.
My muffin choice is dependent on my healthy food intake for that week. I like to comply with Victorian State Government recommendations and consume 5 portions of fruit and veg each day. If I’m struggling, I supplement my diet with an apple or blueberry muffin. If I’ve done well, by perhaps consuming some pear cider or strawberry ice-cream, I’ll reward myself with a chocolate muffin, safe in the knowledge that I have dodged the food police for another week.
When I leave Li’s café, I have a choice of turning left or right. The distance back to my desk is the same both ways, but the right hand side is busier and you are more likely to bump into someone than if you turn left.
Normally at this point, both hands are busy with carrying duties, so I nibble the small slice of cake on the top of the cup like an oversized mouse. It’s not a sight I am keen to share with the general public, so I normally take the quiet route.
This morning however, I was a little sleepy and turned right without thinking. I had hardly walked two meters before I was stopped by a recruitment consultant of limited acquaintance. During the boom years, these people were matched only by Estate Agents and Bank Executives in the ease with which they made money. Now they sweep the streets where broken dreams are thrown. It’s humbling to watch them working for a living for a change. But I work in a bank, so perhaps I shouldn’t throw stones.
Their sales technique is overwhelming however. They want to be your best friend, which is an uncomfortable feeling for us accountants, who take years to trust somebody enough to look up from our shoes. She spent ten minutes telling me how well I looked, how business was booming and how she had a fantastic candidate that she was saving just for me.
The cup was slowly burning into the palm of my hand to the point where I felt that skin was about to come off. So I mumbled my excuses and left. As I ascended in the lift I thought about all those options we are faced with in life. All those figurative forks in yellow woods that we come across. How different would our lives be now if we’d turned right out of the disco toilets back in 1985 and not left? Turning left meant bumping into that girl who ended up breaking your heart, who made you leave town and move abroad where you ended up winning the local lottery and being hit by a bus as you crossed the road to collect the cheque.
Life is all about choices. As a Woody Allen character once said “We define ourselves by the choices we have made”. But I don’t think there is any point getting caught up in it. That’s just the way life is. But I will give you some advice. Always choose the busier path; there are more interesting things to be found there. But choose the quieter path if you want your coffee to be warm when you get back to your desk.
Monday, 28 September 2009
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Thursday Morning Coming Down
To paraphrase Johnny Cash, "I woke up Thursday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt". Drinking on school nights is a practice that should be restricted to students and the unemployed. They have the energy to keep going and the opportunity to sleep in the next day. Bankers of a certain age have no such advantage and I'm paying the sorry price for that now. Twenty four hours ago, the beer was flowing and the craic was mighty. I gave no thought to getting up for work the next day and neither did my drinking buddies. We were just intent on proving that the Global Financial Crisis wasn't going to stop us from partying.
We were entertaining a visitor from Singapore and trying to prove that Melbourne has a midweek nightlife. In practice, that proved tougher than finding a bacon buttie in Tel Aviv on Yon Kippur.
But there were ten of us and that tends to create its own dynamic. All boys are competitive, except at different things. Some like to show their alpha maleness by reaching the pinnacle of their profession. Others prove themselves through sport or by hooking up with supermodels. God decided that my killer instinct is invoked whenever I’m drinking beer in company.
People who know me are aware that I like a beer. In fact some have commented that I am one of the few people in life who consider beer more important than oxygen and one ex girlfriend cruelly described me as a not particularly complicated biological machine for turning beer into urine. It may come as a shock to these people that I can happily go weeks without touching the amber nectar. But put me in a situation where other men are drinking and I turn into Michael Schumacher. I can’t help myself; I have to drink faster and longer than anyone else in a desperate attempt to prove my manliness.
That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. I didn’t get hammered on Wednesday night because I’m immature and reckless. My DNA made me do it.
I have my alarm set up to turn on the radio each morning and I'm usually met by the soothing tones of Red Symons on ABC, who jokes his way through the news and eases listeners into the day. As luck would have it, when the alarm kicked off this morning, Red had moved to a story about the Italian Film festival and I was woken to the sounds of machine gun fire and piercing screams.
I groped manically for the snooze button and desperately tried to get a grip on reality. My mouth was as dry as a Quaker’s wake and my tongue felt like it had been ripped out in the middle of the night and replaced with one that didn’t quite fit.
The act of showering and dressing took longer than normal and I knew something was really up when I sat down for my daily bowl of cornflakes and found that I was eating them individually.
It was 9am before I was ready to meet the day and I stumbled down the road to the tram stop. The 96 tram goes through a metamorphosis at 9am. Before that point, it is full of sleepy commuters heading into their office jobs in the City. It’s usually packed and dominated by Ipod wearing, Aravind Adiga readers.
They are safely tucked up at their desks by 9am and at that point the tram is taken over by a bohemian mix that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Trainspotting. The first to board are the tramps who sleep rough around Acland Street and have just been rudely woken by shopkeepers who take exception to them kipping in their doorways. A comfortable seat on the tram is clearly the best way they can find to ease themselves into the day. Unfortunately, they have a fairly random acquaintance with hygiene and trams are a pretty enclosed space. So my liberal sympathies are very quickly overtaken by a need to protect the volatile contents of my stomach.
So I make my way to the front of the tram and bury myself in a book. Two stops later and we’re on Fitzroy Street, home to fast food restaurants and hostels that cater for drug addicts and the generally bewildered. The wind was strong and several emaciated figures were huddled in the small shelter. That was exactly where the front door of the tram stopped and pretty quickly I was surrounded by six twitching junkies with dark sunken eyes hidden behind sunglasses and skin like old boot leather.
I was feeling pretty judgmental, particularly as none of them bothered to buy a ticket. I’m guessing that they were on their way to the City to engage in financial transactions involving illegal drugs and shop lifting. Strange how you become a right wing scare monger when you have a hangover!
The only other passengers on the tram were a motley crew who had boarded at St Kilda Junction. They were dressed in similar fashion to the junkies but looked healthy and out of place in their clothes. I had seen groups like this before but in my hungover state, it took me a few moments to place them. They were plain clothes ticket inspectors sent in swarms to catch the 90% of passengers who don’t buy a ticket. The tramps and junkies had beaten me to it however. In the few seconds it took my addled brain to work all this out, they had jumped off the tram like ghostly pirates and disappeared into the nearby park.
I flashed my ticket at the inspectors and huddled more tightly in the seat. The click clackety click of the metal wheels rebounded in my head as though somebody was smacking my eyeballs with a hammer from the inside. A smell of stale body odour and year old chewing gum hung round the tram and attacked my senses with every intake of breath. I got off three stops early to breathe in some air and to find a café selling oversized sausage rolls.
Johnny Cash had the right idea. If you’re going to wake up feeling like this, it’s best to do it on a Sunday morning when you can crawl back into bed and at least be comfortable when you lie to yourself about how you are never, ever, ever drinking again.
We were entertaining a visitor from Singapore and trying to prove that Melbourne has a midweek nightlife. In practice, that proved tougher than finding a bacon buttie in Tel Aviv on Yon Kippur.
But there were ten of us and that tends to create its own dynamic. All boys are competitive, except at different things. Some like to show their alpha maleness by reaching the pinnacle of their profession. Others prove themselves through sport or by hooking up with supermodels. God decided that my killer instinct is invoked whenever I’m drinking beer in company.
People who know me are aware that I like a beer. In fact some have commented that I am one of the few people in life who consider beer more important than oxygen and one ex girlfriend cruelly described me as a not particularly complicated biological machine for turning beer into urine. It may come as a shock to these people that I can happily go weeks without touching the amber nectar. But put me in a situation where other men are drinking and I turn into Michael Schumacher. I can’t help myself; I have to drink faster and longer than anyone else in a desperate attempt to prove my manliness.
That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. I didn’t get hammered on Wednesday night because I’m immature and reckless. My DNA made me do it.
I have my alarm set up to turn on the radio each morning and I'm usually met by the soothing tones of Red Symons on ABC, who jokes his way through the news and eases listeners into the day. As luck would have it, when the alarm kicked off this morning, Red had moved to a story about the Italian Film festival and I was woken to the sounds of machine gun fire and piercing screams.
I groped manically for the snooze button and desperately tried to get a grip on reality. My mouth was as dry as a Quaker’s wake and my tongue felt like it had been ripped out in the middle of the night and replaced with one that didn’t quite fit.
The act of showering and dressing took longer than normal and I knew something was really up when I sat down for my daily bowl of cornflakes and found that I was eating them individually.
It was 9am before I was ready to meet the day and I stumbled down the road to the tram stop. The 96 tram goes through a metamorphosis at 9am. Before that point, it is full of sleepy commuters heading into their office jobs in the City. It’s usually packed and dominated by Ipod wearing, Aravind Adiga readers.
They are safely tucked up at their desks by 9am and at that point the tram is taken over by a bohemian mix that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Trainspotting. The first to board are the tramps who sleep rough around Acland Street and have just been rudely woken by shopkeepers who take exception to them kipping in their doorways. A comfortable seat on the tram is clearly the best way they can find to ease themselves into the day. Unfortunately, they have a fairly random acquaintance with hygiene and trams are a pretty enclosed space. So my liberal sympathies are very quickly overtaken by a need to protect the volatile contents of my stomach.
So I make my way to the front of the tram and bury myself in a book. Two stops later and we’re on Fitzroy Street, home to fast food restaurants and hostels that cater for drug addicts and the generally bewildered. The wind was strong and several emaciated figures were huddled in the small shelter. That was exactly where the front door of the tram stopped and pretty quickly I was surrounded by six twitching junkies with dark sunken eyes hidden behind sunglasses and skin like old boot leather.
I was feeling pretty judgmental, particularly as none of them bothered to buy a ticket. I’m guessing that they were on their way to the City to engage in financial transactions involving illegal drugs and shop lifting. Strange how you become a right wing scare monger when you have a hangover!
The only other passengers on the tram were a motley crew who had boarded at St Kilda Junction. They were dressed in similar fashion to the junkies but looked healthy and out of place in their clothes. I had seen groups like this before but in my hungover state, it took me a few moments to place them. They were plain clothes ticket inspectors sent in swarms to catch the 90% of passengers who don’t buy a ticket. The tramps and junkies had beaten me to it however. In the few seconds it took my addled brain to work all this out, they had jumped off the tram like ghostly pirates and disappeared into the nearby park.
I flashed my ticket at the inspectors and huddled more tightly in the seat. The click clackety click of the metal wheels rebounded in my head as though somebody was smacking my eyeballs with a hammer from the inside. A smell of stale body odour and year old chewing gum hung round the tram and attacked my senses with every intake of breath. I got off three stops early to breathe in some air and to find a café selling oversized sausage rolls.
Johnny Cash had the right idea. If you’re going to wake up feeling like this, it’s best to do it on a Sunday morning when you can crawl back into bed and at least be comfortable when you lie to yourself about how you are never, ever, ever drinking again.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
The Written Test
It’s 8.30am on a Saturday morning and I’m sitting in the plaza ballroom of the Brisbane Exhibition Centre. And I’m bored. They took our mobile phones and IPods from us at reception and the test I’m here for doesn’t start until 9am. So I’m alone with my thoughts and about 300 Chinese and Indian people. Like me, they are here to sit a written English exam for residency purposes and to judge by their expressions they are equally at a loss to know what to do without electronic gadgets.
It wasn’t like that when I last sat an exam, which was back in the long hot summer of 1987. That was held in the Industrial Hall of the Royal Dublin Society which was like an oven on the day I sat my Financial Accounting test. At 1pm that day, I finished eighteen years of education and did what any Irishman would do in that situation. I went to the pub. This wasn’t necessarily a good idea. The exams came at the end of six weeks study leave during which time, I had hardly eaten, slept or washed. So after two pints in the Horseshoe Inn in Ballsbridge, I was floating on air. Ten hours and many pints later, I stumbled into Wanderers Rugby Club which held a disco on Friday nights, for the purposes of introducing nurses to young trainee accountants like me.
Unfortunately, on that Friday night, I was in more need of medical care from those nurses than loving. Somewhere around midnight, I stumbled into the toilets for a quick evacuation of my stomach and somehow managed to lose my glasses. Luckily, through the benefit of alcohol, I didn’t notice I was blind until the middle of the following day. I have only one other memory of that weekend. On the Saturday night, I went to see Elton John in an outdoor concert and couldn’t see a thing. Which was quite an achievement considering the clothes he was wearing.
I’m all grown up now of course and as I sat waiting for the exam to start in Brisbane, all I was dreaming of was a nice latte at the end of the test. I glanced around the hall and marvelled at the geographic spread of the students. For some reason it brought me back to a geography exam I sat in school. I sat beside a particular idiot who stared mournfully at his paper for an hour before nudging me.
“Why did Copenhagen become the biggest City in Denmark?” he asked. I was deep in contemplation at the time on the weightier matter of South American weather systems but I felt sorry for the poor guy as he looked like he lacked the geographical knowledge to find the toilet during the break.
“Because it’s a Port” I said, feeling that this was a suitable titbit to offer and would shut him up.
He gave me a conspirator’s wink and wrote in barely legible type, “Because it’s imported”.
I felt a mixture of annoyance and guilt, so I leant across and repeated my instruction. He nodded and put a line through his first attempt before writing “Because it’s exported”.
I sighed and decided to leave him to his ignorance. He’s probably an economic advisor to one of the Irish Banks now.
Finally the Brisbane test was about to start. The question and answer booklets were handed out but a rather angry English woman stood at the top of the hall and warned us under pain of death that we weren’t allowed to turn the papers over until she said so. She was paranoid about cheating and seemed to be under the impression that students had hidden answers in the toilet cisterns because she issued a severe warning that after the exam started anyone feeling a call of nature would have to cross their legs for three hours.
She spent the next ten minutes explaining how to complete the personal information section at the front of the answer sheet. One of the questions was “Male or female” which left her slightly flummoxed. Her headmistress persona was temporarily dented as she searched for the correct instruction. In the end she said “You can choose either one”. Everyone in the room laughed which was enough proof for me that they understood English and we should have just packed up and gone for a coffee. But it just made her angrier. She slammed her hand on the lectern and stared menacingly. I don’t know about the Chinese and Indians, but I was reminded of a particularly nasty Mother Superior and had the good sense to shut up and get back to my paper.
The exam itself was tougher than I expected. Having to write with a pen was a challenge. We have become so used to typing and texting that very few of us use pens any more apart from completing Sudoku puzzles. Spell check has also made me lazy and I found myself not using particular words because I lacked the confidence to spell them.
The first part of the test was about listening, a subject that all my ex girlfriends would grade me as an F. You had to interpret what was being said and answer questions on the hoof. This meant doing two things at once, which being a man, presented problems. After that, we had an hour of comprehension, which is harder to spell than it is to sit. We finished by having to write an essay on the subject of “Success in later life is determined by your parents. Discuss”.
I could see the finishing post and let fly with gusto. Nature versus nurture got a mention before I felt the need to lighten things up a little. So I mentioned my mother and how she bought me my first pair of glasses. That allowed me to study and to land the big jobs that have taken me all over the world. Those glasses not sit somewhere within the sewage system of Wanderers Rugby Club in Dublin. But they did their job Mam. Thanks for that and for teaching me how to speak English in the first place.
It wasn’t like that when I last sat an exam, which was back in the long hot summer of 1987. That was held in the Industrial Hall of the Royal Dublin Society which was like an oven on the day I sat my Financial Accounting test. At 1pm that day, I finished eighteen years of education and did what any Irishman would do in that situation. I went to the pub. This wasn’t necessarily a good idea. The exams came at the end of six weeks study leave during which time, I had hardly eaten, slept or washed. So after two pints in the Horseshoe Inn in Ballsbridge, I was floating on air. Ten hours and many pints later, I stumbled into Wanderers Rugby Club which held a disco on Friday nights, for the purposes of introducing nurses to young trainee accountants like me.
Unfortunately, on that Friday night, I was in more need of medical care from those nurses than loving. Somewhere around midnight, I stumbled into the toilets for a quick evacuation of my stomach and somehow managed to lose my glasses. Luckily, through the benefit of alcohol, I didn’t notice I was blind until the middle of the following day. I have only one other memory of that weekend. On the Saturday night, I went to see Elton John in an outdoor concert and couldn’t see a thing. Which was quite an achievement considering the clothes he was wearing.
I’m all grown up now of course and as I sat waiting for the exam to start in Brisbane, all I was dreaming of was a nice latte at the end of the test. I glanced around the hall and marvelled at the geographic spread of the students. For some reason it brought me back to a geography exam I sat in school. I sat beside a particular idiot who stared mournfully at his paper for an hour before nudging me.
“Why did Copenhagen become the biggest City in Denmark?” he asked. I was deep in contemplation at the time on the weightier matter of South American weather systems but I felt sorry for the poor guy as he looked like he lacked the geographical knowledge to find the toilet during the break.
“Because it’s a Port” I said, feeling that this was a suitable titbit to offer and would shut him up.
He gave me a conspirator’s wink and wrote in barely legible type, “Because it’s imported”.
I felt a mixture of annoyance and guilt, so I leant across and repeated my instruction. He nodded and put a line through his first attempt before writing “Because it’s exported”.
I sighed and decided to leave him to his ignorance. He’s probably an economic advisor to one of the Irish Banks now.
Finally the Brisbane test was about to start. The question and answer booklets were handed out but a rather angry English woman stood at the top of the hall and warned us under pain of death that we weren’t allowed to turn the papers over until she said so. She was paranoid about cheating and seemed to be under the impression that students had hidden answers in the toilet cisterns because she issued a severe warning that after the exam started anyone feeling a call of nature would have to cross their legs for three hours.
She spent the next ten minutes explaining how to complete the personal information section at the front of the answer sheet. One of the questions was “Male or female” which left her slightly flummoxed. Her headmistress persona was temporarily dented as she searched for the correct instruction. In the end she said “You can choose either one”. Everyone in the room laughed which was enough proof for me that they understood English and we should have just packed up and gone for a coffee. But it just made her angrier. She slammed her hand on the lectern and stared menacingly. I don’t know about the Chinese and Indians, but I was reminded of a particularly nasty Mother Superior and had the good sense to shut up and get back to my paper.
The exam itself was tougher than I expected. Having to write with a pen was a challenge. We have become so used to typing and texting that very few of us use pens any more apart from completing Sudoku puzzles. Spell check has also made me lazy and I found myself not using particular words because I lacked the confidence to spell them.
The first part of the test was about listening, a subject that all my ex girlfriends would grade me as an F. You had to interpret what was being said and answer questions on the hoof. This meant doing two things at once, which being a man, presented problems. After that, we had an hour of comprehension, which is harder to spell than it is to sit. We finished by having to write an essay on the subject of “Success in later life is determined by your parents. Discuss”.
I could see the finishing post and let fly with gusto. Nature versus nurture got a mention before I felt the need to lighten things up a little. So I mentioned my mother and how she bought me my first pair of glasses. That allowed me to study and to land the big jobs that have taken me all over the world. Those glasses not sit somewhere within the sewage system of Wanderers Rugby Club in Dublin. But they did their job Mam. Thanks for that and for teaching me how to speak English in the first place.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
The Speaking Test
Australians have a habit of asking me to explain Irish history, so I’ve boiled it down to two sentences. For 6,000 years we were happy, built lots of monuments and spread Christianity to Europe. And then the English invaded.
But living over here has made me revaluate this. I knew something was up when I found myself instinctively supporting England in the Ashes series and searching the TV Guide to see when the History of Britain was on.
Last week I flew to Brisbane to sit a twenty minute English test, the craziness of which I’ll get to later. I had an hour to kill at the airport and found myself flicking through the $5 bin in the DVD store. I came across Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” and was reminded of that scene where the People’s Front of Judea is discussing “what have the Romans ever done for us”. The thought struck me that if I asked the same question of myself with regard to the English; I’d probably end up with the similar results as the Judeans.
Apart from the roads, railways, canals, legal system, universities and soccer, what have the English ever done for us? Well, I’d add one thing to that list. Language. The English came to Ireland and forced their language upon us. And being the good natured people we are, we gave it back in a better condition than we received it. Thankfully, the perfidious Brits then went and invaded half the world and forced their language on the poor natives they found there. And that’s why we Irish can emigrate to lots of places and have our tongue tied mumblings understood.
I’m in the throes of applying for Permanent Residency in Australia, a task that would amuse Kafka but to me feels like a journey through the seven stages of hell. My migration agent, when she is not fleecing me, comes up with ever more bizarre reasons for delaying my application. Her latest wheeze is to send me for an English exam on the promise that it will speed things up.
They examining company offered me a place on their Brisbane test. The only problem is that Brisbane is a plane ride away and they don’t confirm places until five days before the exam. The other wheeze they have is to separate their test between a speaking one and a written one, hold these tests four days apart and not tell you the venues until the day before. To a pernickety planner like me, that was like asking NASA to plan a Mars mission over a bank holiday weekend.
As I left the office the night before the speaking test, someone asked me if I’d been practicing much. “Since the age of about 14 months” I snapped back. But maybe he had a point. I speak with an accent and have been told that I spend most of my time talking through my arse. I’m sure that is not what the good people at the language testing centre want to hear, given that they already had enough trouble trying to figure out ways of spending all the money I was giving them.
So I decided to bone up on the Queen’s English between then and the test. The only problem is that the modern digital age provides limited opportunity to converse with like minded people. I’d pre-booked a bus ticket on the web, so didn’t even speak to the driver when I caught a ride to the airport, checked in for the flight at one of those faceless terminals that litter airport concourses and promptly got on the plane and fell asleep. When I got to Brisbane I bought a train ticket into town from a machine and realised I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone all day.
On my way to the train, I noticed a traveller in some trouble and thought this was an opportunity to do a favour and engage in some useful conversation training. I asked if she needed help and she looked at me with a blank expression that sucked the confidence out of me. Maybe I am a mumbling wreck who struggles to be understood? Thankfully, it turned out that she was from South America and couldn’t speak English. I manfully gave her directions to the train in my broken Spanish (I might have been saying “Where is the toilet” but she headed in the right direction anyway).
So it came to pass that I sat down two hours later for my speaking exam having only spoken pigeon Spanish that day. Thankfully it didn’t matter. Someone once said that the English horde words like misers, while the Irish spend them like sailors. Once I started talking, the examiner couldn’t shut me up. I told tall tales, short stories and downright lies, but it filled the twenty minutes required and I had the bonus of making my inquisitor laugh occasionally, which is the ultimate goal of all Irish men who engage in conversation. At the end she thanked me for talking to her, which is just about the first time I’ve ever heard that line from a female.
I made my way back to the station through the muggy streets of Brisbane. They don’t do winter in this part of Australia and the City was full of Tee shirted tourists. As I waited at Central Station I noticed a bust of Sir Thomas Brisbane after whom the City is called. A notice below set out his illustrious career from battles under Wellington to Governorship of New South Wales and the establishment of teaching colleges. It struck me that this dead white man was one of the people who brought the language that I was now so keen to express to this country.
I suddenly respected the great opportunities I have been presented with, simply by having the English language as my native tongue. So let’s give a big hand to the English. I think they are great and every house should have one.
Preferably as a butler. They make great butlers.
But living over here has made me revaluate this. I knew something was up when I found myself instinctively supporting England in the Ashes series and searching the TV Guide to see when the History of Britain was on.
Last week I flew to Brisbane to sit a twenty minute English test, the craziness of which I’ll get to later. I had an hour to kill at the airport and found myself flicking through the $5 bin in the DVD store. I came across Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” and was reminded of that scene where the People’s Front of Judea is discussing “what have the Romans ever done for us”. The thought struck me that if I asked the same question of myself with regard to the English; I’d probably end up with the similar results as the Judeans.
Apart from the roads, railways, canals, legal system, universities and soccer, what have the English ever done for us? Well, I’d add one thing to that list. Language. The English came to Ireland and forced their language upon us. And being the good natured people we are, we gave it back in a better condition than we received it. Thankfully, the perfidious Brits then went and invaded half the world and forced their language on the poor natives they found there. And that’s why we Irish can emigrate to lots of places and have our tongue tied mumblings understood.
I’m in the throes of applying for Permanent Residency in Australia, a task that would amuse Kafka but to me feels like a journey through the seven stages of hell. My migration agent, when she is not fleecing me, comes up with ever more bizarre reasons for delaying my application. Her latest wheeze is to send me for an English exam on the promise that it will speed things up.
They examining company offered me a place on their Brisbane test. The only problem is that Brisbane is a plane ride away and they don’t confirm places until five days before the exam. The other wheeze they have is to separate their test between a speaking one and a written one, hold these tests four days apart and not tell you the venues until the day before. To a pernickety planner like me, that was like asking NASA to plan a Mars mission over a bank holiday weekend.
As I left the office the night before the speaking test, someone asked me if I’d been practicing much. “Since the age of about 14 months” I snapped back. But maybe he had a point. I speak with an accent and have been told that I spend most of my time talking through my arse. I’m sure that is not what the good people at the language testing centre want to hear, given that they already had enough trouble trying to figure out ways of spending all the money I was giving them.
So I decided to bone up on the Queen’s English between then and the test. The only problem is that the modern digital age provides limited opportunity to converse with like minded people. I’d pre-booked a bus ticket on the web, so didn’t even speak to the driver when I caught a ride to the airport, checked in for the flight at one of those faceless terminals that litter airport concourses and promptly got on the plane and fell asleep. When I got to Brisbane I bought a train ticket into town from a machine and realised I hadn’t spoken a word to anyone all day.
On my way to the train, I noticed a traveller in some trouble and thought this was an opportunity to do a favour and engage in some useful conversation training. I asked if she needed help and she looked at me with a blank expression that sucked the confidence out of me. Maybe I am a mumbling wreck who struggles to be understood? Thankfully, it turned out that she was from South America and couldn’t speak English. I manfully gave her directions to the train in my broken Spanish (I might have been saying “Where is the toilet” but she headed in the right direction anyway).
So it came to pass that I sat down two hours later for my speaking exam having only spoken pigeon Spanish that day. Thankfully it didn’t matter. Someone once said that the English horde words like misers, while the Irish spend them like sailors. Once I started talking, the examiner couldn’t shut me up. I told tall tales, short stories and downright lies, but it filled the twenty minutes required and I had the bonus of making my inquisitor laugh occasionally, which is the ultimate goal of all Irish men who engage in conversation. At the end she thanked me for talking to her, which is just about the first time I’ve ever heard that line from a female.
I made my way back to the station through the muggy streets of Brisbane. They don’t do winter in this part of Australia and the City was full of Tee shirted tourists. As I waited at Central Station I noticed a bust of Sir Thomas Brisbane after whom the City is called. A notice below set out his illustrious career from battles under Wellington to Governorship of New South Wales and the establishment of teaching colleges. It struck me that this dead white man was one of the people who brought the language that I was now so keen to express to this country.
I suddenly respected the great opportunities I have been presented with, simply by having the English language as my native tongue. So let’s give a big hand to the English. I think they are great and every house should have one.
Preferably as a butler. They make great butlers.
Friday, 21 August 2009
You know you're a Melbournian when....
I’ve been living in Melbourne for just over two years now. Last week while munching on a muffin at work, a thought suddenly struck me. I had clicked on “The Age” website before checking out the Irish Times. That was the first time I’d done that since getting here and I realised that I’d suddenly become a Melbournian. As luck would have it, the Age ran an article on the very same subject by their esteemed journalist, Catherine Deveny.
I’ve taken the liberty of copying her observations and including them in this week’s blog, with my own comments.
YOU know you're from Melbourne if …
- When diarising anything in September you first consult the footy fixture.
I've blocked out every weekend on the slim chance that Carlton make it to the final.
- You were shocked when you found out not all street directories are called Melway.
The name of the Melbourne Street directory that is so widely used that people quote their Melway's reference in the way the rest of the world quotes their phone numbers.
- You know Sunshine, Rosebud and the Caribbean Gardens are not as good as they sound.
Suburbs in the less attractive parts of Melbourne, mainly in the West. I've only been out there once and I'm still checking my pockets.
- You consider yourself a socialist yet you drive a European car and have a cleaner.
I celebrate the fact that for the first time in my life, I’m living under a labour government but I've got a VW Golf and have floated the idea of a cleaner as I seem to have gone through the first 43 years of my life assuming that toilets clean themselves.
- You'd rather sit next to Guy Rundle on a plane than Guy Pearce.
Guy Rundle is the best political journalist in The Age and I read him, Martin Flanagan and Catherine Deveny every weekend. I thought Guy Pearce died in a strange drug related incident last year, but maybe that was the other Perthinality, Heath Ledger.
- You or someone you know has received a grant.
Lots of them, not to mention the Rudd handouts. I think my favourite was the girl receiving a PhD in March 2008, who had received a substantial grant from Melbourne University to research "The Portrayal of Lesbians in the Victorian Film Industry".
- You refer to rococo furniture as "very Franco Cozzo".
When I was furnishing my apartment, somebody mentioned Franco Cozzo. They said he was an Italian version of IKEA. When I went to see his shop in Brunswick, I realised this would be like comparing the guy who sang "Shut uppa your face" to Abba.
- You felt betrayed when you discovered Melbourne was not the only place in the world with trams.
I felt betrayed when I found out that Melbourne wasn’t even the only place in Australia to have them.
- You think the slogan on our licence plates should be "Melbourne. The Coffee Is Shit Anywhere Else", "Melbourne. Go To Sydney. We Hate Tourists" or “Melbourne What School Did You Go To?"
I think it should be “We’re a well balanced people; we have a chip on both shoulders”.
- You think the only person who looks good with a moustache is Ron Barassi.
Ron is a Carlton hero. I won’t have a bad word said about him. Moustaches are for men with porn film ambitions.
- You've looked out the window of Puffing Billy and waved like an idiot at the cars at the railway crossing. And you've watched Puffing Billy pass as you sat in a car at the railway crossing, and waved like an idiot.
Puffing Billy is an old steam train and I’ve only seen it from the saddle of my bike while climbing a steep hill. And yes, I nearly fell off while waving like an idiot.
- You think beyondblue does great work but you hate the way it makes Jeff Kennett look good. Which is depressing.
Jeff Kennett is the last conservative Premier of Victoria and now runs beyondblue, a charity aimed at people with depression. Which from my experience is anyone who has lived under a conservative government.
- You've been to the Royal Melbourne Show and the scariest ride is the train home.
Melbournians like getting dressed up, as though they are going to a wedding, head out to a large field at the edge of town for a Horse race or the Royal Melbourne Show and get trashed. I’ve had great fun sitting in Young and Jacksons bar and watching them pile out of Flinders Streetstation on the way home.
- When you hear the word ''Bougainville'' you think of Northland.
Bogans are to Australia as skangers are to Ireland and chavs are to the English. Northland is a strange shopping centre in a part of the city where Alsatians go around in pairs.
- You don't judge people on their looks, wealth or status but on the bread they buy, the coffee they serve and the newspaper they read.
I read “The Age”. If I see somebody reading “The Herald Sun”, I assume they are a little further down the evolutionary tree from the rest of us. Like at root level.
- You pretend the Sydney-Melbourne rivalry doesn't exist. Which it doesn't. Because Sydney doesn't care. And that really shits you.
Having a sister that lives in Sydney doesn’t help. But I say this without bias. Melbourne has better weather, cafes, culture and sport than Sydney. And we had the Olympics first.
- If a friend gets a new boyfriend or girlfriend, your first question is, ''Who do they barrack for?''
To put this statement in context, I arrived in Melbourne on a Friday evening back in July 2007 and checked into a hotel. The receptionist asked me “Who do you barrack for” and I’ve probably been asked this question more often than I’ve been asked my name. Barrack is the Australian word for “support” by the way, which is why we’re all so fond of Obama.
- Cup Day. Gambling at 9am. Drunk by noon. Broke at 3.20pm. Asleep by 4pm. Hungover at 5pm. All while at work.
The Melbourne Cup. The only day of the year when Australians drink more than Irish backpackers.
I’ve taken the liberty of copying her observations and including them in this week’s blog, with my own comments.
YOU know you're from Melbourne if …
- When diarising anything in September you first consult the footy fixture.
I've blocked out every weekend on the slim chance that Carlton make it to the final.
- You were shocked when you found out not all street directories are called Melway.
The name of the Melbourne Street directory that is so widely used that people quote their Melway's reference in the way the rest of the world quotes their phone numbers.
- You know Sunshine, Rosebud and the Caribbean Gardens are not as good as they sound.
Suburbs in the less attractive parts of Melbourne, mainly in the West. I've only been out there once and I'm still checking my pockets.
- You consider yourself a socialist yet you drive a European car and have a cleaner.
I celebrate the fact that for the first time in my life, I’m living under a labour government but I've got a VW Golf and have floated the idea of a cleaner as I seem to have gone through the first 43 years of my life assuming that toilets clean themselves.
- You'd rather sit next to Guy Rundle on a plane than Guy Pearce.
Guy Rundle is the best political journalist in The Age and I read him, Martin Flanagan and Catherine Deveny every weekend. I thought Guy Pearce died in a strange drug related incident last year, but maybe that was the other Perthinality, Heath Ledger.
- You or someone you know has received a grant.
Lots of them, not to mention the Rudd handouts. I think my favourite was the girl receiving a PhD in March 2008, who had received a substantial grant from Melbourne University to research "The Portrayal of Lesbians in the Victorian Film Industry".
- You refer to rococo furniture as "very Franco Cozzo".
When I was furnishing my apartment, somebody mentioned Franco Cozzo. They said he was an Italian version of IKEA. When I went to see his shop in Brunswick, I realised this would be like comparing the guy who sang "Shut uppa your face" to Abba.
- You felt betrayed when you discovered Melbourne was not the only place in the world with trams.
I felt betrayed when I found out that Melbourne wasn’t even the only place in Australia to have them.
- You think the slogan on our licence plates should be "Melbourne. The Coffee Is Shit Anywhere Else", "Melbourne. Go To Sydney. We Hate Tourists" or “Melbourne What School Did You Go To?"
I think it should be “We’re a well balanced people; we have a chip on both shoulders”.
- You think the only person who looks good with a moustache is Ron Barassi.
Ron is a Carlton hero. I won’t have a bad word said about him. Moustaches are for men with porn film ambitions.
- You've looked out the window of Puffing Billy and waved like an idiot at the cars at the railway crossing. And you've watched Puffing Billy pass as you sat in a car at the railway crossing, and waved like an idiot.
Puffing Billy is an old steam train and I’ve only seen it from the saddle of my bike while climbing a steep hill. And yes, I nearly fell off while waving like an idiot.
- You think beyondblue does great work but you hate the way it makes Jeff Kennett look good. Which is depressing.
Jeff Kennett is the last conservative Premier of Victoria and now runs beyondblue, a charity aimed at people with depression. Which from my experience is anyone who has lived under a conservative government.
- You've been to the Royal Melbourne Show and the scariest ride is the train home.
Melbournians like getting dressed up, as though they are going to a wedding, head out to a large field at the edge of town for a Horse race or the Royal Melbourne Show and get trashed. I’ve had great fun sitting in Young and Jacksons bar and watching them pile out of Flinders Streetstation on the way home.
- When you hear the word ''Bougainville'' you think of Northland.
Bogans are to Australia as skangers are to Ireland and chavs are to the English. Northland is a strange shopping centre in a part of the city where Alsatians go around in pairs.
- You don't judge people on their looks, wealth or status but on the bread they buy, the coffee they serve and the newspaper they read.
I read “The Age”. If I see somebody reading “The Herald Sun”, I assume they are a little further down the evolutionary tree from the rest of us. Like at root level.
- You pretend the Sydney-Melbourne rivalry doesn't exist. Which it doesn't. Because Sydney doesn't care. And that really shits you.
Having a sister that lives in Sydney doesn’t help. But I say this without bias. Melbourne has better weather, cafes, culture and sport than Sydney. And we had the Olympics first.
- If a friend gets a new boyfriend or girlfriend, your first question is, ''Who do they barrack for?''
To put this statement in context, I arrived in Melbourne on a Friday evening back in July 2007 and checked into a hotel. The receptionist asked me “Who do you barrack for” and I’ve probably been asked this question more often than I’ve been asked my name. Barrack is the Australian word for “support” by the way, which is why we’re all so fond of Obama.
- Cup Day. Gambling at 9am. Drunk by noon. Broke at 3.20pm. Asleep by 4pm. Hungover at 5pm. All while at work.
The Melbourne Cup. The only day of the year when Australians drink more than Irish backpackers.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
The Red Pepper Cafe
10pm in the Red Pepper Café and the crowd and aroma would remind you of an Indian bazaar. Almost every taxi driver in Melbourne comes from the sub continent and it’s clearly shift changeover time because they all seem to be here.
They say that if you want to try the best ethnic food, go to where that ethnic community eats. That doesn’t always work of course. We Westerners have a sanitised palate and turn our cultured noses up at the idea of eating monkey’s brains or deep fried dog.
But with Indian food, it’s safe to go with the food the locals eat, particularly as they tip a nod to our delicate tastes and have Tikka Masala on the menu. A dish invented in Birmingham so that English drunks could eat something exotic on the way home from the pub.
I ordered butter chicken with rice and naan bread (for the princely sum of 9 dollars, or 5 euros in old money) and turned to search the room for a table. It wasn’t promising. All the small tables were taken by taxi drivers - talking earnestly of road blocks and fare evaders - and students huddled over accountancy and software manuals. The larger tables were taken by families dressed in colourful saris and tight fitting turbans. Entire generations were represented there, from grannies with massive glasses to jet black haired kids in summer dresses. The kids tended to catch my eye as I searched the room. I was the only white person in the place after all and when I was a kid I would have stared at any Indian who would venture into the local pub on a Sunday afternoon.
I began to think that I’d be eating my curry on the hoof when a voice beckoned me. Ravi was dining alone and saw my dilemma. I sat down beside him and asked how his meal was. He nodded and smiled which I took to be positive.
“The lamb here is fantastic, almost as good as back home”, he said.
“And where is back home”? I asked, as he scooped up some sauce with his naan bread in an action that made my feeble attempts look like a two year old eating spaghetti.
“Mumbai, although you guys probably call it Bombay. I came here two years ago to go to college.”
“What are you studying?” I asked. “How to get to the airport if the customer doesn’t want to pay the toll and that kind of thing”. He answered.
He saw my confusion and laughed. “Most of the taxi drivers here come to study, but then they realise they can’t afford the rent and school fees, so they drive taxis to make some cash. And before you know where you are, you’re driving fifty hours a week and have no time to study.”
Ravi had stopped laughing and looked sad, as though telling this small portion of his life story had suddenly reminded him of the futility of it.
“So, what are your plans?” I asked. “I guess you don’t want to drive a taxi forever.”
“Not in this shit hole anyway,” he said. “I’ll try and save some money and go back to Mumbai and get a job, maybe in a call centre or something like that. I can’t wait to get out of here. They treat us like crap, man”.
I shuffled uncomfortably in my do gooder shoes. Ravi wanted to get it off his chest however, and a white person in a restaurant aimed at locals seemed as good a place as any to start.
“You see what they are doing on the trains? They target Indian students because they think we are meek and won’t fight back. But we beat the bloody English empire so the Aussies better watch out”.
“You beat the Empire by getting a skinny man in an oversized nappy to lie in the middle of the road. I’m not sure that would work with Australians”.
I wasn’t sure if Ravi got the joke, but at that point my food arrived and it broke the awkward moment. “Butter Chicken is a good choice”, he said. “But I prefer it on the bone. You Westerners are too soft. You want your mothers to cut up your food for you”.
Ravi smiled. Having teased each other about our respective cultures, we were ok to resume normal conversation.
“Driving a taxi after midnight in Melbourne is the worst job in the world, man. Every punter thinks you are trying to rip him off. Taking the long way home or adding phantom tolls to his bill. Then you get the ones who think you can’t speak English and talk to their friends on mobile phones about how they are in a cab with a smelly driver. And they are the normal ones. They ones who try to rob you with syringes are worse”.
“You think driving a taxi in Mumbai would be any better?” I asked.
“We have a saying in India.” Ravi replied. “Everyone can stand to have their own pigs in the house. The passengers in Mumbai might be arseholes, but they are my people. Over here it’s just strangers acting like dick heads in my car every night.”
I struggled to find some consoling words, but there isn’t much you can say to a man who has discovered that Western Capitalism is a lie. The pubs were closed and Ravi had plenty of miles to go before he could sleep. He offered his hand and I rubbed the grease from mine before grasping it.
“If you wait five minutes, I can offer you a fare to St Kilda.” I said. “With no syringes or racial jokes.”
“St Kilda at this time of night! You must be joking”. He replied. “I can get a few fares up and down to King Street and make twice as much.”
He pulled on his navy blue jacket and left me to my curry. I hope he gets what he’s looking for in life and that he learns that not all Westerners fit a stereotype, even if he did prove to me that all taxi drivers are the same.
They say that if you want to try the best ethnic food, go to where that ethnic community eats. That doesn’t always work of course. We Westerners have a sanitised palate and turn our cultured noses up at the idea of eating monkey’s brains or deep fried dog.
But with Indian food, it’s safe to go with the food the locals eat, particularly as they tip a nod to our delicate tastes and have Tikka Masala on the menu. A dish invented in Birmingham so that English drunks could eat something exotic on the way home from the pub.
I ordered butter chicken with rice and naan bread (for the princely sum of 9 dollars, or 5 euros in old money) and turned to search the room for a table. It wasn’t promising. All the small tables were taken by taxi drivers - talking earnestly of road blocks and fare evaders - and students huddled over accountancy and software manuals. The larger tables were taken by families dressed in colourful saris and tight fitting turbans. Entire generations were represented there, from grannies with massive glasses to jet black haired kids in summer dresses. The kids tended to catch my eye as I searched the room. I was the only white person in the place after all and when I was a kid I would have stared at any Indian who would venture into the local pub on a Sunday afternoon.
I began to think that I’d be eating my curry on the hoof when a voice beckoned me. Ravi was dining alone and saw my dilemma. I sat down beside him and asked how his meal was. He nodded and smiled which I took to be positive.
“The lamb here is fantastic, almost as good as back home”, he said.
“And where is back home”? I asked, as he scooped up some sauce with his naan bread in an action that made my feeble attempts look like a two year old eating spaghetti.
“Mumbai, although you guys probably call it Bombay. I came here two years ago to go to college.”
“What are you studying?” I asked. “How to get to the airport if the customer doesn’t want to pay the toll and that kind of thing”. He answered.
He saw my confusion and laughed. “Most of the taxi drivers here come to study, but then they realise they can’t afford the rent and school fees, so they drive taxis to make some cash. And before you know where you are, you’re driving fifty hours a week and have no time to study.”
Ravi had stopped laughing and looked sad, as though telling this small portion of his life story had suddenly reminded him of the futility of it.
“So, what are your plans?” I asked. “I guess you don’t want to drive a taxi forever.”
“Not in this shit hole anyway,” he said. “I’ll try and save some money and go back to Mumbai and get a job, maybe in a call centre or something like that. I can’t wait to get out of here. They treat us like crap, man”.
I shuffled uncomfortably in my do gooder shoes. Ravi wanted to get it off his chest however, and a white person in a restaurant aimed at locals seemed as good a place as any to start.
“You see what they are doing on the trains? They target Indian students because they think we are meek and won’t fight back. But we beat the bloody English empire so the Aussies better watch out”.
“You beat the Empire by getting a skinny man in an oversized nappy to lie in the middle of the road. I’m not sure that would work with Australians”.
I wasn’t sure if Ravi got the joke, but at that point my food arrived and it broke the awkward moment. “Butter Chicken is a good choice”, he said. “But I prefer it on the bone. You Westerners are too soft. You want your mothers to cut up your food for you”.
Ravi smiled. Having teased each other about our respective cultures, we were ok to resume normal conversation.
“Driving a taxi after midnight in Melbourne is the worst job in the world, man. Every punter thinks you are trying to rip him off. Taking the long way home or adding phantom tolls to his bill. Then you get the ones who think you can’t speak English and talk to their friends on mobile phones about how they are in a cab with a smelly driver. And they are the normal ones. They ones who try to rob you with syringes are worse”.
“You think driving a taxi in Mumbai would be any better?” I asked.
“We have a saying in India.” Ravi replied. “Everyone can stand to have their own pigs in the house. The passengers in Mumbai might be arseholes, but they are my people. Over here it’s just strangers acting like dick heads in my car every night.”
I struggled to find some consoling words, but there isn’t much you can say to a man who has discovered that Western Capitalism is a lie. The pubs were closed and Ravi had plenty of miles to go before he could sleep. He offered his hand and I rubbed the grease from mine before grasping it.
“If you wait five minutes, I can offer you a fare to St Kilda.” I said. “With no syringes or racial jokes.”
“St Kilda at this time of night! You must be joking”. He replied. “I can get a few fares up and down to King Street and make twice as much.”
He pulled on his navy blue jacket and left me to my curry. I hope he gets what he’s looking for in life and that he learns that not all Westerners fit a stereotype, even if he did prove to me that all taxi drivers are the same.
Thursday, 6 August 2009
A Night at the Theatre
“Do you fancy being in a play?” Debra said. “We’re looking for a young handsome man to play the love interest in a production we’re putting on before Christmas. My ego was suitably stroked and I agreed readily, ignoring the fact that my only previous stage experience was playing a sleeping baby Jesus in a shivering nativity play.
Two days later, I found myself in a draughty library in suburban Luxembourg with a bunch of seconded Irish civil servants. I nodded my hellos and shyly slunk into a seat at the back. As a novice in the world of theatre I wasn’t clear how to act (if you’ll excuse the pun). Should I come over all luvvie, hugging everyone and air kissing like a Hollywood Princess? Or should I brood moodily like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western?
In the end, I opted for the look which would serve me so well in my later acting life. I sat looking gormless.
It quickly became clear that I had been oversold in relation to my part. I ended up playing an idiot farmer whose only love interest was with his sheep. The play itself was terrifying, particularly when our alcoholic lead turned up drunk for the last performance and proceeded to fall asleep on stage. By that point we had been through two light failures and a partial collapse of the scenery. So I assumed that all plays were ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ experiences and was sold on the adrenalin buzz.
Shortly afterwards I moved to Ireland and after ‘resting’ for a year or so I found out about a local drama group and made a tentative phone call. As with all these things, I reckon your first encounter is key. I was lucky enough to bump into a tousled haired chap with a curious English accent. His name was Charles and he seemed to have an ill-defined role in the drama group centred on making new members welcome and finding any excuse to go for a Guinness. I was happy to oblige him in both endeavours. Before we could get to the beer however I had to show that I was a willing participant in the group’s activities. I had turned up on the opening night of their Spring Play and was duly handed a bunch of programmes and told to man one of the entry doors.
By the time the play started I had accumulated seven pounds in programme sales and it’s a testimony to the faith of that Methodist group that they would trust a strange Catholic like me with the cash box. Particularly as I arrived with a meek but slightly threatening Northern accent that jarred in the company of so many soft spoken South Dublin vowels.
In the pub afterwards Charles let me into the secret of his burgeoning writing career. He had dabbled with that monstrosity of theatre known as musicals but was now ready to get into proper drama. His first play was a comedy set in the West of Ireland during World War II. I got to play a terrorist, for the second time in the four plays I’d done to that point. I was beginning to see a trend.
I would go on to play a number of roles which were either sinister baddy or general idiot. It culminated in my portrayal of Seanie Keogh in the “Playboy of the Western World”. Seanie is one of the great put upon eejits in Irish Theatre. Every play set in the Emerald Isle has one. The guy who is always half a page behind the rest of the cast, the one who thinks the female lead is in love with him, only to get his comeuppance in hilarious circumstances at the end of both Act 1 and 2.
I made these roles my own to the extent that one of the group’s Life members embraced me after that play and told me that “you do gormless better than anyone else in the company”. It was my proudest moment.
As my belly expanded, my roles developed into bumbling detectives and lay about husbands, but I struggled to become the centre of the audience’s attention. In one performance I found myself at the edge of the stage in a state of mournful reflection. It was a poignant moment before the end of the play and I was trying to emote the loss and devastation that my character felt. I heard a whisper among the blue rinses, who through lack of hearing dominated the front row.
“Who’s he then?” one asked to her wheelchair bound companion.
“He’s the fat bloke from Act 1”.
I was crushed but determined to continue. When I moved to Australia I was curious to see how things compare here to back home. I got a part in a play shortly after arriving. I played a gormless idiot (surprise, surprise) and I guess the biggest difference I noted was that this play was performed in 36c heat, a misery I had never endured in Dublin. It was fun, but the social elements weren’t the same.
Australians take everything very seriously. For example, Cricket clubs in Ireland will have eight teams and basically every team from the fours downwards will be in it for the fun and the beer afterwards in the club bar. In Melbourne, cricket is hugely popular, but clubs will generally have only two teams. The firsts, who will be highly competitive and the seconds who comprise people desperate to get into the firsts. If you’re not in it to win, then they don’t want you.
It’s kind of the same in theatre here. They don’t like calling it amateur theatre for a start. It has to be called “Community Theatre” because everything is professional except the pay. The plays are magnificent and they definitely stretch the abilities of the actors. But sometimes you have to pinch yourself to remind your jaded body that you do this for fun.
I’ll keep looking though. There are lots of drama groups in Melbourne and surely one of them has a tousled haired Englishman, ready to welcome new members and keen to go for a Guinness.
Two days later, I found myself in a draughty library in suburban Luxembourg with a bunch of seconded Irish civil servants. I nodded my hellos and shyly slunk into a seat at the back. As a novice in the world of theatre I wasn’t clear how to act (if you’ll excuse the pun). Should I come over all luvvie, hugging everyone and air kissing like a Hollywood Princess? Or should I brood moodily like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western?
In the end, I opted for the look which would serve me so well in my later acting life. I sat looking gormless.
It quickly became clear that I had been oversold in relation to my part. I ended up playing an idiot farmer whose only love interest was with his sheep. The play itself was terrifying, particularly when our alcoholic lead turned up drunk for the last performance and proceeded to fall asleep on stage. By that point we had been through two light failures and a partial collapse of the scenery. So I assumed that all plays were ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ experiences and was sold on the adrenalin buzz.
Shortly afterwards I moved to Ireland and after ‘resting’ for a year or so I found out about a local drama group and made a tentative phone call. As with all these things, I reckon your first encounter is key. I was lucky enough to bump into a tousled haired chap with a curious English accent. His name was Charles and he seemed to have an ill-defined role in the drama group centred on making new members welcome and finding any excuse to go for a Guinness. I was happy to oblige him in both endeavours. Before we could get to the beer however I had to show that I was a willing participant in the group’s activities. I had turned up on the opening night of their Spring Play and was duly handed a bunch of programmes and told to man one of the entry doors.
By the time the play started I had accumulated seven pounds in programme sales and it’s a testimony to the faith of that Methodist group that they would trust a strange Catholic like me with the cash box. Particularly as I arrived with a meek but slightly threatening Northern accent that jarred in the company of so many soft spoken South Dublin vowels.
In the pub afterwards Charles let me into the secret of his burgeoning writing career. He had dabbled with that monstrosity of theatre known as musicals but was now ready to get into proper drama. His first play was a comedy set in the West of Ireland during World War II. I got to play a terrorist, for the second time in the four plays I’d done to that point. I was beginning to see a trend.
I would go on to play a number of roles which were either sinister baddy or general idiot. It culminated in my portrayal of Seanie Keogh in the “Playboy of the Western World”. Seanie is one of the great put upon eejits in Irish Theatre. Every play set in the Emerald Isle has one. The guy who is always half a page behind the rest of the cast, the one who thinks the female lead is in love with him, only to get his comeuppance in hilarious circumstances at the end of both Act 1 and 2.
I made these roles my own to the extent that one of the group’s Life members embraced me after that play and told me that “you do gormless better than anyone else in the company”. It was my proudest moment.
As my belly expanded, my roles developed into bumbling detectives and lay about husbands, but I struggled to become the centre of the audience’s attention. In one performance I found myself at the edge of the stage in a state of mournful reflection. It was a poignant moment before the end of the play and I was trying to emote the loss and devastation that my character felt. I heard a whisper among the blue rinses, who through lack of hearing dominated the front row.
“Who’s he then?” one asked to her wheelchair bound companion.
“He’s the fat bloke from Act 1”.
I was crushed but determined to continue. When I moved to Australia I was curious to see how things compare here to back home. I got a part in a play shortly after arriving. I played a gormless idiot (surprise, surprise) and I guess the biggest difference I noted was that this play was performed in 36c heat, a misery I had never endured in Dublin. It was fun, but the social elements weren’t the same.
Australians take everything very seriously. For example, Cricket clubs in Ireland will have eight teams and basically every team from the fours downwards will be in it for the fun and the beer afterwards in the club bar. In Melbourne, cricket is hugely popular, but clubs will generally have only two teams. The firsts, who will be highly competitive and the seconds who comprise people desperate to get into the firsts. If you’re not in it to win, then they don’t want you.
It’s kind of the same in theatre here. They don’t like calling it amateur theatre for a start. It has to be called “Community Theatre” because everything is professional except the pay. The plays are magnificent and they definitely stretch the abilities of the actors. But sometimes you have to pinch yourself to remind your jaded body that you do this for fun.
I’ll keep looking though. There are lots of drama groups in Melbourne and surely one of them has a tousled haired Englishman, ready to welcome new members and keen to go for a Guinness.
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