Family and Fate

Students,

Some of you may know that the reason for my absence here is a family emergency that led to my leaving Thailand and returning to the UK. It's very hard to put into words how I feel about my father battling leukemia and that's why I haven't tried to, even though I've wanted to. I'm actually afraid I've shied away from confronting my true feelings and going through it in my head. My family have told me I should do this as, to them, talking is a way of coming to terms with what's happened/is happening. Unfortunately though I can't. To be honest I see it all as cruel fate and after cursing the universe repeatedly for this terrible senseless thing I find what's left is too painful to talk about. So far I've chosen to keep my mind as uncomplicated - trivial if you like - as possible. But then that becomes a problem in itself and, as I read back over my 40 (!) previous blogs one thing that hits home is that maybe I'd created myself a world focused on me alone. Everything was intentionally trivial, on my own terms, and nothing touched me because I was too busy. Now that has gone (even temporarily) and I've got to adapt to a situation that's beyond my control. I've got to find the means to cope with doing what I came back to do: support my mother and sister at this time. I've also got to let go of my feelings - however incomprehensible and contradictory they are - and I may as well do that here...

I realise now that being away from home for so long had an impact on my family relationships. I was feeling this year like I had found both my path and myself after a painful few years of self-doubt. I was finally doing things my way. The only thing was that my family didn't fit into this picture and, even though my parents visited my new home, I failed to act as they wanted me to. Yet, isn't this a similar picture for any non-conformist mid-20s man who has left in search of something that better suits their needs? Is a feeling of alienness so uncommon in a family? (Especially one that is geographically separated.)

The fact is that different lives work for different people and I don't think my enthusiastic recounting of an all-night party in Bangkok's gay clubs would go down too well with my folks even though it's of gripping interest to myself and my friendship group! In another way discussing life after leukemia is not really something I wish to contribute to. I choose to be a listener and though I don't mind this role it does tend to make me go internally crazy. In my regular conversation I am realistic, brief, and to the point; I wonder is there a point when trying to make sense of the future? Do you get my frustration?

When my parents began to find themselves frustrated with me around their house (it never takes long as we have opposite views on the best way to use free time - I like the daily routine of free time to lack 'routine' tasks as much as possible) they began to call me "selfish." They still can't understand why I long for silence and peace on my own or that I want to be away from my home country. They also can't understand why I'm unable to be satisfied in my teaching job here or else put my feelings on hold for the sake of my father and the more-important situation. After a couple of months with them I've failed to cry openly, pour my heart out, or want to be there as they did these things. Does that make me a bad son? A closed-off person divorced from matters of family? Am I inherently selfish?

After mulling the above questions I think that my personality such as it is doesn't easily lend itself to huge affection or being the backbone of a family. I'd never want to start and raise a family myself; I prefer instead to show kindness in my work with young people. Don't get me wrong I do care but I'm fiercely private by nature and my identity is largely defined by my friendships. My friends don't matter more than my family (obviously they don't or I wouldn't be in the UK right now), but they allow me a freedom and joy that is entirely me. I've known my family all my life and there are fundamental differences in how we see and respond to the world. Their lives, their world, has always been here and it probably always will be. There's nothing wrong with that but I've known the 'real me' for only a short time and I love it. It is tied to Thailand and right now in England it seems so foreign. I am apart from my community, my lover, my life, my world.

Having said all of the above you have to ask if it really amounts to much when faced with such a serious situation that hits so close to home? This is the paradox I wrestle with and feel guilt over as I lie awake at night. It's a paradox because they say that something as serious as a life or death situation makes you take stock, recognise what is important, and focus on that. My Dad is of upmost importance to me. His body cannot let him down and I won't even consider that possibility even as my mother and sister question "What if?" It's too upsetting. He has given me so much and now I find it hard to give back. But I try and I try again and my actions or seeming inactions, my stunted expressions of how I feel don't seem to give what is required of me in the situation. I love deeply and truely however, what I say and what I do is misconstrued because in my mind I'll admit I cannot help feeling resentful and I cannot deny the importance of all I have that is not here. I can only repress these feelings for so long before they explode to the surface, usually ruining a dinner and making me look like a petulant child.

I wish I could eloquently explain to my parents how the life I found is so important. It comforts me, inspires me, makes me feel in step with everything. It is everything. Then again can't you say the same of the people who gave birth to you, guided you, taught you, invested time and money in you over and over and over again? After all, any contradictions of personality, instances of fierce temper, stubbornness, and self-conflict, all of this alienness was inherited or founded in my formative years. Sometimes when I teach and have to chastise a student I surprise myself by spouting out some expression belonging to my mother. It's scary and epic how much is shared and how much I owe my family; it's in my head and my blood. Nobody makes me feel as they do.

What I found overseas and claimed as mine is something I won't share and I need it back soon. When I get the chance I will take it back with both hands, but I think I will do so with a greater sense of purpose and humility because that's what my family - and my brave father - is giving me now however much I try to resist. The life that they had made for themselves has been torn apart suddenly and devastatingly and as I struggle to cope, feel out of control, and take it all out on them I am still humbled by their love and commitment and their positive belief. That's why I know in the end everything will be ok, fate will right itself and we can all go back to normal. In the meantime I will cope by taking control where I can. I will be true to my work and my personal life by doing good things for and with my students, and staying in touch with my boyfriend and my friends. Lastly I will show solidarity, tolerance, and love to my family by just being here. That's all I can do.

Comments? Questions? Class you may be excused.

Homework: Make sure to come back again soon for nice pictures and less 'heavy' issues. See you next time!

x Teacher

Work in Progress

Students,

I got to feeling a tad philosophical today after it occurred to me that among my core of friends here and back home I must be by far the most irresponsible. I don’t have a mortgage, a marriage, a child or any other small animals, and I certainly don’t have any notions of acquiring these things in the distant future. As I mused I began to feel not so much troubled as liberated. Who wants to be tied down by life when one can live almost completely for pleasure… And perhaps be tied down in other ways while about it? Life is all theatre after all.

One thing I love about Thailand is the relaxed pace and general easiness of everyone with everyone else. This may all be surface, and underneath the country’s inhabitants are a seething mass of frustration, but as long as that stays unacknowledged I prefer it to the confrontations I found were part of my daily life in the UK. Perhaps it was my irresponsibility that didn’t fit with the culture there and I do remember an office assistant job that frequently resulted in my being reprimanded because my casual approach was not tolerated. Maybe I just don’t come from the mould of a ‘normal’ person who strives to climb the career ladder, buy property, and settle down. They have never been outcomes I’ve longed for. And then I look on Facebook and friends from school have ticked all the boxes… Should I feel old knowing such upstanding citizens or young because I’m their antithesis?

On occasion my wider family have struggled to understand my random drifting – and especially – my current location. Why am I here? Because it’s FUN. I have a blast every day; I see new things, meet new people, and have the privilege of being respected and smiled at in my work. The social life is amazing too. I don’t have to be guarded about my sexuality when out on the town or concerned that if I catch someone’s eye on the subway they will misconstrue that and get defensive (or offensive.) I can hold my partner’s hand if I want to and often hold his shoulder as we walk around in public. More than that though my life feels full and fast. I always have something to occupy myself and this makes me outgoing and involved with the world. I don’t feel like I’m failing even though I have faults. Where in the UK I would reach for some medication, here I reach for the phone and plan to be with my friends. Who don’t have marriages. Or mortgages. Or children. Or pets. And that’s all ok. We’re experiencing something else…

…People ask me all the time “When will you go home?” To that I tell them “Why would I want to?” Right here right now is what’s important to me and right here right now I have everything I need. I take responsibility for today and let the rest figure itself out. Scary? That is one of the benefits of being irresponsible. I realize now I’m not a failure or a quitter I just like doing things differently and not expecting all this stuff from my life. The unexpected feels like living to me and I love to live. Actually I think I’m a work in progress and maybe all this will sound daft when I look at it next time having changed my mind. But as I drift at the moment I get my drift. How about you?

Comments? Questions? Class you may be excused.

Homework: Expression not repression.

x Teacher

Post VI - 10 Things I (Love) about (Me)

Students,

As I recline on the couch today I would like to share some things about myself you may not already know. Perhaps doing so will give valuable insight into the quick and brilliant mind of your beloved teacher. I have somewhat of a penchant for lists, in fact I make them all the time, and so this blog will follow that format. It may also take some time so you might want to grab a snack…

· The greatness of Great Britain or ‘Lie back and think of England’. I am very proud to be British, and more specifically English. While my home nation is actually quite irritating should you have a home there, it is wonderful in many many ways and as a Brit abroad any mention of it inspires warm feelings and the need to wax lyrical for a bit. I suppose what I particularly enjoy and yearn for is the ‘classic’ Britain with all the trappings of ‘proper’ society. I do not mind a bit if dumb Americans think we all live in castles or talk in faux Hugh Grant-esque sloane accents as long as they also notice such joys as tennis at Wimbledon, the ritual of afternoon tea, HRH the Queen, our fine theatre actors, history and beautiful architecture everywhere, clipped vowels, and our cutting sense of humour. I plan to remain an English gentleman to the core because I put to you the world is a better and more civilized place because of us. This means that I will never be heard telling unnecessarily dirty jokes or (shudder) discussing bodily functions, specifically pooh. I remember times after sharing this information where irritating friends have began describing the messiest do-dos they have ever done done. My simple solution in these situations is to share back with some explicit descriptions of gay sex. Be warned!!!!
· Phobia of old persons. This all started a little while ago in Edinburgh with an unfortunate incident on a bus. One crisp dewy morning I was on the way to the theatre to partake in a tone meeting for a play I was directing. I was running late and Id/Ego/Superego were all bellowing in annoyance at people getting in my way. I had only been seated for a few moments when from behind me I heard some unhealthy wheezes then a loud sneeze. What followed was a sensation that still haunts me. A jet of cold sticky mucus hit the back of my neck with sickening force. I had the germs of an old person on my person. Ever since I have taken more note of the aged population and they continue to alarm me… Why do they wear heavy coats in summer?? Why oh why do they use the doctor’s surgery as a place to congregate and socialize?? Although the phobia – as my friend Rosie told me it was – has slightly abated, I still inform employers if any event arises that requires me to interact with someone who is 60+ I am not the right man for the job and this was made painfully clear when, also in Edinburgh, I gave a historical underground tour to a group from the WI (Womens Institute – another quaint British tradition of old biddies meeting weekly to bake and gossip). As we were underground and in the dark, several of the ladies required me to hold their hands (!) and talk to them IN A VERY LOUD VOICE so they could hear. Students I will just say that I can’t quite do justice to the violent thoughts of Id/Ego/Superego that day. Strange that (similarly to cats) even though I put out that I don’t like them, old people do like me… Let me be clear: old people (apart from my delightful grandparents) are unacceptable to me, they are not as dumb as they like to suggest, and they should not be in my personal space. Which leads to…
· Issues of personal space. It is a sad truth that people violate my personal space on a regular basis. These people are the type not to read my face or body gestures and so they must be stopped. The latest example of personal space violation was last night, and actually the incident not only combined this issue but also my aforementioned phobia. Let me explain. I was with some dear Lopburi friends and a not-so-dear old ‘exception’ / ‘penguin’ at a music gig when said old ‘exception’ informed me I was wearing a serious look on my face. Not realizing said look is reserved specifically for social interaction with him, the ‘exception’ then proceeded to enter my ‘intimacy’ zone. This zone is usually only reserved for occasional familial affection, affection from likeable dogs, and affection from agreeable members of the same sex. What happened next was shocking to say the least and I can only suggest was karmic revenge for my laughing at a Thai man who thought it ok to pick up and lift Brad so he could have more space to sit down. Anyway, the ‘exception’ took his chubby little shrunken hand and rubbed it across my face, pulling my features into a smile… My reaction to this is probably best summed up by the following smiley, since I have yet to find words to capture my true feelings: O_o Please now click on the diagram above for a handy guide but note that the distances displayed must be x3 for me. Easy. Now there are no excuses. However please also note for future reference that if you are someone who enjoys physical closeness with casual acquaintances and you try that shit on me then I am likely to use the same loud command I do on Thai dogs: “Back. It. Up.” That I did not use this command on the ‘exception’ or else connect my hand with his face (using a lot more force than he) is surprising. In the end all I was heard to mutter was “But I’m English…”
· Pointed shit pointing at me. As revealed to close associates earlier last night I am not fond of inanimate objects pointing at right angles to me. If you are lucky enough to lie with me on my bed you will note that nothing in the room is angled directly at me. I know this suggests OCD or addiction but it is not quite as bad as my teenage troubles with plug sockets. When I used to enter rooms and see them switched ‘on’ but have no plugs in them believe me it used to send me over the edge. Now my only addictions involve excessive consumption of water, excessive consumption of BBC World News, and (since ending the happy pills) excessive compulsion for ‘A’.
· Doodle dandy. Another bit of compulsion is my fondness for doodling triangles and stars at every opportunity (usually in my office when you’re talking and I’m not listening.) As the committed teacher I am I have referred back to Sigmund, co-founder of ‘doodleology’ and can tell you that my doodles are very masculine (hardly surprising, right?) as men tend to doodle geometric shapes. If you doodle human figures and faces you are a girl. Apparently my triangles suggest a logical, analytical mind (WTF??!!) while stars suggest I was emotionally deprived as a child (haha). So there, now you can never say you don’t learn things from my blog. Oh and Brad if you are reading this, there is only one interpretation of your doodles and that is that you sir are sick and wrong.
· Syllable satisfaction. One final bit of obsessive compulsion I will share (for if we go into issues of my competitiveness, inability to walk along the street with someone else without walking diagonally into them, and crazy driving rituals then I won’t have any readership) is my compulsion to count syllables when listening to others speak. If you are talking to me and you notice my thumb tapping the fingers of my right hand you can be sure I am counting the vocal syllables in your every word. This crazy shit has taken over my life on many important occasions especially back in the dark past when I was a student and really should have been listening in class. My syllable hell pales however when compared to the weird compulsions of many of my favourite students in England…
· Toxic teens. As Brad already knows I am possessed of a cloying soft spot for maladjusted teenage tearaways and would happily adopt any filthy street kid who came my way (as long as they are not a chav.) Now now students don’t worry, I am no paed. What I mean is that where some folk coo over babies and kittens I cannot help but be charmed by snarky back-chatting kids with behavioural issues. As a teacher I find that the students whom others call “a bad egg”, “nuts”, and just plain “satanic” are the ones I identify with and enjoy to work with most. This may be because I still remember my time at school and the cool stuff me and my gang (secretly) did as opposed to the squares that did such stuff as Young Enterprise – yawn! Never mind the bookish swots (American: nerds) bring on the hoodlums!!
· Sweetcorn. Even saying the word sends shivers down my spine. It is simply evil, my arch enemy, and a foodstuff straight from the bowels of hell. What is to like? It smells AWFUL, has a weird taste and consistency, cannot be properly digested, and not even fish want to eat it when you chuck it in the water (not using your bare hands of course) because you’ve run out of maggots as bait. What concerns me most is how it seems to turn up everywhere. As you may know I regard tuna as the food of the gods so finding those heinous yellow things mixed in does not make me happy. In addition when first coming to Thailand I particularly enjoyed coconut milk for dessert. But one lunchtime at school I was heard to let out a horrified “WHAT??!!” upon noticing that also occupying the bowl were (yet again) those heinous yellow things. Now I know some Thai food does not make a lick of sense but I ask you whoever thought that sweetcorn be used for dessert??? As I said earlier sick and wrong.
· Shy bladder. Yes it is what it is. I admit my bladder is shy. I must say also I have no hang-ups about my body or social nudity so there are no problems with standing at urinals for that reason. But I have had countless incidents of social awkwardness while trying to go in company and being unable to produce the goods and the sound of piss hitting the porcelain that they expect. The worst was the pain I felt after attending an Edinburgh Hogmanay street party night. Facilities there were troughs populated by a mass of men standing so close as to be physically intimate – problem! It was an impossibility for my bladder to withstand it and the result was a severe guttural pain felt until I could get home and piss like a Russian racehorse so offloading the several boxes of wine I had downed. The whole business is especially tricky if my fellow man commits the cardinal sin of talking to me while I’m straining to go or (as Thai men do) check out the cock to ascertain size. Nowadays I find it safer to pop to the stalls and have a (hopefully) eyes-free experience in there.
· I LOVE the swinging 60s. I find that a lot of what I especially like in life (and what Id wants) actually comes from the 1960s. This has always been the case. As a young kid I had an obsession with 60s technicolour TV including Thunderbirds, Star Trek, Lost In Space (yes I am a sci-fi gay) and the Hanna Barbera cartoons. In addition the 60s gave us flower power, the moon landing, Carnaby Street fashion, (cool) hippies, and Elvis. It also produced such British notaries as The Beatles, Sean Connery and Roger Moore (James Bond’s), Lulu and Cilla (!), Julie Andrews, Twiggy, and Diana Rigg. I simply adore the colours, fashions, absurdist movement in theatre, and any collectable knick knacks from that era. I happen to slightly resent my parents for growing up at that time and have told them as much. Although I haven’t ever gone so far as to dress totally 60s (though I did do 50s with my James Dean phase) be warned it may still happen. You bet if I had a time machine, you wouldn’t see me for dust.

So there students. How privileged you are. Now you can step back a bit.

Comments? Questions? Class you may be excused.

Homework: Do a little dance. Make a little love. Get down tonight.


X Teacher

Post IV – The Good and the Bad (no uglies) of Thailand

Students,

I am often asked “Teacher, do you miss England?” The short answer is “Yes, you twit.” But to answer the question as thoroughly as you’ve come to expect, I will forego id/ego/superego this blog and instead employ a simple technique known as 'Pros and Cons'. I myself am a pro but a con is a person of dubious character and lifestyle. I’d like to tell you I have never encountered such persons. But I can’t. Another time we will use a top psychiatrical technique known as 'I Have Never' and information on con artists (read: a certain former live-in lover) will no doubt be recollected. But not this blog. The 'Pros and Cons' today regard the land of the Thai and my good/bad experiences therein. Probing psycho-anal-ysis is sure to find a hard answer as to why I miss England but am very happy Thailand is my home from home.

Pros: Mental health is taken care of here through sun, sun, and more sun plus ego is stroked through celebrity status of being one of the few young (and therefore attractive) whiteys in town. Lopburi is a rural area surrounded by mountains and sunflower fields where if one were feeling adventurous one could straddle and ride a throbbing motorbike yonder… Or a trip to 7/11 for more Sangsom liquor and an exciting Queer as Folk marathon with soul brother Brad could also do the trick. The tedious work of the house is done through hotel home staff, and the never-ending work of the teacher is made easier by (similarly) hard-working students whose (sometime) guttural minds mirror my own* My Thai students, and the people in general, are beyond gracious and kind. Though they think me ‘serious’ for not smiling quite as much as they, I have a lot to thank them for. And the men are pretty darn hot too. I would suggest that the Thai’s penchant for tight uniforms on soldiers, police officers, and doctors be shared in every nation.

There is however one more pro I will note and that is Bangkok. Though polluted, crowded, full of old ugly balding fat cartoon-bodied westerners, and frigging expensive, one night in Bangkok is a sinful delight. While there with friend Jamie (a man whose sexual drive surpasses my own) and Lee (a man who does ‘rabbit in headlights’ to a T before delivering a quip so cutting it draws blood) we ventured into the night on Jamie’s assertions that the good stuff would come our way through an (endlessly repeated) instruction to a cabbie of “No bom bom no pay!” For I to recall and accurately convey the sights of Bangkok’s dark underbelly that night would require a five-drink minimum. Suffice to say that each visit to the city has brought much reliable ‘A’ action and its innuendo-inducing name is not for nothing.

Cons: Aside from missing family and friends the last 7+ months have been relatively con-free. That is save for two western teacher ‘exceptions’ (now thankfully buggered off.) One important matter that I have said and said again is that yellow just does not suit me. In their devotion to the King many Thais wear his colour all day. I’d love to myself but all three of id/ego/superego would first have to be unconscious. As would I. The Dean may mutter but on this issue I won’t budge. Call me vain… but don’t call me fat. And if other Thai teachers would take that on-board too (perhaps by noticing the rage cross my face as they make that particular statement) I would be as happy and gay and light of step as they.

* As example, a whole blog could be devoted to Creative Writing student Chen. His ‘creative’ responses to tasks usually involve some obsecenely entertaining interpretation of his sex life. That is except for last week when in response to a fictional postcard writing task he explained his dream holiday as being a trip to the moon with his best bud to see how far they could shoot their body juices in the low gravity… In addition there have been some classic sexually-charged quotations purred by my ladyboy students, my favourite so far being “Teacher, do you have big boy?”

So you see what riles me about life here is far outnumbered by the delights of living in a country so unique and special. I am English so do have episodes of unimpressed-ness such as when forced to wait an age in check-out queues, but Miss Winter, if you are reading, you will be amused to hear of a reduction in slacker tendencies due to my working alongside colleagues whose own ‘relaxed’ approach often borders on inertia. My mind here is refreshingly clear, and students you will be pleased to hear that teaching is once more a real passion and reason to get me going each morning...

But one more thing to end, besides family and friends and f_ _ k _ _ g (more) what do I miss about England? In brief: food like lasagne, potatoes, good cereals, Dad’s fajitas and Mum’s roast dinner, hanging out and milling about shops like Topman, British music and music channels, British TV, Saturday nights with Morrell, long laugh-out-loud phone calls with Zoë, getting told off by Sister for not being her suitably brotherly role model, going to the cinema, red wine, hearing rain while I fall asleep, my books and DVDs, being able to teach more Drama, and… dogs that are well-adjusted and don’t want to jump out with their whole ‘all bark no bite’ schtick.

Comments? Questions? Class you may be excused.

Homework: Take a long hard look at yourself.

x Teacher

Post II – Drama Types

Students,

Many of you may not know that I have had a ‘life in the theatre’. Yes I know. It’s true I was a Drama type. You could not tell, could you? Nowadays not a hint of flamboyance, not a single colourful sock in sight. But back then the world was different. England and Scotland were creative havens populated by kings and MANY more queens for whom the words “Turn down the lights, turn on the Commedia del’ Arte! Darling” would induce un-scripted orgasmic explanations to be quoted and remembered by an impressionable generation. Or something like that. So now this very blog pays homage to a homo’s icons of inspiration, elites of education, advocates of arse-licking. Ok, you get the picture. Now read this (affectionate) run-down from past -> present of id / ego / superego for a few Drama nutters. Some names changed for identifying purposes. Beware: like Harry Potter things go from cutesy to just plain scary. And the wicked witch is last.

5 or d
(i-s-c-o.) May-chelle
Most likely to exclaim:
“What happens outside the stage door stays outside the stage door ” (before launching into an uncomfortable emotional monologue about her personal life.)

Id.
Floaty scarf, pretty flowers, Strawberry Fields Forever. I love the nancy boy – shine a light on him! Hair up. Hair down. Hair clip. Wig. Head scarf.
Ego.
Oh darling I must acquire that patterned scarf so that I can float the school corridors with theatrical aplomb and flick it back over my shoulder as a character gesture symbolizing the shrugging-off of conformity. Oh my oh me I am the Ophelia child with student babes around me! I will inspire worship and devotion in my fairy follower by smiling as he wears long trenchcoats and make-up, and forcing a single rolling tear as he sticks the plastic knife to his heart. In every play in every lesson. Again and again.
Superego.
Shall I stay or go? Go. Gone.* Never forgotten…
* English mourns. Canada got her. Canadians suck. Cock.

4. On the floor. The Ram-age
Most likely to proclaim:
“I played Richard in Dumfries when you were still. An. Egg.”

Id.
Sex bomb. Sex bomb. You’re a sex bomb. Girls. Bard. Titties. Baaaaarrrdd. “Oeeeedipus. Rex.”
Ego.
Ego, moi?
Superego.
Like Hamlet I give myself over to it. That’s all. It’s a gift. Everytime. I feel it. I live it. It consuuumes me.

* The Ram-age wore hearing aids but a bigger problem was his blindness. Never once did he notice our group locking Erica in a room while playing ‘murder in the dark’, and on one particularly memorable rehearsal day he failed to realize that while he’d stepped out, Zainab had turned on the fire extinguisher, soaked the stage floor, and caused Alison a rather nasty mishap resulting in a bruised coccyx and her having to dry her crotch on the heater in a most suggestive manner.

3. Some. Ms. Tabbayabbadingdoo. The best Drama name. Ever. (Pseudonym close enough.)
Most likely to breathe: “The art liveth!! ”

Id.
Experiment. Evolve. Enlighten. Envisage. Anybody got anymore ‘E’s?
Ego.
What I want, easily gotten. Speak very slowly. Speak very quietly. Enunciate. R.P. darling. First open eyes wide then narrow eyes as if it’s like real deep. Word. Nod sagely with finger on chin. Only wear black, Greek widow black. When applauding always shake head from side to side and mutter something… even if you didn’t know what the f*ck that sh*t was all about.
Superego.
Right and wrong? The choice. The concept. The happening. The space. Physicality. Improvise. Adjectives. Go with it. Be IT!!!

­2. b or not 2. b. Ian The Shithead
Most likely to like lie: “ I dinnae ken ya wee rab” (“I don’t know guv’nor”)

Id.
­Ok. Priorities: Turn up, shake some hands like, perv on favourite male students. Avoid students who want to ask a question like about their degree thing-y. Oh! Call Scottish theatre bigwigs and schmooze like. Give a highly vague lecture and never fully give an opinion like ‘cos it’s all bullcrap really like… shhhh!!
Ego.
Ego? I’m a Scotsman. Yeah, right, use the accent. Yeah the brogue like. But lay it on thick like ‘cos then you sound down with the kids. Oh and chew gum always. Use the hands too like. And the arms like. And occasionally fling yourself violently around like to show that even though you haven’t got an opinion you are ‘feeling’ the drama. Like. And good one: if they start answering and making sense just get uncomfortably close to their face like and use YOUR face to squint, raise eyebrows up and down alarmingly, and move eyes left to right right to left. Backs ‘em off and works every time like.
Superego.
Right and wrong. It’s like all about the politics y’know. I used to do political theatre I know this shit like. They’re above you watching always like. It’s fuck or be fucked. Fuck ‘em up and fuck off. Ahem. Hands. Arms. Body. Gum. Brogue.

* (Yet) another issue with the above is the inadvertent slip that led to him christening me with a new nickname… ‘Pops’.

1. Love.
1. Hate. Lock
Most likely to bellow:
“The little fuckers aren’t doing a musical while I’m at the school!!!!!!!! ”

* What to say? Her often-downright evil machinations were sometimes a joy to behold especially as she picked off the weakest (and most square) members of the pack first with a sharp tongue-lashing or an eye roll. But you always knew she would get to you eventually. Or at the very least project her own ruthless competitiveness onto you, her victims, by turning friends against each other and intimidating others into sharing illegal gossip about who was getting-off with who. And she was a Nazi about paperwork. When she started to move towards you, speak in her baby voice, and call you some nickname you knew your days were numbered and the teaching fun was ending. And then it did. And the worst thing is it’s not over. I must return at some point in 2009 to face the Lock once more. Alone. And defenseless…

Id.
I am always on top. In life and in lov- Oh wait lov- No can’t say that word. Too bad. Yes I ride and I whip and my horse knows too well that if you try throwing me you get a damn good thrashing. Simple. I’m Lock. I AM the Drama. And I will write you a tragic conclusion if you cross me.
Ego.
What? Ego. No ego. No need. I do it and I get it. No-one will stop me. Not even brats with mentalist issues can knock me back. The ego is vain and I don’t have time. You do what I say and it’s your mind not mine that I’m interested in.
Superego.
I’m right. You’re wrong. Anymore questions? Hmmm?

There you have it. A lesson in life from the business of show. What a new concept. Yup yup yup sweetie yup.

Comments? Questions? Class you may be excused.

Homework: Drama teacher memories. It’s good to share the dysfunction.

Air kisses x Teacher