And his teaching style was unique. He often took the dancers on strange trips to perform bizarre chores for days on end. They would never question his methods and would spend days carrying out these strange tasks before returning to the dance class. Degas would humour the teacher always asking for more stories of his past, and he almost believed him, the detail of the stories wove a convincing tale.

Most intriguing of all was that the teacher said he never taught the same subject twice. And never lived in the same country twice. And never lived in the same time period twice. In 1924, he taught bullfighters in Spain. From 2040 to 2042, in Peru, he taught robots to play football better than humans. Of these tall tales Degas had a favourite; of the America boy the teacher thought to fight. Degas asked the teacher to tell that story again. And smiled as he heard it once more.

It was later that day that Degas painted one of his masterpieces, La classe de danse. The dancing class. This time he made sure to include their very special time travelling teacher. Mr Miyagi. Wax on, Wax off Daniel San.

We’d decided it’d be a good idea to take Spanish lessons for one week at the start of the holiday. A week in Sitges then up the coast to Barcelona by train for the weekend of Sonar. I’d never learned a language. Unless you count nine school years of Irish and three years of French. But that didn’t count. Then I didn’t want to learn, and now I found I couldn’t learn.

Two idioms merged to become truisms. One involves old dogs and new tricks. And the other, a slightly lesser known fact; it’s much harder to learn a new language if you haven’t already learned a language in your younger years. So trying to teach an old dog a new language is quite the battle.

The first thing I learned in Spanish class was that I was the only person in the dunces’ class, the absolute beginner’s class (the missus just needed some brushing up, and took the expert’s class). The next lesson I learned quite quickly too; they don’t speak English in Spanish school. I couldn’t speak a word of Spanish. And my teacher wouldn’t speak a word of English. Well, I had the holster of usual phrases but that was it, so this impasse was a major inconvenience. It was though they never actually expected an absolute beginners in the absolute beginner’s class. Not really. Surely everyone would have some basic Spanish at least? It was a very slow start. I stared at her blankly as she made funny sounds and gesticulated. It was like a game of charades but even if I’d know what she was mimicking, the answer in my head would merely be in English.

A phrase I learned quite early, and one that has stuck with me since is “no entiendo” (don’t understand!). I used this phrase many many times that week. It was my deflated sigh of defeat. Uttered with the familiarity of an aging Señor with long white whiskers. But despite being on holiday I worked hard, and did my homework, and made some progress. On the last day we were ending on an exercise that was going quite well, though still quite basic in form. I had to describe my father in short phrases.

While elsewhere in the same building, the missus discussed Spanish politics and perfected her imperfect tenses, I sat there like the village idiot and pronounced : Mi padre es feliz (My father is happy). Then scraped the barrel of my soggy memory for some more words I could use, true or not.

“Mi padre es gordo”
“Mi padre es inteligente”
“Mi padre es pequeño”

Just as I was beginning to run out of adjectives my mobile rang. It was my mum. “Madre” I said apologetically, eyes going up to heaven, then gesturing more seriously to indicate I should probably take the call. I found my next adjective in the call, but hadn’t yet learned its Spanish equivelant. I ended the call and finished the exercise in English.

“My father is dead.”

No other crossword comes close to the elegance of the Crosaire. But I stopped doing it a couple of years ago. I couldn’t justify paying 1.80 every day when I just went straight to the Crosaire, and often didn’t look at the rest of the paper. Except for some interest in the art page, the rest of that paper just puts me asleep.

It was such a ritual part of my morning, an OCD ritual; I had that fold down to a tee, black bic at hand (had to be black), all answers in upper case, and a diagonal tick over the number of every solved clue. Doing the online version just didn’t do it for me somehow.

Elsewhere:

• Tributes flow as ‘genius’ crossword-setter dies
• O’brien press have a Crosaire book.
• Derek Crozier bio on a Crosaire blog

My attempt from yesterday

My attention wavers very easily though. Even with a regular book I could quite easily read two pages before realising I wasn’t even listening to myself. Always reminds me of that Laurel and Hardy scene:

Laurel and Hardy “Beau Hunks”

Stan: reads a long letter to Ollie;
Ollie: sighs and looks sad
Stan: What’s the matter Ollie?
Ollie: Didn’t you read it to me!?
Stan: Yeah but I wasn’t listening.

I’ve had much more of a tendency to drift off while listening to a book and doing chores, or out and about, so there was lots of rewinding.

And I fell asleep listening to it every night too. I’ve read myself to sleep for as long as I can remember so an audiobook on a nano is great. No longer do I have to get up and turn the light off when the book hits the ground. And if I’m not falling asleep listening to a book, I’m listening to a podcast. Yes I’m very late to the world of Pod and I’m a total convert!

Sometimes lately I feel like my life is just fleeting away before my eyes. Not getting much done, or at least not much that’s fulfilling,  plonking myself in front of the tv more often than I’d like. Never dreamed I’d be an Apple fanboy but it’s given me a new  lease of life.

So, onto the books. For my first audiobook I asked for recommendations on Facebook and bought the one that was mentioned twice. But then I got the next few straight away and ploughed through them too.

The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño

Didn’t really enjoy this first one unfortunately. I just couldn’t relate to it and didn’t care about any of the characters. I didn’t find much of it entertaining. I really should have gone with my gut because I saw Bolaño compared to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Garcia’s 100 0f years of solitude is the only novel I decided not to finish. Both of them are Spanish-to-English translations featuring more characters than my brain can process. I had to keep referring to Wikipedia’s list of characters. I get the feeling I just didn’t get it (Savage Detectives), maybe the joke of treating a bunch of poets as if they were the Mexican Mafiosa was supposed to be more entertaining than I found it.

Most of the reviews on Amazon are 5 stars but this one struck a chord with me:

The Savage Detectives, I agree with several recent reviewers, lapses into spectacular and permanent tedium less than half-way through. Bolano has never lost me, until this book. When I reached page 400, knowing there were still a couple hundred pages left, I experienced something akin, I think, to torture.

Life’s too short for just ploughing on with it but I was curious if it would all come together at the end, and it cost 26 fucking euros. So I stuck with it.

The book was narrated by different male actors, who put on appropriate accents and personalities for each of the characters. One outcome of this, with so many characters, is that it can be hard to tell what sex the character is suppsoed to be.  At one point I read of a long love affair between two guys. Then, only towards the end, one of them pronounced to have her period. Doh!

I didn’t really expect the acting you hear in an audiobook. It’s a restrained form of acting. Somewhere between straight narration and a radio play but it does enhance the experience when done well.

The Road

Next on the list was The Road.  I deliberately wanted something a bit more mainstream and  Iliked the sound of The Road. Sounded nice and dark. And it’s impossible to avoid hearing little pieces about it, and a lot of little pieces add up to a big spoiler. Tom Dunne and his guest’s are the biggest offenders. And you don’t need to hear any more about it from me, but  I really enjoyed it. Was 1/4 the length of the previous book too yet was 4 tiems more entertaining.

Neil Gaiman – The Graveyard book

This was apparently awarded audiobook of the year at some ceremony. All the reviews I read were glowing. But not one of them mentioned that it’s a children’s book! With some things I’m still a big kid but not really books. I need something a bit more. It was entertaining, amusing and very well read by Gaiman himself. So, entertaining enough  but still a children’s book and not really in a  way, I thought, that was universal to all ages, like The Curious Incident. So, back to the big boy’s stuff.

George Pelenecanos – The Way Home

Chris Flynn, a runaway Wigga on the right side of the tracks battles against the sobering onset of maturity.  Written by one of  The Wire writers, and narrated by one of The Wire actors (who plays a minor role thiugh). It’s similar in content; really good characters and a good story wrapped around social commentary. In fact I found some of the social commentary, mostly with regards to the treatment of young offenders, a bit forced onto the characters. Similar to how you might contradict dialogue in a movie for explaining a plot. But only a little bit. I mostly really enjoyed The Way Home;  and will buy Pelecanos again.

Next

I’ve wanted to try some nonfiction audio but some reviews I read, of Steve Pinker for example, is that it’s not really suitable as an audiobook. But I got something lighthearted. Notes from a small Island by Bill Bryson, who I love.  I’ve justbought that, and that’s my itunes voucher gone now with the help of Gorillaz latest album. So I’ve  joined Audible. Have these in my listening list:

I spent the entirety of last night pacing back and forth, moaning and groaning, trying to distract myself with movies when I could stay still, and the Wii when I couldn’t. I’ve never known such a severe unrelenting pain. I’m pretty sure removing the lower half of my face would be less painful.

I went through three boxes of painkillers over the weekend and they did nothing. I coldnt wait for the long weekend to be over. I got an emergency dentist appointment this morning, or make that yesterday morning if you’ve had a night’s sleep. Half of my mouth has an infection. So antibiotics and hardcore Ponstan are the order of the day, that’s more like it.

But even the Ponstan just take the edge for a little while though. This is fucking crazy insane pain. I can’t sit still or stop grimacing. Yesterday I seemed to develop Tourrettes; randomly shouting, clapping, banging my feet, pulling faces. Anything to try and distract from the pain. And exhaustion.

I thought I’d be out cold tonight not having slept a wink last night. I thought I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes open. But nope. Here I am again, day 5, in the house of pain, 3:50am, wandering around like a sleep deprived zombie. I’ve already taken two days worth of Ponstan tonight.

Oddly enough, I haven’t been out of work yet. I managed the best part of a day’s work yesterday when I got back from the dentist. The distraction of working, when I could bear it, was as good as any other. Of course I couldn’t handle this if I worked in a regular office and not from a home office. Imagine me in a regular office; walking around grimacing, randomly barking over the pangs of pain and rocking back and forth at my desk. No, that wouldn’t do.

And here’s the thing. I went to the dentist with the exact same complaint 3 years agao, and he referred me to a specialist to have it removed. I was on a waiting list all that time and now I’m back on it! Wtf!? So hopefully the Antibiotics will clear the infection up soon enough (again!).

Well that killed twenty minutes. Might as well publish it. Then I’ll get back to the zombie shuffle. Or I might writhe around the bed for a few more hours wondering if when I can take more Ponstan. Woe is me etc etc…

I cross the road, one turn left, one turn right and I am alone on the street that leads to the canal. As I cross a final road, a guy appears from the right and walks in front of me. He’s young, early twenties, not Irish, maybe Polish. He stops at a door and turns to the right as he inserts the key. He catches my eye and smiles. I smile back, and nod to acknowledge the joke of our mirrored exchange.

He’s younger than I thought I ponder. Give him a few more years and he’ll stop smiling at strangers. Strangers who will easily, and understandably miss such subtleties, and strangers who will think him strange for smiling. But I cherish the moment, and the canal is all the more soothing that day.

"Yeah nuthin’s open, no taxis, and no public jacks for miles" said Sean "No wonder this city smells of piss".

"Next lane?"

"Too right"

If that lane was two miles away, the lads would have held on, but it wasn’t far at all and the closer they got, the more their bladders felt like a pufferfish after swallowing a bath.

They started to run but it was a funny kinda run. You know the one; more of a dance, knees knocking together, fists clenched and their foreheads sweating piss.

They made it to the top of the lane: "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH". Like Lennon and McCartney, in perfect chorus. Then Johnner comes running up the Lane screaming at the top of his lungs. "N0000000000000000000000000".

"What the f….?"

"Noooooooooooooo,

S-T-O-P!!!!"

"D–O–N–T

C—R—O—S–S

S—-T—-R—-E—-A—-M—-S!!!!"

"Oh for fucks sake Johhner have you been watching Ghostbusters again? You made me piss all over me jeans ya big muppet"

"Eh, sorry"

—————————

If you liked that you might like “Your number’s up mate” and “Corky”

Nah, no Rudeboy; skinny little white boy with fears of the world – but you hear that music now and you’re right back there, ready for it all. There’s girl’s to be fought over, lessons to be learned, teenage memories to be etched on your brain forever. Dance around the fire. Pass the flagon. Put you arms on my shoulders, and sing the song, a song that will bring you right back there twenty years later and still burn a fire in your belly.

Original video

1. Life-like 3D first person games

There was one game I used to always play in the arcades; Kung-fu, a two dimensional platform game, where you made your way along some kind of stage kicking and punching 17 identical brothers before you got to kill the big boss. Great fun. And the one where you were a tank, which seemed mad-futuristic even though it was some green lines on a black background. I always had this crazy idea that someday, computer games would almost be like cartoons where you controlled the main character. Except even more realistic than that. And you could go wherever you wanted, not just left and right on some kind of stage. I can clearly remember saying that to a mate in an arcade one day and he thought I was completely deluded. Well how’d you like them apples!?

2. Watching / Recording other people’s dreams

When I was into sci-fi novels, I had one idea for a novel, not a fully-fledged story, just an interesting occupation for the main character; a world famous dream artist, filling huge arenas with people who would come to watch his dreams live. But then one day his dreams get hacked and everyone sees him on the big screen dreaming about a murder that happened that day. But it wasn’t really him. Or was it!? Aaaannnnyway. I always thought it would be a fascinating advancement, and again here we are; this is now possible. Almost. kind of; read all about it on Pink Tentacle.
(This isn’t exactly breaking news though. This post has been in a draft for two months!)

3. Doctors feeling what you feel

Then there was the one about going to your futuristic doctor. You stick a wire on your head and the other end on is and he shouts "Christ, that’s fucking sore! Here take three of these twice a day and don’t go to the toilet for two days" and you can be on your way.

Well I’m still waiting for that one. Some day though. You mark my word.

I thought I’d have a go at a twitter sized (140 characters) short story during the week. Though I did get one WTF?! reply, thankfully the Dublin homicide team didn’t smash the door down; recently a friend of a friend of…. twittered about smothering her daughter, very obviously joking and in context. Soon enough the LA cops were banging the door down. Yikes.