Pueblo Ingles - Part 1

Last Tuesday evening I found myself obliged to act the part of a wolf in an improvised mime performance of Little Red Riding Hood. The captive audience of around 40 people may well have laughed, but they also had to take their turn on stage, depicting fairy tales for the group. We did some other ridiculous things over the next few days – very few of them on our own initiative – for we were engaged in a learning programme.

I had volunteered to spend a week isolated with these people, half of whom were Spaniards learning English and the other half native speakers of English from around the world. We were in a rather nice hotel-complex, located in the hills to the west of Salamanca, attending an “immersion course” - so called because English was the only language allowed to be spoken by everyone present, including the hotel staff. The only Spanish sounds to be heard were the exotic, elegant names of the Spaniards which, for me, conjured up technicoloured scenes from their rich background of history, art and culture. In contrast, we Anglos mostly had stumpy, monosyllabic tags like Joe, Malc, Doug or Deb that cowered in the corners of our identity badges, trying to assert our “individuality” by denying all family connections. We might as well have been bar-coded.

So, from the start, it seemed a great pity that the beautiful and evocative Spanish language had to be replaced by the sprawling mish-mash of English; all for the sake of business, career promotions and the facilitation of international communication. Nevertheless, I settled to the task of conversing non-stop for 8 days. This may sound easy but the constant striving to understand and be understood is a tiring process, so we came to appreciate relief in the form of group activities such as silly games, an excursion to the local village, drinking, siestas and the (very) occasional free period.

In return for helping to develop the students’ foreign language skills, however, there was a valuable payoff. It turned out to be a great way to get to know something about Spain without having to bother to learn Spanish – a sort of free sample, or “try before you buy”. We found out about their food - we were in Iberica Jamon country, surrounded by the famous black pigs; we visited the tourist town of La Alberca, the first ever World Heritage site, protected as far back as the 1930’s; we encountered patriots of the separate and distinctive Catalan culture; and we learned a lot about Spanish football team allegiances. Culture, customs and family histories all came alive but, best of all, we discovered real Spanish people. Our close confinement with them revealed their charm, warmth, sociability, passion and sense of humour. We developed real relationships, quite different from those you could normally expect through fleeting contacts made during a typical visit.

The Spaniards, of course, will have had a different experience. Preoccupied as they must have been with the task they set themselves and confused, perhaps, by the variety of our accents, idioms and cultural and geographical references, many of them must have left the venue doubting whether they had made any linguistic progress at all.

In one respect, at least, we did all have a shared experience. When strangers are thrown together cliques soon start to form and, with a demographic which included 8 nations and spanned more than 40 years in age difference, there was plenty of scope for this social phenomenon. By the end of the week gossip was beginning to break out, sub-groups started to gather in secluded corners and would-be leaders and politicians began their canvassing. One wonders what kind of mini-society might have evolved by the end of a second week. Did the event organisers foresee this undesirable dynamic and decide that 8 days would be the optimal time-span for the maintenance of international harmony and understanding?

V Day - A Male Perspective

I was a coy, uninitiated teenager, unwillingly present at a gathering of my Devonian aunts, when an exchange of ribaldry broke out between them. I don’t recall much except that the least inhibited of them delivered the punchline, “Well, they do say you’m sittin’ on a fortune”. I blushed intensely, much to their amusement, for that was the first time that I had heard women talk  about the part of their anatomy that defines them so intimately.

Yes, I am talking about the vagina because, on March 8th 2011, the 100th anniversary of International Women’s Day, I was reminded of that incident when I attended a performance of The Vagina Monologues . This time there were different circumstances. For a start, this was a staged, theatrical event for which I had bought a ticket. So I could hide. The lights were dimmed and my blushes could go unnoticed. Also, I had the advantage, by now, of having more knowledge and experience of the topic. Nevertheless, I still expected this to be one of the less comfortable experiences to which I had voluntarily exposed myself.

The event was organised to mark IWD by a charity founded by women to help other women in distress. It’s easy to say that I am in favour of everything that IWD stands for because I actually am. It was easy to support the charity and buy a ticket for the performance. It was even easy to raise smiles from my female friends at the reception prior to the performance. They might have been smiles of pleasure at seeing me, or smiles of approval at my attendance, or even smiles of pity at my plight. Whatever the case, I welcomed them, for I was massively outnumbered by women and therefore keen to curry favour.

As we took our seats I nervously counted only three other men in the hall, but the opening sketches put me at ease. There were light-hearted stories and funny anatomical descriptions and I felt able to relax and join in the laughter - although I was careful to do so discreetly. Then there followed some more fun stuff, with plenty of allusions to sexual gratification, and I even began to feel (marginally and incidentally) included. I should have guessed, however, that the journey was not going to be all easy going. It wasn’t long before it started to get tough, with detailed descriptions of physiological and medical intimacies being aired to the nodding, knowing approval of all around me. These are issues which men will so often choose to ignore, either on the grounds that they are not our concern, or that they detract from the allure of the object of our desire.

I was now feeling uncomfortable and even a little queasy, but there was no chance of an anonymous, early exit and so I was obliged to sit tight and take it like a man - and that turned out to be the nub of the problem: being a man. What followed was a section detailing the tragically awful brutality inflicted on women by men- past, present and future. It may be the case that the few men present could not be held personally responsible, yet the collective guilt hung heavy on us as unwilling figureheads for the wanton perpetration of vile crimes. I found it impossible to hold my head up.

This was essentially an audience participation event and, whilst not qualified to join in with the cheering, the whoops of approval and the general sisterly togetherness, I could at least laugh along at the funny bits and, as a fellow human, identify with the reality of the suffering of countless millions of women. I always was thankful not to have been born a female and now I am even more so.

A Step Too Far?

The gym is in a large, underground warehouse, which may be one reason why my subconscious mind associates the place with dungeons and general physical unpleasantness. Another reason could be the black, sinister, dangerous-looking pieces of equipment, most of which I have not yet tried for size. I have recently resorted to joining in classes instead, hoping that there will be both safety in numbers and some role-models to help elevate my personal achievement goals.

Another cause for concern might be that Teacher has had an MR scan on her knee and told us that an operation will be required to fix two ligaments and to scrape something or other. She is very nervous about the operation and anxious about being out of action for an indefinite period. Whilst I empathise with her dilemma, I also fear for my own future. Is this the fate of those who over-indulge in physical activities? Her claim that her knee was injured in an (unspecified) accident on Copacabana beach could, of course, be true but it is of little comfort, since I have recently signed up for her Brazilian Body Sculpt classes (not that I am anticipating spectacular results) and I do not want to end up hospitalised as a consequence.

The most likely cause of knee injury for me (outside of the South Americas) is actually the step - that plastic platform which is used in the musical movement routines to strengthen leg muscles. I have no trouble getting onto or off from the step, but I am in extreme danger of falling over it since I have not yet co-ordinated my movements with those of the others in the class - or even with the music. I have tried to learn by example and follow my classmates, but the walls of mirrors reflect so many different people in so many varying positions and states of distress that I end up confused, not knowing my left from my right. I have tried concentrating on following just one of the others, but soon became conscious that I was staring at them too intently and, since they are all female, decided not to pursue this plan. Teacher cannot help, since she is temporarily excused ‘step’ so I flounder on, bewildered by the complexity of routines devised in the cause of keeping fit.

Teacher leads many different classes so she often has to ask us to remind her about what we did in the last session. Mostly we say “inner thighs”, since that is one of the more painful routines, in the hope that she will say “OK, then this week we will do bums”. I realise this is not in the true spirit of self improvement, but at least it brings levity to the sessions and is better than doing “abs”. In any case, sometimes she is suspicious that we might be lying so “inner thighs” it is.

This morning, on my way to the mirror, in search of any noticeable traces of body sculpting, I became aware of a pain. If I were a footballer, or a cricketer, I suppose I might have a claim to be suffering from what I believe they call a groin strain. Since I am neither, let’s just say that I have a pain in the inner thigh region. She probably won’t believe me, though.

Museum Piece

Lack of planning is generally thought to be a bad thing and is the origin of sayings such as “They couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery”. I would argue, however, that there is a case for a degree of laxity in planning ahead and that minimal preparation can allow the opportunity for serendipity in one’s life, as well as removing the stress that can result from rigid timetabling.

My recent visit to the Manchester Museum may be a case in point. Admission is free of charge but, as I was about to pass through the open door, a security person ambled by, mug in hand on her way to chat with the shop staff. “We’re not open yet. Another 10 minutes”. She continued towards her rendezvous, leaving me with an unexpected moral dilemma: whether to walk into the museum anyway, or to play by the rules and loiter, needlessly, in the lobby. Now this was a situation which would never have arisen had I troubled myself with a little research into the opening hours, but it turned out to have its upside. I diverted into an adjoining room housing a temporary exhibit of Chinese artefacts and, apparently, not subject to the same opening times.

It was a small but diverse and interesting collection, from which I learned two things in particular. One was that the Chinese really did invent a lot of stuff thousands of years before Westerners had even thought of painting on cave walls. The other thing I learned was that they left nothing to chance (remarkable given their present day reputation as gamblers). One of the displays showed a whole set of model furniture for the deceased to take to the next world for use as a pattern to make real furniture for their new life there. In another display there was a ceramic plaque covered in writing which was to act as a sort of passport to hand to the government officials who were expected to be waiting for them in the afterlife. Here in the West we have a saying – “nothing is certain in life but death and taxes” and we can rely on the onset of the former closing the account on the latter. For the unfortunate Chinese of antiquity, however, there was no escape from either. What must it be like to take your tax file with you when you go? It seems they left nothing to chance and were thus both masters and victims of their own forward planning.

On leaving that room I was drawn to an old fashioned office off to the side. Seen through the panes of glass in the oak-framed partition, its furnishings appeared fusty, as if from another age - perhaps 1930- and the haphazard collection of peculiar objects inside was irresistibly intriguing. The brass doorknob could not be turned so I concluded that it must not yet be open. The sign over the door proclaimed this to be the ‘Bureau of the Centre for the Study of Surrealism’ and I longed to gain entry. As it turned out though, this fascinating corner of the museum was an exhibit in itself – a piece of installation art by Mark Dion – observable only through the window panes.

I finally did get into the main museum, only to discover another consequence of my failure to plan ahead. It was the half-term holiday, and conscientious parents from all around had brought their noisy, over-excited children to be entertained and/or educated. Since this was not conducive to my relaxed morning exploring antiquities I headed for the exit, stopping only at the beetle and bug department to note the jewel-like qualities of the pinned out specimens, and to ponder why they don’t look creepy at all when they are immobilised. Only later did I reflect upon the unexpected, small but entertaining pleasures gained from having had no methodical plan for the visit to the museum.

A Jazz Standard

Ladybarn, a suburb of Manchester, is a classic example of Victorian urban planning situated five miles from the city centre and bang on the railway line built to ferry people to and from work. “So what?” you may say; but, for me, the place brings memories of a personal crisis I experienced when I used to live there back in the early 80’s. It wasn’t an acute crisis, but important nevertheless to my personal development. At or around that time my musical palate was beginning to dull. The thrill of rock guitar solos was wearing thin, my attempts to dance convincingly to reggae were looking desperate and even ‘the blues’ could only hold my attention for about 10 minutes at a time. I began to seek alternative stimulation and excitement in classical concerts, but found myself distracted by watching the musicians instead of listening to the performance. I went to the opera but found that I was similarly distracted and, in any case, just could not do that ‘suspension of disbelief’ thing.

And so it was that I decided to try jazz. This had much to do with ease of access to Ladybarn’s main attraction, The White Swan, a.k.a. The Mucky Duck, a pub which hosted jazz sessions in the club room upstairs every Friday night. There, for a modest, single-figure entrance fee (and with even more modest numbers in attendance), I was initiated into the world of the mainstream jazz quartet. The style and repertoire that night and subsequently was not adventurous, but it was the skills and sensitivities of the musicians that impressed and set me off on an exploration of the myriad forms of jazz, liberating me, at last, from the tyranny of the music ‘industry’ and providing me with an endless seam of musical pleasures.

Friends of mine still live in that same part of town. They have seen the local cinema close, the shops turn into food take-aways, the estate agents scramble to squeeze every last penny of profit from each square foot of property and, now, the pubs starting to be boarded-up. But The White Swan is fighting back with its secret weapon. Not good beer, not smart new furnishings or a welcoming, jovial atmosphere; not a well-priced food menu of classics-with-a-modern-twist, but with jazz! The same jazz that wasn’t popular before. The same jazz that had to be hidden, upstairs in the club room, lest anyone should hear it. I went to meet my friends there last Friday evening. “We must help them out!” they pleaded. The entrance fee was even less than it had been in 1982 - and it included a raffle ticket. The prize was a bottle of wine and, for a while, it looked as if I had a 100% chance of winning it. Then the other bloke turned up. My friends then arrived, further diluting my chances. Not only had I become lonely by then, but had recklessly ignored their advice not to buy the draught beer, so they took pity and bought me something potable.

We really enjoyed the music. The standard of playing was high and the individual skills of the musicians well-balanced. They played many of the comforting, familiar old standards and introduced them with one or two of the familiar old jokes. (Pedants of punctuation are particularly fond of Cole Porter’s song being introduced thus: What is this thing called, love?).

There is no denying, however, that ambience suffers when the audience is thin so, musing on how numbers might be boosted, we came up with a few marketing suggestions.

For the lads in the band: 1) Remember that audiences deserve respect too, so do try to dress for the occasion. 2) Remember that audiences like to have a good time, so do try to look as though you enjoy performing.

And for the leader: 1) Communication with your audience is about more than playing your instrument well, so do try to make eye contact while mumbling at them in between numbers. 2) Learn some new jokes.

And for the publican: 1) Secrecy is rarely an effective marketing tool. 2) Neither is watery ale.

When all these suggestions have been considered and acted upon, I hope and expect there will be a revival in fortunes for both the local pub and its worthy bands of jazz musicians.