Mike Church's Podcasts

Start Me Up Mick pressed the dreaded button and braced himself. What delights would his beloved PC hold in store for him today? A prompt to install Service Pack 21? An invitation to upgrade to Media Player 49? A reminder that his yearly anti-virus subscription would expire in 11 months’ time?             He knew the routine well by now for, regardless of  program, the procedure was always the same:             Install? OK – Leave for later.             Leave for later.             Leave for later? Yes – No.             Yes.             Yes, install or Yes, leave for later? Accept – Cancel.             Cancel.             Proceed with installation? OK – Leave for later.             Ctrl-Alt-Del.             Ctrl-Alt-Del?             You heard me! I want to speak to the Manager!             That usually fixed it, and Mick was now ready to do battle with “The Beast”. Whilst no two mornings were ever the same – perish the thought that he should be in control of his life – today’s inbox was fairly representative of his daily challenges. Namely: ten mails asking after a critical report; seven messages to ring Mr. Jones urgently; four requests to hold a team meeting immediately; and one silly story about a man who hated computers.             The reports, calls and meetings could wait. This one was vital.

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Life On Mars ‘OK, let’s warm up with some simple questions. What's your favourite month, Jon?’             ‘My favourite month?’             ‘Yes, your favourite month.’             ‘Owgost. Is easy!’             ‘Owgost?’             ‘Yes, Owgost.’             ‘When's Owgost, Jon?’             ‘When is Owgost?’             ‘Yes. When's Owgost?’             ‘After Julie.’             ‘Julie?’             ‘Yes, Julie.’             ‘And when's Julie?’             ‘When is Julie?’             ‘Yes. When's Julie?’             ‘You no know?’             ‘No, I no know. Er, don't know, sorry.’             ‘After Junie.’             ‘Junie?’             ‘Yes, Junie. After May, no?’             ‘OK, thanks, Jon. Er, all right, can everyone repeat after me—’             ‘AFTER ME.’             ‘Ha ha ha. Now listen carefully . . . JUNE. JUNE. Everyone?’             ‘JUNE.’             ‘Good. And after June comes JuLY. JuLY. Everybody?’             ‘JuLY.’             ‘Good. And then the best month of the lot: AUgust. "OR"gust. Everyone?’             ‘AUgust.’             ‘Excellent! June, JuLY, AUgust. Together, please.’             ‘JUNE, JuLY, AUgust.’             ‘That's better! Now then, let’s see, er . . . So, Jon, what's your favourite month?’             ‘Owgost. I say you! Why you no listen me?’             ‘AUgust, Jon. AUgust.’             ‘Yes. OWgost.’             ‘Look, never mind, Jon. Er, how about you, Janet?’             ‘How about?’             ‘What's your favourite month?’             ‘Mars.’             ‘Mars?’             ‘Yes, Mars.’             ‘That's a planet, Janet.’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘Mars is a planet, Janet. Between the Earth and Jupiter. You can’t miss it.’             ‘Estúpida?! Estupid you!’ . . .

Food For Thought ‘Bread, butter, cheese . . .’             It was a depressing list.             ‘Buns, biscuits, cakes . . .’             Then again, all of Mick’s lists were depressing these days.             ‘Beer, brandy, chocolate . . .’             Why did all the good things in life begin with B or C? And, more to the point, why were all the “good things in life” bad for the body, a burden to burn off and crammed with cholesterol-enhancing calories?             ‘Burgers, bacon, chorizo . . .’             Summer was approaching fast, and the daily beach inspections were just around the corner. It was time to bring out his trusted “no BBC for me” diet.             ‘Brownies, bagels, cream teas . . .’             Mick was struggling now. He’d never had a bagel in his life and, let’s face it, “cream teas” was a bit of a cop-out, wasn’t it? He’d be resorting to brand names next.             ‘Baileys, Ballantine’s, Cointreau . . .’             Thankfully for both Mick and the Spanish wine industry, Rioja began with an R.             ‘Bacardi, Beefeater, coffee . . .’             Coffee?! No way! Besides, all the klever dicks spelt koffee with a K, didn’t they?              If you kan’t beat them, join them! kontemplated Mick, sipping his ice-kold koffee.

Taxman ‘Hello?’             ‘Hello. Could I speak to your mother or father, please?’             ‘Did you want my mother or my father?’             ‘Either, please.’             ‘Well, they live in England. And they don’t speak Spanish. How good is your English?’             ‘Oh, er, I think—’             ‘Who did you want to talk to?’             ‘Er, Mr. Michael Crunch?’             ‘Yes, that’s me.’             ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’             ‘That’s alright. Lots of people say I don’t sound my age. I’m twenty-one, by the way. Anyway, what can I do you for?’             ‘Well, I'm ringing from Shitty Bank, and we notice that your tax return was unfavourable this year. Does this worry you at all?’             ‘Not in the slightest.’             ‘Oh.’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘I said, “Oh”. You're supposed to say, “Yes”. I don't have a script for “No”.’             ‘Well, that wasn’t very bright of your boss, was it?’             ‘No, I suppose not.’             ‘Would you like me to help you?’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘Would you like me to help you with your script?’             ‘Well, have you got the time?’             ‘Yes, it’s half past one.’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘Ignore me. OK, then, er, . . . Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’             ‘Amanda.’             ‘That’s a lovely name. OK, then, Amanda, let’s suppose your victim says, “No” . . .’

You’ve Got A Friend ‘It says here, “Brian and Sue are now friends”.’             ‘Did they have a bust-up?’             ‘Not to my knowledge.’             ‘So, what’s it to you?’             ‘Nothing. It’s just they’re not friends. They’re brother and sister.’             ‘Makes sense. Brothers and sisters are like that, you know.’             ‘I suppose you’re right.’             ‘Of course I’m right. Anyway, don’t you think you’re taking this Facebook lark a bit too seriously?’             ‘You bet I am! Do you remember that interview I went for the other day?’             ‘No.’             ‘Do you know the first question the bastards asked me?’             ‘ “Did you have a pleasant journey, Mr. Church?” ’             ‘ “How many Facebook friends have you got, Michael?” ’             ‘Ha! Michael! Nice one. And what did you tell ’em?’             ‘The truth, of course.’             ‘You wally.’             ‘I said I’d sooner be seen dead than waste my life clicking on a sodding “Like” button on a social network designed for and by morons.’             ‘You tell ’em, Michael. Did you get the job?’             ‘What do you think? Anyway, if you can’t beat them, join them, I guess.’             ‘Exactly. So, what are you doing now?’             ‘Sending out friend requests.’             ‘That’s pathetic, Mick.’             ‘I know.’             ‘Send me one while you’re at it, will ya?’

Beaches Of Cheyenne ‘There was this bloke, right? And he–’             ‘You can't start stories like that, Mummy.’             ‘Why not, dear?’             ‘All stories begin, "Once upon a time".’             ‘Bollocks they do.’             ‘What's "bollocks", Mummy?’             ‘Sorry, dear, I was talking to myself.’             ‘Do you often talk to yourself, Mummy?’             ‘All the time.’             ‘Daddy's stories are crap.’             ‘That's not a nice word, dear.’             ‘Daddy said people crap all the time.’             ‘Never mind what Daddy said.’             ‘Has Daddy got bollocks, Mummy?’             ‘Yes, dear, but I don't like you using that word.’             ‘What about the bloke, Mummy?’             ‘Yes, he had them, too.’             ‘I meant, What happened to him?’             ‘Oh, I see. Well, one day he was walking–’             ‘Through the wood?’             ‘Don't interrupt, dear.’             ‘Sorry, Mummy, it's just all of your stories are about people walking through woods.’             ‘Oh really? Well, this bloke was walking along the beach.’             ‘The beach?’             ‘It's the part between the sea and the land.’             ‘I know what a beach is, Mummy. Did you know beaches can have children?’             ‘Don’t be silly, dear.’             ‘That's what Daddy told me, anyway.’             ‘You shouldn't believe everything your father tells you.’             ‘Because he's a great big son of a beach?’             ‘Something like that, dear. Goodnight.’             ‘Goodnight, Mummy.’

Da, Da, Da Driving disastrously down Drizzly Descent during Denmark’s depression, Dreamy Dave deemed “dem d-words” decidedly demoralising: dum d-words -> damn, dank, dark, dearth, death, debt, den, die, dim, dirt, don’t, doom, dope, doubt, down, drab, dread, dregs, drink, drone, droop, drop, drown, drugs, dull, dumb, dump, Dan, Darth, Dick! dum-da d-words -> damage, danger, darkness, daunting, D-Day, deadline, deadly, deathbed, deathtrap, deathly, debris, defect, demon, despot, devil, dickhead, dingy, dipstick, dire, dirty, dismal, dodgy, dogshit, doomsday, dopey, downside, downturn, dozy, dragon, drama, drawback, dreaded, dreary, drowsy, dungeon, Duncan, Dalek, Davros! dum-da-da d-words -> dangerous, dastardly, defecate, demonise, denigrate, desperate, destitute, detriment, devilish, difficult, dogsbody, Dracula, Damien! da-dum d-words -> debase, default, degrade, demean, deny, depressed, deride, descend, despair, despise, detract, distress, divorce, defeat, Denise! da-dum-da d-words -> damnation, defective, deficient, degrading, demeaning, demonic, demotion, denial, depressing, derision, despondent, dilemma, disaster, discouraged, dismissal, disparage, disturbing, dramatic, Delilah, Drusilla! da-dum-da-da d-words -> degenerate, demoralise, demotivate, discouraging, disparaging, draconian, Dickensian, Demetrius! da-da-dum-da d-words -> desperation, destitution, diabolic, disadvantage, disappointment, disillusion, Desdemona! D-word detractors despised Dave’s diabolically drafted “Daft Dimerick”: Dave’s Daft Dimerick Drusilla’s Dad’s definitely deadly Delilah’s deeds detonate debris “Damnation! Despair!” Dark demons declare “Dis dimerick’s downrightly deathly!” Dear, doh dear, doh dear!

Roll With It ‘Can I take your umbrella, Daddy?’             ‘What happened to yours?’             ‘It’s wet.’             ‘That’s what umbrellas are for. Where are you going?’             ‘Out.’             ‘Yes, I guessed that. But where?’             ‘We don’t know yet.’             ‘And when will you be back?’             ‘About twelve.’             ‘Twelve? But you’ve got school tomorrow!’             ‘That’s why I’m coming home early, Daddy. Can you give me some money, please?’             ‘How much do you need?’             ‘Twenty euros should be enough.’             ‘Are you having dinner with the King?’             ‘No, just a roll.’             ‘In that case you don’t need twenty euros.’             ‘No, but I need money for the bus as well.’             ‘Private bus, is it?’             ‘Don’t be silly, Daddy.’             ‘Have a look in my wallet. I’m not sure I’ve got twenty euros.’             ‘Yes, you have. I looked earlier.’             ‘Alright, take twenty, then. But I want to see some change, OK?’             ‘OK. Can you do me a sandwich, please?’             ‘I thought you just said you were going to have a roll with your friends?’             ‘I am, but I’m hungry. Don’t worry, I’ll make it if you’re too busy. What are you doing?’             ‘Just writing a short story.’             ‘What about?’             ‘You.’             ‘Can I read it?’             ‘Later, darling. Come on, let’s make you that sandwich.’

Gonna Make You An Offer You Can’t Refuse ‘Next, please?’             ‘Er, could I have a lettuce, please?’             ‘Red or green?’             ‘Haven’t you got any blue ones?’             ‘Blue? Sorry, mate, just red or green.’             ‘I’m just kidding. I’ve never heard of a red lettuce. Can I have a look, please?’             ‘Sure. Here you go. Beauty, isn’t she?’             ‘Not very red, though, is it? I’d say it’s more of a maroon. Wouldn’t you?’             ‘Also, did you know they’re high on antioxidants?’             ‘You’d better call the police, then.’             ‘You what?’             ‘Nothing. So, are antioxidants important?’             ‘If you value your life, they are. Plus, we’ve got an offer on red lettuces today.’             ‘An offer? What’s that?’             ‘A special price.’             ‘I mean, What’s the offer?’             ‘Two for two euros.’             ‘Not the most exciting of offers, is it? And how much will one lettuce cost me?’             ‘One euro twenty. But if you buy two, you get the second one for just eighty cents.’             ‘It’s very tempting, but I think I’ll take just the one, thanks.’             ‘That’s one euro twenty. Are you sure you don’t want two for two euros?’             ‘No, honestly. We only use them for decoration anyway.’             ‘You what?’             ‘Nothing. There you go.’             ‘Two euros? Changed our mind, have we?’ . . .

Ice Cream Man ‘So, what did you have for lunch, Dani?’             ‘A salad and chicken. And chips. And peas. And bread. And ket—’             ‘Yes, OK, very good, Dani. And did you have a dessert?’             ‘Yes. A yoga.’             ‘Yoghourt, Dani. With a T.’             ‘No, tea no. Coffee. With milk.’             ‘A white coffee, Dani. And what flavour was your yoghourt?’             ‘Flavour?’             ‘Lemon? Chocolate? Kiwi? Mango and papaya? Cheese and onion?’             ‘Estramberry.’             ‘STRAWberry, Dani.’             ‘Yes. Estramberry.’             ‘OK, thank you, Dani. Alright, then, let’s move on . . . I wonder, How many of you saw that documentary last night about those poor people living in the desert? How about you, Angel?’             ‘Ice cream.’             ‘Ice cream?’             ‘Yes, ice cream is my favourite desert.’             ‘Where's that, Angel?’             ‘Where?’             ‘Yes, where?’             ‘Where?’             ‘Yes, where's the Ice Cream Desert?’             ‘I don't understand.’             ‘Well, the documentary last night was about the Sahara Desert. That’s in Africa, isn't it?’             ‘And?’             ‘Is the Ice Cream Desert in Africa, too?’             ‘The Ice Cream Desert?’             ‘DesSERT, Angel. Ice cream is your favourite desSERT; not DEsert. “Ice cream is my favourite desSERT”. Can you say that?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘Let’s hear you, then.’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘ “Ice cream is my favourite desSERT”.’             ‘Is mine too’ . . .

Words It all began on Facebook, of course, when a bored young lady challenged her fellow writing friends to come up with a story that was just six words long. Why six? Don’t shoot the messenger! As somebody who until that moment had never written a six-word sentence – let alone a six-word story (what with all those dashes and brackets for irritating yet important afterthoughts) –, Mick’s initial reaction had been to admit defeat gracefully: You win. I lose. So what?             Needless to say, however, Mick ended up succumbing to the challenge, and even went so far as to record his first Mikicast and post it on YouTube (where it languishes to this day – but that’s another story). Anyway, Mick’s Sikicast went something like this: Sikiatures six silly six-word stories in sixty-six seconds 1 Once upon a time I cried. 2 -Marry me! -Piss off! -Fair enough. 3 Woke up . . . got up . . . threw up. 4 -Was it you? -Yes it was. 5 -Hey, mind the gap! -What gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa 6 Here lies Mike Church. Silly sod. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- If you enjoyed this Mikiature, please show your appreciation by donating six cents to a worthy cause or tramp.

Here There And Everywhere There was only one thing that annoyed Mick more than drivers who didn't indicate: drivers who did indicate, but then didn't do what they indicated. As he chugged along behind the clapped-out Renault that had been threatening to turn right into the embankment for the past 500 yards or so, Mick asked himself, What was it with drivers that upset him so?             Mick’s students, for instance, invariably promised to hand in their compositions by Friday, but they rarely kept their word. Did this worry him? Hardly. When not on the road, Mick was an incredibly empathetic human being; whatever that meant. He understood that his students had terribly stressful lives, what with all those midweek pub crawls, work lunches and yoga sessions. Indeed, he was secretly pleased that he didn’t have to spend all weekend poring over 20 compositions entitled “What I done past weekend”. There was only one possible conclusion, though Mick was damned if he knew what it was. Awakening from his reveries, Mick checked his rearview mirror and cursed the young lady who had been flashing her lights at him since he cut her up at the roundabout. Perhaps he ought to turn off his emergency lights?

The Ties That Bind ‘One of my students said she’d never heard of “identifying relative clauses”.’             ‘Oh? Who was that?’             ‘You know, the one who’s going out with the butcher’s assistant.’             ‘You mean the bald bloke who works down at B and M?’             ‘Isn’t that the supermarket where you give classes, Mick?’             ‘No, that’s M and B. B and M is where Jill works.’             ‘Jill?’             ‘Yeah, Jill. You know, the new girl with the big, er . . .’             ‘Big what, Dick?’             ‘Never mind. Did any of you lot see that documentary last night?’             ‘Which one?’             ‘The one about those poor wildebeest that kept getting attacked by cheetahs.’             ‘Tell me about it.’             ‘Well, apparently—’             ‘We’ve seen it, Dick! Every documentary these days is about some poor animal or other that gets ripped to shreds by lions or tigers.’             ‘Well, these were cheetahs.’             ‘Or cheetahs. So what’s the difference between a buffalo and a bison?’             ‘You can’t wash your face in a buffalo?’             ‘Ha ha ha. Well, according to Wiki—’             ‘Oh Lord! Is that the time? I’d better be going.’             ‘Hey, remember that time you missed your bus and ended up hitching a lift home with that farmer?’             ‘Which farmer?’ . . .

Nothing But The Same Old Story ‘Once upon a time, there was a ham sandwich. One day he–’             ‘A ham sandwich, Daddy?’             ‘That's right, darling.’             ‘Not a princess?’             ‘No. I'm tired of stories about princesses. Aren't you?’             ‘No.’             ‘Well, anyway, one day the ham sandwich was walk–’             ‘What was his name?’             ‘What was whose name, darling?’             ‘The ham sandwich.’             ‘Is it important?’             ‘Of course it is, Daddy! You’re always saying how lucky you are they didn’t call you Rupert.’             ‘Or Montgomery.’             ‘Well?’             ‘Well what?’             ‘His name, Daddy!’             ‘Hammy.’             ‘Hammy?’             ‘Yes, Hammy. And one day Hammy was walking through–’             ‘Can ham sandwiches walk, Daddy?’             ‘Not usually, darling, but this one was special.’             ‘Why doesn't Mummy make me ham sandwiches that walk?’             ‘Because then you wouldn't eat them, would you?’             ‘This is a silly story, Daddy.’             ‘Life is silly, darling.’             ‘Don't you know any normal stories, Daddy?’             ‘You mean stories about princesses, frogs and all that nonsense?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘No.’             ‘So what happened to Hammy, Daddy?’             ‘Hammy?’             ‘The ham sandwich. Remember?’             ‘Ah, yes, Hammy! A tree attacked him while he was walking through the wood.’             ‘A tree?’             ‘Yes, a tree. He was ’ambushed. Hambushed! Get it?’             ‘Ha, ha, ha. Goodnight, Daddy.’             ‘Ham, ham, ham. Goodnight, darling.’

Real Good Looking Boy Mick switched the light on and stood in the doorway, looking at his beautiful little boy. Joe didn’t stir. He slept on; and, most likely, dreamed on, too. Whatever Joe was dreaming about, he was clearly enjoying his time in slumberland.             “He’s a good-looking kid – doesn’t take after you at all,” was the general verdict. Mick was perfectly happy to go along with public opinion, even if comments such as “He’s got his great-grandfather’s eyes” were somewhat over the top in his opinion.             “Smart young lad, too, isn’t he?” Well, what did they expect? “Reminds me of his grandfather,” someone once added, to which Mick had replied, “Oh, I didn’t realise you’ve met my father?”.             Mick stood there, lost in his own dreams and meditating on those questions that every father asks himself at some point: “Will my child succeed where I have failed?”, “Am I preparing him well for the real world?” and “Is that the time? I’d better get dressed”. “Come on, darling, time for school,” said Mick, stealing a kiss on Joe’s cheek before he came round.             “Daddy, don’t forget I need money for my driving lessons,” said Joe, leaping out of bed and into the shower.

Lumberjack Song Diploma in English Language Teaching to Anyone, July 2011 Module One, Paper 1, Task 2 The painful truth is this: regardless of teacher, method, resources or techniques, a good student will always learn and a bad student never will. How do you cope with being a redundant piece of furniture in the classroom? Examiners’ Report Once again, a large percentage of candidates happily admitted that they are “a complete waste of space” and “totally superfluous to the learning process”. Many proceeded to belt out their sob-sob stories of “I never wanted to do this, anyway”, “I should have listened to my evil stepmother”, “I wanted to be a lumberjack”, and so on. It had been hoped that candidates would argue that there is a place for the teacher in the language classroom – in the corner, on the floor, at the back, under the desk, etc. – and that they have a vital role to play: stimulating interest, organising practice, presenting language, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Several candidates did in fact take this line, while one bright spark passed automatically on account of her including the phrases “source of knowledge”, “font of wisdom” and “facilitator of information” in her opening sentence.

What Have I Done To Deserve This? ‘Can I help you?’             ‘No, thanks. I'm just looking.’             ‘What are you looking for?’             ‘Oh, nothing in particular.’             ‘I see.’             ‘You don't mind my looking, do you?’             ‘Feel free.’             ‘Thank you.’             ‘The shirts and tops are here; the shorts and trousers are over there; and the jerseys and jackets are around the corner. Just shout if you need any help.’             ‘Thank you.’             ‘By the way, we’ve got a three-for-two offer on ties and scarves.’             ‘Yes, I saw.’             ‘Miserable weather, eh? Good for business, mind. That's a lovely shirt.’             ‘Hm?’             ‘I said, That's a lovely shirt.’             ‘Yes, it is.’             ‘Would you like to try it on?’             ‘Not now, thanks.’             ‘What size were you looking for?’             ‘I wasn't.’             ‘I'd say you're a large. Shall I measure you?’             ‘Maybe later.’             ‘You're not from here, are you?’             ‘No.’             ‘American?’             ‘English.’             ‘I’ve got a cousin in England.’             ‘Whereabouts?’             ‘Edinburgh.’             ‘That’s Scotland.’             ‘Yeah. We’re thinking of going to London in August. Do you know any good family hotels? We’re not looking for anything fancy; just somewhere to kip for the night, basically. Those shirts might be a bit tight.’             ‘Sorry, I don’t know London that well. Well, thanks. Bye.’             ‘Lovely parks, they say.’ . . .

Bright Side Of The Road ‘Excuse me? Which way to the university, please?’             ‘On foot or by car?’             ‘By car,’ said Mick, pulling on his handbrake.             ‘Which university do you want?’             ‘There’s more than one?!’             Mick feigned surprise even though 25 years of living in the Basque Country had taught him that nothing here was remotely surprising; as illustrated by the fact that, no matter which place you were looking for, there was always at least one other place with the same name.             ‘We’ve got three.’             ‘Three?! Er, Reibar University?’             ‘Do you want the Polytechnic, the Business School or the Science Park?’             ‘The Business School, please.’             Mick resisted the temptation to point out to his new friend that Reibar, in common with every other city in the land, had one university divided into various faculties.             ‘Over there,’ replied the man, pointing to a modern grey building.             ‘Oh!’ said Mick, wondering how he’d missed the massive “Hey, four eyes, we’re over here!” sign.             ‘So either you drive five hundred yards up to the next roundabout, turn around, come back down the same way, and turn right into the university . . . or you park here like everyone else and cross the road. Up to you.’

Free Fallin’ ‘What day is it today, anyone?’             ‘Freeday.’             ‘Freeday, Vanesa?’             ‘Yes, Freeday.’             ‘If it's a free day, why are you here?’             ‘Sorry, sorry?’             ‘I said, If it's a free day, why are you here?’             ‘Because we class on Freeday, no?’             ‘FRIday, Vanesa, FRIday.’             ‘Ah, yes.’             ‘Can you say it?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘I’m waiting.’             ‘Waiting?’             ‘Can you say FRIday, Vanesa?’             ‘FRIday.’             ‘Good. What does "FREE day" mean?’             ‘What mean "FREE day"?’             ‘Yes, what mean "FREE day"?’             ‘Today Freeday, no?’             ‘FRIday, Vanesa, FRIday.’             ‘Ah, yes, FRIday. Sorry.’             ‘No need to apologise, Vanesa. Just remember next time, OK?’             ‘Remember what?’             ‘Ha ha ha. OK, what about FREE? That’s got different meanings, hasn’t it, Pablo?             ‘Yes.’             ‘And what are they?’             ‘I don’t know.’             ‘OK, let’s bring in the big guns. Go on then, Nelson, give us your best shot.’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘Different meanings of FREE, please?’             ‘If something is free, you mustn’t pay for it.’             ‘Don’t have to.’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘Nothing, Nelson. Very good. Carry on, please.’             ‘And if somebody is free, they have no chains. “Let freedom reign. The sun never set on so glorious a human achievement”.’             ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, Nelson. Er, sit down please, Donna. It’s not breaktime yet.’ . . .

Go Your Own Way ‘I’ve peeled the potatoes. Shall I put them in the oven?’             ‘What do you think? Do you notice a difference?’             ‘Yes, much better, darling. I said, Shall I put the potatoes in the oven?’             ‘We need to get more bleach. My back’s killing me.’             ‘I thought I could do some red peppers to go with the pork.’             ‘Those tiles up there were filthy. I’ve done what I can, but we can’t go on like this.’             ‘No, we can’t. Why don’t you give it a rest?’             ‘Did you put the potatoes in the oven, darling?’             ‘That’s what I came to ask you.’             ‘Can you fetch me the vacuum cleaner?’ . . .   ‘Well?’             ‘Well what? Pass me that cloth, will you?’             ‘What about the potatoes?’             ‘Are they already done?’             ‘I haven’t even put them in the oven!’             ‘Well, what are you waiting for? How’s it looking?’             ‘You missed a bit in the corner.’             ‘Where?’             ‘I was joking, darling. OK, I’d better get on.’             ‘Can you get me a stool?’             ‘In a minute. First, I’m going to put the potatoes in.’             ‘Did you remember Mum’s coming today?’             ‘How can I remember if you never told me?’             ‘Hurry up with that stool, darling.’

Just Another Day ‘What time do you get up, Pedro?’             ‘Six past ten.’             ‘Six past ten?’             ‘Yes, six past ten.’             ‘That’s a very exact time.’             ‘Yes.’             ‘So you skip breakfast, do you?’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘You skip breakfast. You don’t have breakfast.’             ‘Yes I have breakfast. Why not?’             ‘It’s rather late for breakfast, isn’t it? Six past ten.’             ‘No, I have time.’             ‘I see. And then you get into a time machine and come to English class?’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘I said, And then you get into a time machine and come to English class.’             ‘No, I drive.’             ‘I see.’             ‘Why "time machine"?’             ‘Because it’s five past eight now and I couldn’t see how else you could get here if you get up at six past ten. What do YOU think, Juan?’             ‘If he has an alarm clock. Why not?’             ‘And a good time machine. Or did you mean, "ten past six", Pedro?’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘When you said, "six past ten", perhaps you meant, "ten past six"?’             ‘Yes, ten past six.’             ‘OK, Juan, what time is it now?’             ‘Eight past six.’             ‘Is it? My watch must be fast.’             ‘And now it's eight past seven.’             ‘Eight past seven?! That last hour really flew, didn't it?’             ‘Sorry?’ . . .

Watching The Detectives ‘So what d’ya reckon, Jenkins?’             ‘Looks stone cold dead to me, Sir.’             ‘Yes, I can see that, Jenkins. I meant, How did he die?’             ‘Well, if you ask me, Sir, I’d say he banged his head on the floor.’             ‘Brilliant, Jenkins. The pool of blood is a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?’             ‘Yes, I supp—’             ‘How did he end up on the floor, Jenkins? Come on, man, show some nous!’             ‘Some what, Sir?’             ‘Nous, Jenkins. Didn’t they teach you anything at university?’             ‘No, Sir.’             ‘I’m waiting.’             ‘Heart attack, Sir?’             ‘I’ll ignore that, Jenkins. You’re lucky it’s Friday. Notice anything about his shirt?             ‘It doesn’t match his jeans, Sir?’             ‘Judas Priest, Jenkins! Look at those yellow stains down the front. And what about that empty yoghourt pot lying beside him? Jesus wept, Jenkins! How many more clues do you need?’             ‘He was a messy eater, Sir?’             ‘You’ve never had one of those yoghourts before, have you, Jenkins? Great for your cholesterol, but disastrous for your body balance.’             ‘How do you mean, Sir?’             ‘The silly sod leant his head back too far, lost his footing and . . . Splat!’             ‘You reckon, Sir?’             ‘Stick to doughnuts, Jenkins. That’s my advice.’

Lift You Up In the year 3030 . . .             ‘So, how do these things work, Stan?’             ‘Stand back and I’ll show you. What you do is lift your right foot up like this and put it down here. Got that? Now comes the best bit . . . Without moving your right foot, lift up your other foot – that’s the left one, Les – and put it down here. Like so.’             ‘That’s amazing! You’re higher than me! Can I have a go?’             ‘Sure. I’ll wait for you.’             ‘OK, here goes . . . Hey! That’s brilliant. So, now what?’             ‘We repeat the same steps, Les, until we get to the top.’             ‘Isn’t that rather tiring?’             ‘There’s only one way to find out.’             ‘Perhaps we should wait for it to start moving.’             ‘Have you been watching those Harrods ads again, Les? This ain’t no excavator; this is a stairs.’             ‘Stairs? Why’s that?’             ‘Because everyone is staring at us. Look, get a move on, Les. I’m losing my balance!’             ‘Me too. Hang on a minute, what’s—’             ‘Don’t touch that!’             ‘Blimey, Stan, you made me jump!’             ‘Sorry, Les, but them barristers are a death trap. Bloody spaceboarders! Now then, mind your step . . .’

Precious Time ‘What are you reading?’             Go away!             ‘What are you reading?’ asked Mick’s tormentor, thumping him on the shoulder.             Fortunately, he had just put his coffee down. If one thing annoyed Mick, it was not being able to have his breakfast in peace. Just ten minutes a day to himself. Was that such an unreasonable request?             Mick turned to face his opponent. A fierce-looking lad armed with fists the size of footballs, Dennis was the sort of guy you wanted on your side in a fight. Well, he looked like a Dennis.             ‘Madrid want to sign—’             ‘Who’s your team?’ Dennis went straight to the point.             ‘Manchester.’ Mick had long since given up trying to explain who Wycombe Wanderers were.             ‘Rooney?’             ‘That’s right. They say Madrid—’             ‘Giggs!’   As they made their way through United’s squad, Mick found himself warming to his not-so-bright friend. He glanced at his watch. Shit! They would have to leave the Liverpool line-up for another day. Mick longed to give him a few more minutes of his time.             ‘I have to go,’ Mick said, smiling apologetically.             ‘Safe journey,’ Dennis replied, shaking Mick’s hand enthusiastically.             That all happened an hour ago, but Mick was missing Dennis already.

You Know My Name (Look Up The Number) ‘OK, everyone, let’s check your homework.’             ‘Homework?’             ‘Yes, Juan, homework. Did you do it?’             ‘No. I forget.’             ‘Sorry, Juan, no points for honesty.’             ‘Eh?’             ‘Never mind, Juan. OK, what page was it, Ana?’             ‘Eh?’             ‘What page was the homework?’             ‘Hundred seventy-six, no?’             ‘The “hundred” was correct, Ana.’             ‘No was hundred seventy-six?’             ‘A hundred and sixty-seven, Ana.’             ‘I say.’             ‘One six seven, Ana. Not one seven six.’             ‘Yes. I say.’             ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. So, Elena, what did you put—’             ‘What page you say?’             ‘A hundred and sixty-seven, Pablo. One six seven.’             ‘No was hundred seventy-six?’             ‘No, Pablo. OK, sorry, Elena. What did you put for number one?’             ‘What I put number one?’             ‘Yes, what you put number one?’             ‘I no put nothing.’             ‘Why?’             ‘I no do homework.’             ‘Copied Juan, eh?’             ‘No, I thinking you say hundred sixty-seven.’             ‘I did say a hundred and sixty-seven, Elena. One six seven.’             ‘So, why we looking hundred seventy-six?’             ‘Jesus wep— OK, folks, forget the homework. Let’s sort this out first. Er, Pablo? Can you count to ten?’             ‘Yes, I can.’             ‘Go on, then. Let’s hear you.’             ‘Eh?’             ‘One . . .’             ‘Eh?’             ‘Nothing, Juan, I was talking to Pablo.’             ‘Eh?’ . . .

Twist And Shout ‘Once upon a time, there was a really ugly princess who lived in a—’             ‘Don’t you mean beautiful princess, Mummy?’             ‘No, darling, this one was ugly.’             ‘In Daddy’s stories, the princesses are always beautiful.’             ‘Well, I’m not Daddy, am I?’             ‘Daddy is always calling me his little princess. Does that mean he thinks I’m small and ugly?’             ‘Of course not, dear. Now where was I? Ah yes! Once upon a time, there was a really ugly princess who lived in a dirty old apartment in a—’             ‘Don’t you mean beautiful castle, Mummy?’             ‘No, dear, I meant what I said.’             ‘So, beautiful people have beautiful homes, but ugly people have ugly homes?’             ‘No, Samantha, you’re twisting my words.’             ‘What’s twisting?’             ‘Deforming or distorting.’             ‘I don’t understand.’             ‘It doesn’t matter how beautiful or how ugly you are, or how beautiful or ugly your home is. It’s what’s inside that counts.’             ‘But I’d rather live in a beautiful castle. Wouldn’t you, Mummy?’             ‘Of course I would. But try telling your father that. Did you like my story?’             ‘You didn’t finish it! Daddy always finishes his stories, Mummy.’             ‘I’ll call him. He can finish this one for you. Goodnight, dear.’             ‘Goodnight, Mummy.’

Wasted Time Twenty-two hundred hours. Twenty-one in the Canaries. Mick took a deep breath, said a short prayer and opened the kitchen door. Operation Garbage was underway.             Phase One – “The Bin Liners” – was relatively straightforward:             1. Push rubbish down until bin liner straps become visible.             2. Grab liner by aforementioned straps, taking care not to break them in process.             3. Curse all and sundry, place clean liner ‘headfirst’ over broken liner, turn bin on head, and empty contents of old liner into new one. Shake vigorously (if it makes you feel any better). Gotcha!             4. Put clean liner in bin before more rubbish materialises.             Phase Two – “The Other Stuff” – was altogether more demanding:             1. Separate ‘recycling mountain’ according to four criteria: looks like paper looks like plastic looks like glass haven’t a clue             2. Put ‘mini-mountains’ into random bags, tossing a coin where necessary.             3. Proceed to Phase Three – “The Meeting Point”.             Armed with his rubbish, Mick staggered down the stairs, into the rain and across the street. Unfortunately, and not for the first time, Mick “micksed up” his plastics and papers. Knowing his luck, he mused, the Neighbourhood Garbage Watch would have the whole show on video.

Are We In Trouble Now Upon a time once there was a man poor who had thoughts ordering his problems. More often than not, matter this didn’t. “Eggs, bacon and sausages, please”, “Bacon, sausages and eggs, please”, “Sausages, eggs and bacon, please”, “Please! Where are sodding my bacon, eggs and sausages?” . . . – what make did it difference? The result end was always the same: galore cholesterol.             Numbers, however, were the life of his bane. According to his portpass, for example, he was 95 old years already, having born been in 1592. And his wife amused very wasn’t when he came from the supermarket back with 21 eggs and 42 loo rolls.             Day one, his wife an ultimatum issued him with:             ‘Of this Brian I’ve had enough! Get help or else.’             ‘What or else, darling?’ he asked, but she meant what he knew.             So an appointment Brian made with his PG, for he loved the world more than anything else in his wife. Unfortunately, he up turned at 20:10 instead of 10:20.   That last Thursday was. Another appointment naturally they gave him: this Tuesday at 11:11 dot the on. Or was it next Thursday for? Eh well, learn and live, oh? CONTINUED TO BE.

Everything I Do, I Do It For You ‘What's that bag doing in the hall?’             ‘Nothing, Daddy.’             ‘I mean, Why did you leave it there?’             ‘I had to leave it somewhere, Daddy.’             ‘Is it your gym bag?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘And are the clothes for washing?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘So why don't you put the clothes in the washing basket?’             ‘Because you always do it for me, Daddy.’             ‘Well, I'm not going to do it this time.’             ‘You'll see.’             ‘And what about that rucksack?’             ‘What about it, Daddy?’             ‘Well, can't you take it to your bedroom?’             ‘What for? I'm going to need it tomorrow.’             ‘Do you have an answer for everything, darling?’             ‘Yes, Daddy. When will dinner be ready?’             ‘Soon. And don't change the subject.’             ‘Don't do too much for me. I'm not very hungry. Did you remember to buy Coke?’             ‘What about those trainers? Do you have to leave them there?’             ‘I always leave them there, Daddy.’             ‘Yes, I know. Everybody else leaves their shoes in the shoe cupboard.’             ‘Anything else, Daddy?’             ‘No, just shoes.’             ‘Eh?’             ‘Never mind. Just make sure you’ve tidied this all up before Mummy gets home.’             ‘When’s Mummy coming home?’             ‘About ten.’             ‘Oh, we’ve got plenty of time, Daddy! Can you smell something burning?’ . . .

A Friend To Me ‘Hey, listen to this, Fred. It says here, “Marjory has poked you”.’             ‘Oh yeah?’             ‘Yeah. And now it’s asking me, “Would you like to poke her back?” ’             ‘Poke her back? What’s wrong with her front?’             ‘You what?’             ‘Joke. Yeah, go for it. Er, who’s Marjory?’             ‘Oh, just a friend.’             ‘Where did you meet?’             ‘On a forum.’             ‘So, what you’re saying is she’s not really a friend at all, is she?’             ‘Just because we’ve never actually met, that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’             ‘So, what does this Marjory look like?’             ‘She’s got straight black hair and a lovely smile.’             ‘Is that it?’             ‘That’s all I can see of her in the photo.’             ‘And how old is she?’             ‘Twenty-eight.’             ‘You’re twice her age!’             ‘So what? One and three-quarters, actually.’             ‘And what does she do?’             ‘She’s a writer.’             ‘Another one?! Don’t you have any normal friends?’             ‘Normal friends? People like you, for instance?’             ‘Yeah. People like me. People like me a lot. So, how many friends have you got?’             ‘Hang on . . . Four hundred and ninety-nine. Wow! I only had four hundred and eighty-eight last week. Would you like to be my five hundredth Facebook friend, Fred?’             ‘Piss off.’

Don’t Look Back In Anger Some bastard had blocked him in again. Naturally, Mick only had himself to blame. When was he going to learn that you should never park in an empty parking space? After all, this was Spain, where double parking was a national pastime; triple parking, however, was positively frowned upon – if only because the buses couldn’t get through.             Strictly speaking, he had blocked two of them in – it was always a he – in such a way that it was impossible for either one of them to back out. Mick knew the routine well by now: 1) Sound your horn “politely” 2) Check to see if the driver has left his keys in the ignition 3) Curse everything and everybody 4) Sound your horn again, this time “rudely” 5) Note the car model 6) Locate the nearest bar Et cetera.             Typically, the offender would smile at you – though never actually apologise –, amble out of the bar, get into his car and drive off.   So much for theory. In retrospect, the owner of the shiny black Mercedes Coupé could consider himself frightfully unlucky to have caught Mick on a bad day.             ‘OK, here goes,’ he said, slamming his clapped-out Toyota into reverse.

Ruby Tuesday ‘OK, let’s begin with some easy questions. Er, Maria? What day is it today?’             ‘Thuesday.’             ‘Thuesday?’             ‘Yes, Thuesday.’             ‘Do you mean Tuesday or Thursday, Maria?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘Yes, what?’             ‘Yes, please?’             ‘Can anybody help Maria?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘Go on then, Pablo.’             ‘What’s the question?’             ‘What day is it today, Pablo?’             ‘Is Thuesday, no?’             ‘That’s what Maria said, Pablo.’             ‘Yes.’             ‘OK, everyone, repeat after me—’             ‘AFTER ME.’             ‘Ha ha ha. Now listen carefully . . . Tuesday. CHOOSEday.’             ‘CHOOSEDAY. CHOOSEDAY.’             ‘Good. And now . . . Thursday. THIRSday.’             ‘THIRSDAY. THIRSDAY.’             ‘Excellent! So what day is it today, Adrian?’             ‘Wed-nes-day?’             ‘That was yesterday, Adrian.’             ‘Sure?’             ‘Yes I am, Adrian. And it’s not Wed-nes-day. It’s Wednesday. WHENSday. OK, everyone, let’s hear you. Wednesday. WHENSday.’             ‘WHENSDAY. WHENSDAY.’             ‘Good! Now let’s try saying the whole week. Listen to me first: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. MUNday, CHOOSEday, WHENSday, THIRSday. FRYday, SATurday, SUNday. Everybody?’             ‘MUNDAY, CHOOSEDAY, WHENSDAY, THIRSDAY, FRYDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY.’             ‘Hey, that was much better! So, Adrian, what day comes after Wednesday?’             ‘Thuesday?’             ‘And what day comes before Wednesday?’             ‘Thuesday?’             ‘I think we’d better call it a day.’             ‘Thuesday! I say you!’             ‘Yes, thank you, Maria. Er, let’s check the homework . . .’

Listen To Me ‘So, how would you like it?’             ‘Just a bit off the sides, please, but quite a lot off the t—’             ‘Good game last night.’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘Good game.’             ‘Was it? Er, just a bit—’             ‘Did you see the penalty?’             ‘No, I missed it.’             ‘So did Lampard. Ha!’             ‘Yes, very fun—’             ‘Do you know how much he earns?’             ‘Sorry?’             ‘I said, Do you know how much Lampard earns?’             ‘More than you and me together, I imagine.’             ‘You can say that again.’             ‘More than you and me to—’             ‘Ninety thousand a day.’             ‘That can’t be right.’             ‘Yeah, that’s what I said. Did you see that documentary on footballers’ wives last week? Couldn’t be bothered to watch it myself, but my missus saw it.’             ‘Was it any good?’             ‘Dunno. After twenty minutes, she announced she was off shopping, and we ain’t seen her since.’   ‘There you go, son.’             ‘Oh.’             ‘What’s the matter?’             ‘Well, it’s not really what I— Oh well, it doesn’t matter. So, how much is that, please?’             ‘Thirty-eight fifty.’             ‘Thirty-eight fifty?!’             ‘Cheap at half the price.’             ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far.’             ‘Do you know how much Frank Lampard pays to get his hair done? . . .’

Whatever Diploma in English Language Teaching to Anyone, July 2011 Module One, Paper 1, Task 1 “I wanna be eclectic.” (A. Cooper) Nine times out of ten, the teacher who claims to be “eclectic” is nothing more than a lazy sod who can’t be bothered to take an interest in the methodological issues involved. Discuss the above with reference to yourself and your colleagues. Examiners’ Report This question was enormously popular, with candidates letting off steam by bitching about their colleagues behind their backs. The general argument was, “Most of my colleagues haven’t a clue what ‘eclectic’ means; and, even if they did, it wouldn't help them”. One candidate got quite carried away at this point, laying into poor “Pepe”, whom she described as “thick as two short planks” and “quite incapable of distinguishing between such basic concepts as ‘approach’, ‘method’ and ‘theory’.” Although the overwhelming majority of candidates claimed to be well aware of “the methodological issues involved”, very few actually made an attempt at outlining them – suggesting just a hint of hypocrisy on their part perhaps? Honesty was appreciated, therefore, and candidates who freely admitted to calling themselves eclectic in order to gain street credibility received extra points here.

Welcome To The Machine Mick put the coin in the slot, made his choice – white, no sugar – and pressed the green button. The machine emitted a few optimistic whirring noises as it ground its imaginary coffee beans . . . and then ground to a halt. Mick pressed the button a second time . . . and a third . . . before writing off his latest donation to Crap Drinks Machines Ltd.             ‘Thank you for your visit,’ smiled the machine as Mick thumped it for good measure. How was he going to get through the day without his morning coffee? Or “coffee”, rather, for everybody who had ever been “lucky” enough to get their drink was unanimous in their verdict: “Disgusting!”.             If truth be told, nobody in their right mind should have been playing with the drinks machine in the first place; far better to nip across the road to JJ’s for a proper coffee. But the machine did have its plus points: it was handy, it was quick, and it was cheap – when you actually got served, that is.             Fortunately this was Spain, where everything started 15 minutes later than scheduled, so Mick decided to join his students for breakfast in JJ’s.

Father And Son ‘Daddy, you have to give me ninety-seven euros.’             ‘I don't have to give you anything.’             ‘Yes, you do.’             ‘What for?’             ‘Sixty euros for the ticket, seven euros for—’             ‘What ticket?’             ‘For the concert. Social Distension. Don't you remember?’             ‘Are they any good?’             ‘Of course. All my friends are going.’             ‘All five hundred of them? And the tickets cost sixty euros?’             ‘That's a good price, Daddy.’             ‘Where is it?’             ‘Bilbao. That's why you've got to give me seven euros for the bus.’             ‘I don't have to give you anything.’             ‘Yes, you do.’             ‘Anyway, that still only makes sixty-seven, not ninety-seven.’             ‘Plus twenty-five for the sweatshirt.’             ‘What sweatshirt?’             ‘A Social Distension sweatshirt. All my friends are buying one.’             ‘Why don't you buy a T-shirt?’             ‘I've already got the T-shirt.’             ‘Did you ask Mummy?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘What did she say?’             ‘ “No way. Try Daddy.” ’             ‘Look, I'll think about it. OK?’             ‘OK, but I need the money tomorrow morning, so don't think too much.’             ‘Right. So that’s sixty euros for the concert – they had better be good –, seven for the bus, twenty-five for the silly sweatshirt—’             ‘It's not silly, Daddy.’             ‘That's ninety-two, not ninety-seven.’             ‘You're forgetting my pocket money, Daddy.’

Sylvia’s Mother ‘Hello?’             ‘Hello. Is that Señora Avería?’             ‘Speaking.’             ‘Oh, hello, this is Mick Crunch from—’             ‘Nick! Silvia’s told me all about you.’             ‘Yes, I bet she has.’             ‘So, tell me, how’s she doing? Behaving, I hope?’             ‘Well, actually, that’s exactly what I—’             ‘We’re thinking of sending her to England this summer. What do you think?’             ‘Excellent idea. You might even consider sending her this spring.’             ‘What about Ireland?’             ‘The further, the better, as far as I’m concerned. But that’s not what I wanted to—’             ‘Did she tell you we’re going to Paris next month?’             ‘Hundreds of times. In fact, I have quite a job shutting her—’             ‘She’s so excited! It means she’ll miss a class or two, but I’m sure you understand.’             ‘Yes, of course. Actually, I think the break will do us all the world of good.’             ‘Well, it’s been lovely chatting to you, Nick.’             ‘Likewise. There’s just one thing—’             ‘Look, I’m sorry, Nick, I’m in a bit of a rush right now. I'm going to be late for my Spinning. Can I call you back?’             ‘Well, yes, but this won’t take a minute, it’s just—’             ‘Ciao.’             ‘Hello? Chow to you too, Mrs. Avery.’

A Dustland Fairytale ‘Aren’t you going to tell me a story, Daddy?’             ‘OK, just a quick one. Where’s your book?’             ‘Can’t you make one up?’             ‘I thought you said my stories were rubbish?’             ‘Only the bad ones, Daddy. Once upon a time . . .’             ‘Yes, thank you, darling. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who lived in a beautiful castle in a beautiful wood. One day, she was walking through the wood when she met a prince. They fell in love, got married, had babies and lived happily ever after.’             ‘Is that it?’             ‘Yes, darling. Goodnight.’             ‘But it’s terrible! What was the princess’s name? What was the prince doing in the wood? How did they fall in love?’             ‘The princess’s name was Betty, the prince was hunting for deer and they fell in love because princes and princesses always fall in love in stories like these.’             ‘What’s a deer?’             ‘It’s an animal with horns.’             ‘What are horns?’             ‘They’re long pointed things’             ‘What’s pointed?’             ‘Look, I’m not a thesaurus!’             ‘What’s a thesaurus?’             ‘It’s a book of synonyms.’             ‘What are synonyms?’             ‘Words that mean the same.’             ‘Like rubbish and crap?’             ‘Exactly. Now come on, darling, time for bed. Goodnight.’             ‘Goodnight, Daddy.’

Me, Myself, I Learning the English (with Miguel Iglesias) FOR ME no was dificult for to learning the english. Actualy is much people wich always is saying us we must to use the metod "comunicative" but you want that I tell how did I learn your lenguage? I explain all!             I did have a big luck whith my teacher who his name was Señor Rivas, man very hard, then we very much frigthen:             ‘Repetition! Repetition! Again! Everybody!’             And all we responding:             ‘Repetition! Repetition! Again! Everybody!’             Señor Rivas did insisted was neccesary the drills for that we learn in corect manner. Is posible you don't believe but never I will forget how did we make the verb unregulars:             ‘Everybody! RING!’ did begin Señor Rivas.             ‘RING, RANG, RUNG!’ did sing we.             ‘Garcia! SWIM!’             ‘SWIM, SWAM, SWUM!’             ‘Iglesias! BRING!’             ‘BRING, BRANG, BRUNG!’             ‘No!’             ‘KNOW, KNEW, KNOWN!’             ‘Twit!’             ‘TWIT, TWAT, TWUT!’   Is pity my sons aren’t agree whith me. The past thuesday Ana said me if his master would have been the Señor Rivas she never had would learning the english. What exagerrated, no?             ‘Lenguage is about comunication, Farther.’             After, she tries explaining me what is "information crap" but I interuppting:             ‘Sorry, darling, you're talking rubbish again.’

Stuck On You She’d been following him around all day, and it was getting beyond a joke.             Mick had first noticed her in the bar as he had breakfast. Had she been on his tail all night? And, more to the point, why him? It wasn’t as if he had the most exciting of lives, spending as he did most of his waking day running up and down corridors and stairs, nipping out for the occasional coffee between classes. Couldn’t she have picked on Dick rather than Mick? To Mick’s knowledge, Darkhorse Dick spent his life roaming down back alleys, nipping in for the occasional class between coffees and goodness knows what else. How Dick spent his working day was a complete mystery, and surely deserving of further investigation.             Mick had hoped to shake off his stalker at lunch-time, so he was rather peeved to find her waiting patiently for him as he parked his car. Sooner or later Mick was going to have to confront her; it would be later rather than sooner, however, as he was running late for his next class.             I don’t know about you, but I’m with Mick on this one: they should have called it shoeing gum.

I Want It All It was an agonising decision. White coffee and croissant? Or red wine and tapa? The green tea didn’t stand a chance. Alas, Mick’s British upbringing hadn’t prepared him for choices like these; well, not at 11.30 in the morning. But this was sunny Spain, where anything was possible with a little imagination.             As the barmaid approached, Mick started to panic. That was when the police arrived.             ‘Dos con leche.’             Two white coffees. No need to say ‘please’ or ‘thankyou’. Especially if you were carrying a gun.             As the barmaid tended to the policemen, Mick felt a flash of inspiration.             ‘Coffee and croissant, please.’             Yes, I know I said you don’t have to say ‘please’, but old habits die hard.             ‘Gracias. How much is that?’             Another great thing about Spanish bars is it’s up to the customer to decide when, or indeed whether, to pay.   Mick sat out on the terrace, slurping his coffee and scoffing his croissant in the scorching sun. He jotted down a few lines, glanced at his watch – Midday already? – and ambled back into the bar.             ‘Red wine, please. Oh, they look nice!’             So, who was it who said, “You can’t have your cake and eat it”?

Oh Darling ‘This aftershave you got me doesn’t half sting!’              ‘Well, I think you smell very nice.’             ‘Sting.’             ‘You’ll live, don’t worry. You’re not going to wear that shirt, are you?’             ‘Why not?’             ‘It makes you look like a grandfather. Here, put this on.’             ‘But I—’             ‘And you’d better change those trousers while you’re at it.’             ‘I thought you liked them?’             ‘I do. But they don’t go with that shirt.’             ‘Er, I’m in a bit of a rush, darling.’             ‘Aren’t we all! That spot’s not getting any better, is it? Did you put any cream on it?’             ‘Yes.’             ‘When?’             ‘Last night.’             ‘Come here. It won’t take a moment. When are you going to get your hair cut?’             ‘Next week.’             ‘You said that last week. Now, don’t forget the meeting.’             ‘What meeting?’             ‘With Joe’s teachers!’             ‘Ah, yes, I might not be able to make it. I’m doing interviews again—’             ‘What’s more important? Your teachers or Joe’s teachers?’             ‘Er—’             ‘Don’t answer that. Come on! I thought you said you were in a hurry?’   ‘Forget something?’             ‘Pendrive.’             ‘What about your briefcase?’             ‘Oh, I suppose I’d better take that as well. Just in case. Ha! Just in case. Get it?’             ‘Bye, darling.’             ‘Bye.’

Stop And Stare It wasn’t the easiest manoeuvre in the world, but he had started, so he would finish. After all, just how hard could it be to reverse his tiny little Toyota into that great big space?             Mick wound his window down to get a better view of the kerb, only to be greeted by five pairs of beige flannel trousers that had appeared out of nowhere.             ‘He’ll never do it.’             ‘Too close.’             ‘Angle’s not right.’             ‘What’s he doing?’             ‘Told you.’             And so on.             Haven’t you got anything better to do? Mick asked himself, though he knew the answer: No, they hadn’t. Besides, “providing a no-cost parking advisory service” was in The Old Men’s Brigade’s remit, the full contents of which would take far too long to reproduce here. Suffice to say, “overseeing public works and sundry botch jobs” was number one. Mick parked perfectly, of course. First time, too. We perform far better under pressure, don’t we? He had been hoping for a round of applause, or at the very least an approving nod or two. So, on getting out, Mick was somewhat disappointed to see that his tormentors were now over the road, helping a young workman with his crane.

What’s The Matter Here? ‘Have you got a minute, Mick?’             ‘Yes, of course, Ana,’ Mick said, lying through his teeth. Basically, he divided people into two groups: those with time for anything – people like Ana – and those with time for nothing – people like you, me and Mick, right?             Mick put down his seven bags of shopping, wiped the sweat from his eyes, straightened his back up, and gave Ana his full undivided attention. Little did it matter that he had left the dinner on, that the ice cream was melting or that Joe was waiting for him to do his history homework. It served him right for trying to make a home run before nightfall.             So, what would it be this time? A loose wall tile? A fused light bulb? A dirty door knob? For his sins, Mick’s neighbours had voted him Administrador for the year; “for the year”, not “of the year”. ‘Don’t move,’ said Ana, darting back into her flat, then reemerging with a plastic shopping bag. ‘I found it on my balcony.’             ‘Oh, thanks. Sorry,’ Mick said, suitably humbled as he inspected the offending sock and clothes peg.             ‘No problem. Oh, by the way, about those pot plants . . .’

Make Me Smile Once upon a time there was a lovely girl called Isa. When Isa smiled, she was also a beautiful girl but, more importantly, everybody around her smiled too. In fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the entire happiness of the world depended on Isa’s smiling.             Mick was worried, therefore, when Isa walked into class and sat down without so much as a ‘Hello’. He soon saw what the problem was: a great big spot on Isa’s chin. Wishing Isa’s spot a short-lived life, Mick proceeded to tell Roald Dahl’s delightful tale about a very special girl called Matilda. Today, however, nobody seemed to be laughing. Mick woke up the next morning with a throbbing pain at the end of his nose. Needless to say, the kids thought this was hilarious; especially Isa, whose spot had disappeared miraculously overnight. This reversal of fortunes inspired Mick’s Universal Spots Theory, which states that “the total number of spots in the world at any given moment is a constant”.             So next time you wake up with an ugly spot on your hooter or wherever, remember that some poor soul elsewhere is celebrating that they have just lost theirs. And smile .

We Can Work It Out ‘Er, Menu A, please. I’ll have the spring roll, special fried rice and sweet ’n’ sour pork.’             Except Mick ordered in Spanish, of course, because the menu was in Spanish. ‘Gracias.’ This particular restaurant was nearly always empty, and he had never understood how they could stay in business. Perhaps they couldn’t. Whatever, the service was fast and friendly, the food was pretty damned good, and Menu A was the cheapest set menu in town. In fact, the only drawback was that here was a Chinese family trying to make a living in the Basque Country. It was an unlikely marriage.             The waitress reappeared shortly with the spring roll.             ‘Rollo de primavera.’             ‘Thank you,’ Mick said, this time in English. His defences were down – you should have seen the spring roll – and his brain had gone into autocruise.             ‘Bu ke qi,’ she said, smiling mishievously, then taking her leave. In retrospect, it was one of life’s beautiful moments. So beautiful, Mick just had to rewind:             ‘Rollo de primavera.’             ‘Thank you.’ It’s no good pretending I’m Spanish. I’m not fooling anyone, am I?             ‘Bu ke qi.’ Hey, don’t worry. I’m not Spanish, either. But we can still be friends, can’t we?

This Is How It Always Starts ‘Just write down the first thing that comes into your head.’             ‘Like what?’             ‘Well, like that, for example.’             ‘What? “Like what?” ’             ‘Yeah.’             ‘Not exactly Shakespeare, is it, Reggie?’             ‘What do you want to write like Shakespeare for?’             ‘I don’t. I want to write like David Foster Wallace.’             ‘Well, there you go, then.’             Writing a story wasn’t nearly as easy as it was cracked up to be. Mick must have written the equivalent of War and Peace ten times over in his head, but the moment he sat down to put his thoughts to paper, he invariably drew a blank.             ‘Just write down the first thing that comes into your head,’ Reg had told him.             OK, here goes . . .             ‘Once upon a t—’             Gosh, this was pathetic!             I’ve started, so I’ll finish . . .             ‘Once upon a time, there was a would-be writer who didn’t know where to start. Nor did he know where to finish. All he really knew for certain was that he wanted to write. So write he would.’             So help me God.            No one will read this rubbish!             Rule number one of writing: don’t write for no one; write for number one.