The Asador

A New Dwindling Community

On 11th August, I wrote the sister entry to this one. As our community dwindled further and further, it seemed that moving was inevitable.

Well, it's dwindling again.

Now we have moved, and it's very lovely, and we have a whole new community to get to know and Saturday mornings can once again become a cross between Amelie and a modern day version of 'Postman Pat'. But with a twist.

Good morning, Mr Security Man, said Dougal, as he left the tower block he lived in.
Good morning, Diego, he replied.
Good morning, Mrs Flower Stall owner, Dougal chimed. Good morning Scottish white chap, she replied.
Good morning Mr Paint Shop man, Dougal said, smiling.
Good morning Scottish chap, Paint Shop man replied.
Then Dougal bumped into his friend Jacqui.
Good morning, Jacqui, said Dougal.
Er, said Jacqui, slowly. Do you realise you've got a cotton bud sticking out of your ear?

I did not.

Estancia was awesome

Like, properly awesome.



Early start Saturday after late Fright night monster steaks in Palermo with Jon and Georgie (Katie's bro and his girlfriend).

Three hour drive, two car convoy to Luli's farm, the parilla lit the minute we arrived, like smoke signals in better days. We'd barely settled by the pool when the bell was rung for lunch, and the chorizo suasage, morcilla (black pudding, but better) and vacio (steak) started arriving.

Marvellous.

The gorgeous sunny day couldn't be wasted, so back we headed to the poolside for a snooze before the riders headed off to ride.

Not being the best in the saddle, I decided to sit this one out and stayed with my lovely wife. My one and only previous experience of being on an animal went something like: India, camel, itch, cactus, blood, gallop, itch, cactus, strop, refusal, tantrum, dismount, limp, long walk, limp, desert, rubbish....

(Incidentally, I think it is more amusing to not explain who Luli is, why we were there etc, thereby allowing you to speculate).

I woke up as the riders returned in the sunset, had a quick swim, before an evening of pasta, poker, wine and song (well, the TV tuned in to 'Best of the 80s'. Terence Trent D'Arby: remember?). Got cleaned out in the poker by a bunch of novices. Who goes all in on a high card? Come on.

Sunday morning, perfect blue skies, swim, breakfast, entertainment for all as Dougal attempted to bond with a living animal and was carried off across the pampas for an hour clinging to the reins with white knuckles while trying to look like he'd done it all his life, swim, steak sandwich, swim, bell rung for lunch, sausage and steak, swim, 'sunbathe'... before eventually dragging ourselves back to reality and convoy home to the smoke...

Some weekends they do truly and properly rock.

Life as a Posh Argentine

Katie couldn't make it to the polo this weekend, and I've had to miss a weekend of cricket at Hurlingham, as we're off to a friend's estancia this weekend.

Our wonderful hostess phoned to say that we could take the horses out if we wanted. I did intimate that I wasn't exactly the riding type, at which she reflected that that would be fine, I could just hang out by the pool and jacuzzi and have drink cocktails.

I accepted her offer.

What we do best

Reading the previews for Scotland - Italy tomorrow reminded me of what we do best. No, not win, nor even qualify for major tournaments. Only Scotland could have beaten the Ukraine, France home and away, played brilliantly for 12 months, only to then lose to a bunch of radiation ridden teenagers in Georgia and watch the dreams go up in smoke. We'll run Italy ridiculously close tomorrow, miss a couple of golden chances, fail to score, draw 0-0 and go out.

No, what we do best is make people laugh, drink whisky and wear 'skirts'. And such, and as I'm a wee bit homesick, some favourite lines that I find myself using to explain to people here how fabulous we really are:

Billy Connolly. "On a Scottish persons birth certificate they fill in: cause of death, alcohol."

From Rab C Nesbitt:
Doctor: Mr Nesbitt, you have cirrhosis.
Rab: Cirrhosis!
Doctor (astounded): You know what that means?"
Rab: Aye. That's the only three syllable words anyone in Glasgow knows...

Legendary heckle at a stand up gig at Edinburgh Festival:
Commedian: The Bible story could never have been told in Glasgow. You´d be lucky to ever find three wise men.
Heckler: Aye, and they'd've needed Sherlock Holmes ti' find a virgin.

Adage: "You´ll hae mere fun at a Glasgie stabbin' than at an Edinburgh weddin'"

Jock and a Englishman were flying from Edinburgh when the stewardess approached. "May I get you something?" she asked.
"Aye, a whusky" Jock replied.
She poured him a drink then asked the Englishman if he'd like one. "Never!" he said sternly. "I'd rather be raped and ravished by whores all the way to America than drink whisky!"
Jock hurriedly passed the drink back, saying "Och, ah didna ken there wuz a choice!"

Line from a caddie in St Andrew, caddying for an American who was having a horror of a round.
US Golfer: You must be the worst golfer in the world!
Caddie: Now that would be too much of a coincidence, Sir.

And my favourite: Glasgow. City of Culture. 1990.

The Golden Age

to walk (verb. 3: term used in cricket) as in, "The cheating batsman clearly hit the ball and he didn't even walk."

'Walking' is an ancient custom in cricket where one is honest enough to save the umpire the need to decide whether you have 'snicked' the ball or not by leaving the playing field, or 'walking'. A snick is when the ball skiffs off the side or 'edge' of the bat. The batsman is obviously in the best position to determine whether they have 'snicked it' or not. Ergo, an honest batsman walks.

Walking is a remnant of the percieved 'golden age' of sport, when sport was a vehicle through which the bizarre values of the Victorians could be imposed on the proletariat without them really realising. Hence kicking someone when they were nowhere near the ball in football, hitherto the entire focus, fun and aim of the game, became a 'foul'. (Incidentally the Scots, never adherents to change, and most certainly not when it originates from South of the border, still play the game as it was meant to be.)

Cricket, of course, was the darling sport of the age, alongside fox hunting. But cricket was both more dangerous and violent, and offered many more opportunities to impose moral and ethical values on the poors.

The batting order itself remains the rank order of these values. The openers will keep a straight bat. They are rewarded for being oppressive. The first thing an opening bat learns is to defend. Only a psychopath or a deviant (or indeed a dark skinned chap) would look to attack first. These rogue individuals must be protected from their natural instincts by the openers... and so on. Anyone showing flamboyance, or individualism, should be kept in 'the hut' for as long as possible.

Honorable draw. Clapping the opposition batsman in. Helping people. It's not a wonder that the game never caught on in Scotland, and even less of a wonder that when it was exported to Australia - rather like a mate going off on a GAP year - what came back was a poor imitation of the original.

Cricket was returned bastardised by our prisoner colony cousins: walking was replaced by sledging, sportsmanship by gamesmanship, public school ties were no longer used as belts. Winning became all important, in fact these felons would stoop to unfathomable depths to win: rolling the ball along the ground, aluminium bats, running fast, intimidation of the umpire, regular training sessions; no price was too much to pay.

And, grudgingly, we have to thank them for evolving the game, for it is somehow more fun the dirtier the game becomes.

But a final word fo good news for the purists. I can tell you that miles from its origins, the gentleman's game still exists in its purists form. 2nd XI cricket at Hurlingham, deep in Latin America, where English is spoken properly, tea served at tea (by the staff), and people still clap in the opposition captain.

Sport Hurts...

Cricket based email, glossary below.

First glimpse of 1st XI cricket in Argentina and I like it. After two warm up games for the Second XI which involved a whole number of incidents that I would rather not discuss in much depth - clapping the batsman in, bowling more slowly at their weaker players, saying 'Well done' and other unseemly histrionics of that nature - the gentleman's game began this Sunday.

Aided by the fastest, bounciest wicket I've ever played on (artifical strip, with 'golf ball bounce'), things kicked into action in the 2nd over when I apparently very clearly hit a ball and didn't walk. After being called some names by the bowler, each of which were simultaneously translated by the wicket keeper, I was peppered by short stuff and verbals for the next 20 minutes.

Batting in a floppy sunhat wasn't a great idea, and I couldn´t call for a helmet either, because my fellow batsmen each came in wearing it, and I didn't have the heart to ask them to give it back. Fortunately I got out before I experienced anything painful, a fate that the following batsman could not avoid, kopping a bouncer on the head, requiring medical attention, the removal of much blood from the playing surface, an ambulance, several calls to ensure he had medical insurance before the ambulancemen would put him on a stretcher, and, eventualy, 7 stitches.

Game resumed... arguments broke out, players had to seperated, I lost the plot after being called for a no-ball and a free hit (I tried to explain a rule I cannot explain in English to the umpire, with unsurprising lack of success; subsequent 'free hit' delivery hit the batsman on the helmet), one father then chased his son most of the way to and then along the boundary after said son had dropped a catch off his old man's bowling, and we lost by 1 wicket. Two players refused to shake hands, calling each other the most intimate parts if a parrot, which is how you use the c word in Spanish.

Two words. Sport. Brilliant.

Glossary of terms for the ignorant.
- cricket = obsure fetish of an English sport involving several sticks, pristine white clothing and some leather
- 2nd over = an over is 6 balls, a ball is a delivery, a delivery is when the bowler throws the leather at the sticks. This was the 2nd of those.
- no ball = if a ball bowled reaches the batsman above stump height it is a no ball. But not a free hit, which everyone knows is only for a 'front foot' no ball.
- 'walking' = a fool's game. The dying art of 'admitting' to the opposition that you have hit the ball, saving the umpire the necessity of making the decision. (In fact, it's very interesting, see next entry)

Dragons

I have just spent nearly two hours in a meeting where we put each of my 48 Year 6 students into categories which best fitted their personality as a dragon.

I really, really don't know why.

Argentina, Adverts

The youngster who wrote the now famous 'reading makes you thin' article is simply part of a wider truth. The Argies kick ass when it comes to advertising. It's got to be a lot to do with one of the most adored qualities of the Argentine; their gift of the gab, the accolade afforded to the particularly talented blag artists is that of a 'chanta'.

And I've been meaning to put these on paper for a while, so here are my Top 5 Argie Adverts. Without sounding too Chris Tarrant on you.

1. For some sort of pill. I don't know what type exactly, but something good.

Opening shot:
- Door opens, guy stands their holding flowers, girl throws them in his face. He looks confused, and a little scared.
Cut to:
- Queue of people at the water machine at work. Woman turns around and throws boiling water in the face of the man behind her. He screams in agony.
Cut to:
- Her in her office, opening a packet of pills. She takes one, and everything become sunny and pretty and rosy and lovely again. Kittens are fluffy, pink is pretty and cushions are soft again.

Katie mentioned that it may have been a negative representation of women. After commenting on what a long word that was for a pretty little lady, I took her point. After all, everyone knows that when a woman has PMT, she likes to sing and go rollerblading.

2. For 'Fargo' bread.
Opening shot:
- Girl in kitchen making sandwich for her fella.
Cut to:
- Cheesy looking guy, jeans and white polo, sits on couch. Look up, sees girl arriving with his sandwich. He looks really happy. Smile with gleaming teeth.
Cut to:
- White background, guy leaning towards camera, girl hugging his shoulders. He says: 'Pan? Me encanta pan!' - 'Bread? I love bread!' - and they look at each other and laugh.

3. Doritos Ad.
Fit rubia (blonde) is jabbering on the couch, holding court, while we see the fantasies of the two guys (obvious), and two girls (violently throttling her). Click the link or youtube 'Doritos, Rubia'. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Xp-eDHQMV8

4. Big fat girl is sitting on the couch, eating but otherwise doing nothing. Her parents come downstairs, and shoot her a look of concern. Father syas: 'Miranda, we've bought you something that will help.' Mother produces... a fiction book!

5. For Mate (ma-tey: national drink, much like tea).
Two lads get into a car. Passenger sits on something, holds up a belt, and looks accusingly at his friend:
- What's this, Fernando?
- What do you mean? It's a seatbelt.
- A 'seatbelt'?
- Yeah. They're a la mode in Europe. Everyone is wearing them.
- Huh. (He looks suspiciously at it, as if it is a snake of some sort.) OK. Well, what do they do?
- They stop you flying through the windscreen if we crash.
- (Still suspicious) But don't they look a bit silly and uncomfortable.
- Good point. Let's not wear them and drink mate.
Turn to camera and smile.
- Voiceover: 'Mate: a taste of heaven.'

OK I made the last two up.

6. Literally just saw this one... Lollypop advert, yes, as in the sucky sweet, featuring schoolgirls dressed as schoolgirls: pole dancing. Not at all inappropriate...

Now in Argentina, read yourself thin!

Ah, the end of term, the druggery of marking exams, the monotony broken only by these little masterpieces of exam howlers.

Question on mentors, someone you would ask for advice:
"My Daddy always gave me good advice. Always. Like if you have to kill someone, kill them."

Analysis of Literature:
"Dracula was the Prince of Darkness, the master of evil. Like Osama bin Laden."

Write a letter to parents encourage them to make their children read fiction:
"Hi YOU! We know you have child! Do you want that they read again?"

But my favourite, on the persuasive writing question. This is genius:
"... But don't take my word for the benefits of reading, listening to Miranda. Miranda, 16, wrote to us from Cordoba. She said, 'Before I started reading, I was 95kg... but now, after reading fiction for only 6 months, I'm a much healthier 83kg!´

A bright future in advertising awaits that little chanta.