Notes from the TEFL Graveyard

As far as I can tell, despite our glorious history of comedy, we British are not renowned abroad for our humour. When colleagues first met me in the factory I briefly worked at, many expressed surprise that I wasn’t “serious”, a point they often emphasised by miming the wearing of a tie. I don’t know where this stereotype comes from – if they were surprised by my sobriety I might have better understood their confusion. One of the many baffling aspects of living in a foreign country is trying to understand the nature of native comedy. When my wife, Show, lived in England , at first she couldn’t understand the hoopla surrounding the sitcom The Office , in particular the sublime central character, David Brent. When she started working in an office, however, the nuances became crystal clear. One comedy that caused some unseemly wrestling over the TV remote control was The League of Gentlemen , which I found beguiling and she found utterly distasteful, which is why it was so amusing, I...

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura. ché la diritta via era smarrita. Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto I, 1-3 Reading the opening lines of Dante’s Inferno , it is easy to imagine he was, at the time, a TEFL teacher. Those of us who plough on in the trade despite advancing years all reach the dark forest, the TEFL Wall, like lightly trained marathon runners off Blue Peter. The wisest of us get ourselves qualified in something other than speaking, reading and writing English and get a real job, whilst the more naïve, perhaps fantasising we are still in our carefree twenties, suddenly find we are cantering towards forty with little chance of leaping from our speeding donkey. My acupuncturist recently told me that I’m “explosive”. “What the f*ck are you on about?” I snapped, swatting his hand away churlishly. “I am having a lot of gas, admittedly…” I began, but he chuckled ironically as he held me down by the throat and explained that I am breaking into a se...

There is nothing we British love more than a good drink, but those wishing to make their TEFL career last more than a matter of weeks should probably avoid teaching whilst intoxicated – it can be a very unpleasant experience for all concerned. As I have confessed previously, when I was younger I used to swan around like a poor man’s bohemian, heavily influenced into equating alcohol abuse with being alluring by devoted lushes such as Dylan Thomas, Jeffrey Bernard, Jim Morrison, Oliver Reed and their ilk, but I was probably most inspired by Charles Bukowski’s alter ego Hank Chinaski’s reflection, “When something good happened, I drank to celebrate. When something bad happened, I drank to forget. When nothing happened, I drank to make something happen.” I was a subscription paying fan of drinking to make something happen. Unlike in other professions, in TEFL there is no place to hide. There are no corners in which you can quietly sit and nurse a hangover, no steady supply of aspirin...

Here is the scene in question, for those seeking cultural enlightenment.

As I was trawling the Internet five minutes before a lesson recently in the hope of finding some suitably pre-prepared material to fill the forthcoming hour, I came across one of those teaching tips that are somehow useful. “Remember, we are not just teaching language,” it breezed, “we are teaching culture.” With this in mind, I have decided to teach some of my private students about British culture using the medium of film. I am planning to show them an excerpt of a movie, without sound, and demand that they write a script according to what they think is happening and what the characters are saying in the scene. Too many foreigners unfortunately only have access to what they think Britain represents through that film The Queen , Mr Bean repeats , Benny Hill and films with Hugh Grant in them, such as Notting Hill and Four Weddings and a Funeral . I don’t know about my compatriots, but I’ve never met any real Briton like the charmingly bumbling Hugh Grant, and if I had, I certa...

I’ve started teaching on Saturdays. Normally this is against both my principles, but as I’m currently teaching only 13 hours per week, I have bent to the will of my spouse and assorted creditors and now complete a marathon of weekend English instruction. I drive 10km east to start my first class at 8.00 in the morning, then drive 70km west for a choir rehearsal from 10.00 until 12.00, before refueling at home at around 12.30. After that, I’m back east for classes from 13.50 until 18.50. Last Saturday was the first attempt and I survived more or less intact, though I missed listening to the Six Nations over the Internet and threw a suitably measured tantrum. The second of my afternoon classes had an ominous tone about it when an exasperated executive declared that he wanted to be speaking English by July. “I’ve started over and over again about seven times in different schools,” he nearly wept, “and I just don’t get beyond the verb to be . I can’t take any more being .” Part of me...

I can't express my delight at Wales' rugby football win in Dublin any better than this Russian bloke . I'm sure No Good Boyo gave him voice coaching and sold him an e-book on artistic expression. For non-Welshes, the Star Wars-style karaoke machine is definitely a helpful addition. Play that banjo son!

A new pet shop opened last Saturday not a brisk five-minute stroll from our caravan, and yesterday I set about discovering the services it offers, in particular its pet cleaning set up. I was greeted by a harassed receptionist who looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, despite my being the only customer in the vicinity at the time. “Do I have to book to have my dog washed?” I enquired, noticing by the monogram on his white coat that he was, in fact, the veterinary surgeon in chief. “Er, yeah. It’s probably best…” he mumbled. “I’ve been a bit overwhelmed by demand,” he bleated defensively, out of nowhere, “we only opened on Saturday.” “How much does it cost for a large mongrel?” I asked him. He consulted his price list. “Without a Breed Defined (Jumbo)... thirty-five reais,” he responded. He opened his diary on tomorrow. The page was largely blank. “We’ve got two booked tomorrow…” he said, his voice trailing off helplessly. “Right…” I looked at him. He seemed l...