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An American Teacher...what to do

Discussion in 'Teaching abroad' started by Foneypharaoh, Mar 26, 2012.

  1. Call me a pig faced, stubborn bigot, but I prefer to steer clear of my big *****, Bush voting buddies from burger swallowing land - in the work place anyway.
    It's bad enough working with northerners (English people who have difficulties with tense..).
    "I was sat on mat wit' cat tomorrow, I was.." [​IMG]
    making Baseball compulsory for all IB students.
    Big girls' rounders.
     
  2. I wouldn't dream of calling you names.
    .
    .
    .
    .
    .
    WHAT? Southern pansies!
     
  3. Diddysan

    Diddysan New commenter

    Unlike cricket!!.... a true mans game!!
     
  4. miketribe

    miketribe Established commenter

    I also find some of my colonial cousins a little difficult to aguantar, but a little suffering is good for the soul. And some of them ARE quite good teachers. I also once coached the school's rounders -- whoops, I mean baseball -- team. They were rubbish...
     
  5. wrldtrvlr123

    wrldtrvlr123 Occasional commenter

    You're a pig faced, stubborn bigot!
    Never let it be said we can't be helpful.
    On the other hand, I am a no-*****, non-Bush voting buddy (I had to deal with the brother too in Florida [​IMG]).

     
  6. SMT dude

    SMT dude New commenter

    Let us have no more name-calling. Baseball and Cricket alike represent high points in the evolution of the human species and the English-speaking world's closest approach to God.
    Shakespeare? Twain? Edison? Newton?
    Naah. Willie Mays. Ian Botham.
    Funny Fair-oh, good to see you back. I had feared that an edict had been published by that excellent head of yours, a northerner with impeccable command of grammar and diction, along the lines of,
    'TO ALL COLLEAGUES: Kindly note that at top-tier schools, no member of the teaching staff should engage in undignified exchanges of 'opinion', nor should they seek to offer spurious and self-serving 'advice', much less should they essay what they please to call 'humour', on any forum or networking site of any description whatever.'
    But you would never obey such a diktat, would you, free spirit that you are ?
     
  7. If a sneaky googly slips through your guard and even so much as glances your jewels, you'll soon see if it is man's sport or not. [​IMG]
    The two minutes not being able to breath in afterwards are pretty unpleasant too. [​IMG]
     
  8. I would, but he hasn't.
    Have just had the misfortune of spending five days in the shimmery, soulless emirate that is Dooobai. The malls and the malls, the malls and the even bigger malls - a non-shoppers hell!
    Even the Duty Free is horrendous expencio - I had to wait until I landed 'back home' before purchasing a brace of litres of Hennesy VSOP and Courvoisier, for about half the price!.
    [​IMG]


     
  9. That's a brace of litres of each... [​IMG]
     
  10. the evil tokoloshe

    the evil tokoloshe New commenter

    Hashim Amla got one of those the other day off an inside edge, batted on for another hour or so then had to be hospitalised for surgery, not just a glance clearly. Hotspot was very clear.
    Worst I ever saw was one of the local umpires jumping at square leg to get over the ball, sadly it followed him and hit him right in the nads. Half an hour later we had just about stopped laughing.
     
  11. Aged 15 in break time nets at senior school. 'Mr. May' the DT teacher flung a spinner at me. I played a beautiful, forward defensive shot only not to hear that reassuring sound of leather on willow.
    Oh, the pain....
     
  12. SMT dude

    SMT dude New commenter

    Aged 14 my pert little bambi of a snub nose was turned into the crude conk I sport today, in the following fashion.
    It was the hate match between Poshtwit College and Oikey Grammar School. I was batting at the non-striker's end. The sweating plebian on the other team grunted and trundled his way up to the wicket and hurled a stand-up-and-thrash-me half volley. My languid floppy-haired team mate stroked this offering in lordly style most of the way to the cover boundary.
    Two easy runs. As I regained the crease at the bowler's end, the throw came in, and the bowler put his hand up to catch it, a foot in front of my head. At the last microsecond he chickens out, the ball deflects off his finger and full into my face.
    Down on the ground, I watch, just like in a novel, 'with detachment as if it were someone else' the blood starkly staining my crisp white shirt then mingling with dust and grass as it pours out of what seconds before had been my nose. Warm claret is trickling copiously in the other direction, too, back down my throat, and this is definitely happening to me and makes me want to heave. Pulling off a batting glove to palpate the pulverised protrusion, I hear a grinding crunching sound as the splintery bits mash together.
    I vaguely wonder why my whole life isn't flashing before me, or why I'm not whimpering for my mother. Probably I am. Then the Umpire, our Geography teacher, stolidly unmoving from his station behind the stumps, inquires, "Dude, do you intend to lie down there all afternoon?"
    To the OP: The turn this conversation has taken, must seem incomprehensible as well as silly. Join a British School and you'll hear a lot more of this <strike>rubbish</strike>, garbage, I assure you.
     
  13. Was 12. We circled Mr. Philips as he threw the cricket ball at us without telegraphing it. Feet astride, hands ready, eyes on the elderly maths' teacher's hands to try and guess the direction.
    Felix Sroka, an extremely catholic, Polish boy was actually standing with his arms folded looking in a direction on a tangent with our circle.
    The clunk of 5 3/4 ounces of rock hard ball on his unsuspecting temple was fantastic (it inspired me to start drumming????). As Mr. P apologised profusely, the circle fell apart and littered the floor with boys who hadn't laughed as much since the previous night's Tom and Jerry....
     
  14. wrldtrvlr123

    wrldtrvlr123 Occasional commenter

    Seriously, nothing? Well, at least you're honest about it.
     
  15. I can still hear the crack of willow on head echoing down the ambilacrum at St.Toughgits as Greenie settled his rivalry with Pig.
    They didn't even call an ambulance.
    Even when Pig complained of going blind.
     
  16. I must apologise for my immoderate laughter... Being unco-ordinatedly sporty myself I've played most games. I think hockey at school would be the female equivalent to cricket: have you any idea how much a split eyebrow bleeds?! I've played the odd game of cricket "oh, well done Whistle" when I took a catch, instinctively, 3 inches from my nose. Plus, memorably a mixed rugby game at uni: I now know all about odd-shaped balls...
    I now play granny to a large part of a footie team, and wonder back at my childhood when the FA still didn't recognise women's football. A finger splint on at the moment so can't play in goal, so have the excuse to throw my height around alongside short southern Europeans..
    Anyway, what was the original topic again?


     
  17. Yep, I'll take that one on my chinny-chin-chin. Have two sitches in that! The sixteen to the left of my eye missed the eyebrow but did indeed, bleed like a b*stard.
    I am curious as to what sporting injury resulted in you losing your arse...
    The post is about an American person seeking a possible job in a British type school.
    They have a chance if they know the difference between '******' and 'the dog's ******'.


     
  18. Mainwaring

    Mainwaring Lead commenter

    Eyup and ecky-thump!
    It's fascinating how all these fondly treasured reminiscences dwell on excruciating mishaps to the narrators themselves. 'We're real men in this regiment, Carruthers. I lost the left one when I was shot with a jezail in the Khyber pass and the right one went to a Zulu spear at Rorke's Drift. Made my eyes water a bit, I can tell you, but mustn't complain, eh?' (I begin to suspect that the old joke about 'white officers with black privates' probably wasn't a joke).
    I'm sat here thinking what a reight load of masochists you southerners is. Th' way I sees it, if there's ony inflictin to be done, I'd rother do it to thee than have it done to me so I'm delighted to recall that whenever I have been involved in a sporting injury I have been the happy perpetrator, less from deliberate sadism than from inspired incompetence. There was a chap called Tony Settle in Lancashire who fell victim to two of my consecutive bouncers (down, Pharaoh). He subsequently (no joke) had a distinguished career as a counter tenor, though of course he had to move to Cheshire.

     

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