Firstly, the Chinese government, in its infinite wisdom and benevolence, has now abruptly decided that the residents of the Middle Kingdom shall not be allowed onto Blogger, meaning that I've just spent an enjoyable hour cursing said government and looking for the miniscule number of proxy sites that the shadowy internet monitors (who I like to think of as nefarious, shadowy baddies in suits sequestered in very dark rooms) haven't cottoned onto and blocked yet. And, for now at least, I have found one, so I am still here. Strangely, all of the Guardian's current China-themed articles (including those with titles such as 'Secret Tiananmen Square Memoirs of Chinese Party Leader To Be Published that are, erm, somewhat uncomplimentary about the government) are allowed, and yet my blog, the content of which is not (or has not been until this paragraph) remotely seditious, is blocked. Geh.
Anyway, at the same time as clicking on every proxy link in existence, I was also meandering through said China-themed articles on The Guardian website, when my eye happened to catch upon the headline 'China to open first sex theme park.' Now, take a guess where said theme park is. Yep, no prizes for guessing that it's not only in Chongqing, but is attached to the incomparable Meixin (due to limited proxy access I can't attach a link, but rifle through March or April's entries and you'll find it).
So, the noble plan was that once you've been suitably thrilled by a visit to the world's biggest public toilets, you could go underground, where Love Land promised to offer you 'naked human sculptures, giant replicas of genitals and an exhibition about the history of sex and sexual practices in other countries.' Park director Lu Xiaoqing claimed that the park would be educational and informative, saying that he would 'pay attention and not make the park look vulgar and nasty.' Which evidently explains the centre of his marketing campaign (again, unfortunately I can't do pics or links at the moment, but you must click on this):
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/may/15/china-sex-theme-park-love-land
Unfortunately, The Guardian appears to be a little out of date, for the BBC informs me that in the last couple of days the government has now put the kibosh on the project for fear that it was too 'vulgar.' It's unknown whether the existing attractions of Meixin, including seats with holes instructing small boys where to stick their penises and a plastic Christ the Redeemer statue perched atop a shed, will also fall victim to this sudden and surprising outbreak of classiness. Sadly, however, it does seem that this potential paradise of skag is, for now, not to be :(.
Sunday 17 May 2009
Thursday 14 May 2009
My Dear Mushroom
So, over the last few weeks our Chinese lessons have started, and we've been having fun amusing our friend and Chinese teacher, Jenny (yes, even in China there are bajillions of Jennys - thanks again for that dear parents) with our terrible Mandarin. According to Jenny I have already cultivated a Chongqing accent, and although this basically means I am as crap at doing tones properly as the locals are, I'm taking it as a compliment.
Anyway, Chinese has some brilliantly literal words ('jeans' in Chinese literally translates as 'cowboy trousers') but our absolute new favourite is the word for mushroom, 蘑菰 or 'mo gu.' According to Jenny, the Chinese also use 蘑菰 as a word to describe someone of rather limited brain capacity. Taking inspiration from this, we have thus adapted the anglicized version, 'mogu,' to affectionately describe all of our, erm, slightly dimmer kids.
Now, I have a good few really bright students, I have plenty of average Joes (although the only kid I have who is actually called Joe is a little ten-year old shithead who likes shouting out 'F-U-C-K' what it mean?), but, well, there are a few little sweeties who appear to be just a few sandwiches short of a picnic. They are the children for whom you repeat a word five times, demonstrate it, attempt to use every possible means at your disposal (including, often, translation by the Chinese teacher) to convey that 'apple' means 'pingguo,' and yet will still be met with a smile and a completely blank stare. You can practically see the tumbleweed bouncing through their little minds as they smile sweetly and uncomprehendingly at you. And these are my mogus.
My favourite little mogu is Bobby. Bobby is my youngest student at Aston, being only four years old, and is a gorgeously vacant little kid who attends the parent and child class with one other student, five-year old Lily. At first, I thought Bobby was struggling because he was so young, but Annie, my Chinese co-teacher and I have come to the conclusion that he is in fact just a wee bit dim. A typical attempt to teach Bobby something goes like this:
Jenny: What is it (holds up flashcard at Lily)?
Lily: It's a rabbit?
Jenny: Are you a rabbit?
Lily: No, I'm a girl.
Jenny: What is it (holds up flashcard at Bobby)?
Bobby: Monkey
Jenny: Are you a monkey (points at Bobby)?
Bobby: Monkey
Jenny: Are you a monkey (points at Bobby and then at monkey picture, shakes head)?
Bobby: It's a monkey.
Annie: Ni shi houzi ma? (Are you a monkey? in Chinese)
Bobby: Monkey.
Annie: Bobby, ni shi houzi ma?
Bobby: It's a monkey.
Jenny: Annie, are you a monkey?
Annie: No, I'm a girl.
Jenny: Lily, are you a monkey?
Lily: No, I'm a girl.
Jenny: Bobby, are you a monkey?
Bobby: [blank stare]
(continue by revising 'girl' and 'boy' flashcards and getting Bobby and Lily to say 'I'm a boy,' 'I'm a girl.' Try 'are you a monkey?' again to no avail ad infinitum)
Yep, the kid's the cutest mogu in all of Chongqing. Poor little mushroom. Anyway, Katie and I have been bandying about the word 'mogu' for a couple of weeks now, so I just thought I'd share. I love 'mogu' as a word, and would also like to forewarn a certain Ms VD Trinh that she might have been proclaimed 'Mogu In Chief'. I mean sure, Van, you're a med student, which indicates that you might be part of a strangely academic subset of mogus, but in every other respect you embody the virtues of true mogu-dom. I hope you are proud, and that you embrace Bobby and his friends in your heart as your own little mushrooms.
Anyway, Chinese has some brilliantly literal words ('jeans' in Chinese literally translates as 'cowboy trousers') but our absolute new favourite is the word for mushroom, 蘑菰 or 'mo gu.' According to Jenny, the Chinese also use 蘑菰 as a word to describe someone of rather limited brain capacity. Taking inspiration from this, we have thus adapted the anglicized version, 'mogu,' to affectionately describe all of our, erm, slightly dimmer kids.
Now, I have a good few really bright students, I have plenty of average Joes (although the only kid I have who is actually called Joe is a little ten-year old shithead who likes shouting out 'F-U-C-K' what it mean?), but, well, there are a few little sweeties who appear to be just a few sandwiches short of a picnic. They are the children for whom you repeat a word five times, demonstrate it, attempt to use every possible means at your disposal (including, often, translation by the Chinese teacher) to convey that 'apple' means 'pingguo,' and yet will still be met with a smile and a completely blank stare. You can practically see the tumbleweed bouncing through their little minds as they smile sweetly and uncomprehendingly at you. And these are my mogus.
My favourite little mogu is Bobby. Bobby is my youngest student at Aston, being only four years old, and is a gorgeously vacant little kid who attends the parent and child class with one other student, five-year old Lily. At first, I thought Bobby was struggling because he was so young, but Annie, my Chinese co-teacher and I have come to the conclusion that he is in fact just a wee bit dim. A typical attempt to teach Bobby something goes like this:
Jenny: What is it (holds up flashcard at Lily)?
Lily: It's a rabbit?
Jenny: Are you a rabbit?
Lily: No, I'm a girl.
Jenny: What is it (holds up flashcard at Bobby)?
Bobby: Monkey
Jenny: Are you a monkey (points at Bobby)?
Bobby: Monkey
Jenny: Are you a monkey (points at Bobby and then at monkey picture, shakes head)?
Bobby: It's a monkey.
Annie: Ni shi houzi ma? (Are you a monkey? in Chinese)
Bobby: Monkey.
Annie: Bobby, ni shi houzi ma?
Bobby: It's a monkey.
Jenny: Annie, are you a monkey?
Annie: No, I'm a girl.
Jenny: Lily, are you a monkey?
Lily: No, I'm a girl.
Jenny: Bobby, are you a monkey?
Bobby: [blank stare]
(continue by revising 'girl' and 'boy' flashcards and getting Bobby and Lily to say 'I'm a boy,' 'I'm a girl.' Try 'are you a monkey?' again to no avail ad infinitum)
Yep, the kid's the cutest mogu in all of Chongqing. Poor little mushroom. Anyway, Katie and I have been bandying about the word 'mogu' for a couple of weeks now, so I just thought I'd share. I love 'mogu' as a word, and would also like to forewarn a certain Ms VD Trinh that she might have been proclaimed 'Mogu In Chief'. I mean sure, Van, you're a med student, which indicates that you might be part of a strangely academic subset of mogus, but in every other respect you embody the virtues of true mogu-dom. I hope you are proud, and that you embrace Bobby and his friends in your heart as your own little mushrooms.
Thursday 7 May 2009
Hammer Man
Not only am I sad that I can't have pictures on the blog for the next few weeks, but am also wishing I had a way to add sound. That way I could better communicate THE ANNOYINGNESS OF A NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOUR WHO HAS SUDDENLY STARTED HAMMERING LOUDLY ON THE WALL ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY.
Yes, our hitherto quiet neighbour, whoever he (or she, but I'm assuming he's a he because men are stupider and like to bash things more) may be, has gone wrong in the head. He for some reason has decided to bang constantly at something in his apartment with a large hammer for about seven hours a day, commencing at the rather anti-social hour of 8am. I hate him.
I have no idea what he is doing - unless he is a blind man who is also in possession of the world's worst set of Ikea instructions, no piece of furniture assembly requires three whole days of near-constant hammering. Maybe he is crazy. Maybe he is tearing down the wall between our apartments breezeblock by breezeblock because he wants to be our new roomie. I do not know. I do not care. I just want him to STOP!
Anyway, Hammer Man TM, as he is now officially known, is a bad neighbour. He has, though, inspired me to write my first song on the guitar, which, on second thoughts, probably makes it a very good thing that this blog does not support sound clips. I haven't written about my adventures in guitar playing, but about a month ago we 'borrowed' a cheap, out-of-tune and unloved old guitar (manufactured by the interestingly-named 'Stains and Music') from school, and Katie has been teaching me how to play it (I can do American Pie n'all now :). Guitar is fun, and it proved very easy to use the minimal number of chords I now know to express my displeasure at the evil lurking next door.
The song is still a work in progress, but its general theme involves ramming the hammer (metal side first) up the sphincter of a certain individual. And I want some help with the lyrics - how should I improve on/continue the following?
There was a man who had a hammer in his hand,
He banged it all day to complete some pointless task.
And all that endless banging drove us fucking mad,
So we thought we'd ram his hammer up his arse.
Whoa--oh, Hammer Man,
We're going to stick that hammer where the sun don't shine,
Whoa-oh, Hammer Ma-an,
Shove that hammer backwards right up your behind.
And yes, before you ask, my quest is to become Phoebe from Friends.
Yes, our hitherto quiet neighbour, whoever he (or she, but I'm assuming he's a he because men are stupider and like to bash things more) may be, has gone wrong in the head. He for some reason has decided to bang constantly at something in his apartment with a large hammer for about seven hours a day, commencing at the rather anti-social hour of 8am. I hate him.
I have no idea what he is doing - unless he is a blind man who is also in possession of the world's worst set of Ikea instructions, no piece of furniture assembly requires three whole days of near-constant hammering. Maybe he is crazy. Maybe he is tearing down the wall between our apartments breezeblock by breezeblock because he wants to be our new roomie. I do not know. I do not care. I just want him to STOP!
Anyway, Hammer Man TM, as he is now officially known, is a bad neighbour. He has, though, inspired me to write my first song on the guitar, which, on second thoughts, probably makes it a very good thing that this blog does not support sound clips. I haven't written about my adventures in guitar playing, but about a month ago we 'borrowed' a cheap, out-of-tune and unloved old guitar (manufactured by the interestingly-named 'Stains and Music') from school, and Katie has been teaching me how to play it (I can do American Pie n'all now :). Guitar is fun, and it proved very easy to use the minimal number of chords I now know to express my displeasure at the evil lurking next door.
The song is still a work in progress, but its general theme involves ramming the hammer (metal side first) up the sphincter of a certain individual. And I want some help with the lyrics - how should I improve on/continue the following?
There was a man who had a hammer in his hand,
He banged it all day to complete some pointless task.
And all that endless banging drove us fucking mad,
So we thought we'd ram his hammer up his arse.
Whoa--oh, Hammer Man,
We're going to stick that hammer where the sun don't shine,
Whoa-oh, Hammer Ma-an,
Shove that hammer backwards right up your behind.
And yes, before you ask, my quest is to become Phoebe from Friends.
Xi'an
Firstly, I'd like to thank you all for your kind support regarding my accelerated ageing process. It makes me feel so much better as I'm examining my face for traces of incipient crow's feet to know that I have such supportive friends and family. And yes mother, I know well that on the day that I actually do turn thirty you shall relish the opportunity to begin taking revenge for years of old crone jokes.
According to my manager, who conducted an autopsy on my beloved laptop, Tilly is showing signs of 'significant charring' on the inside, which I interpret to mean that she is really, most sincerely dead. Thank the lord my parents' home contents insurance provider for some reason sees fit to cover the possessions of a 24 year old (note emphasis) wastrel daughter gallivating around thousands of miles from the parental pile, which means that hopefully I can be supplied with Tilly 2 for free sometime in September. Anyway, because of computer self-immolation* I now have to write blogs in the internet cafe and that, sadly, means that I can't upload any pictures. This makes me very sad, not only because blogs without pictures are boring, but because I have so many good pictures from the last few weeks, including some wonderful manglage.
Last weekend we finally got some time off due to China's Labour Day (typically for China, this ostensible celebration of the communist worker is generally celebrated by going shopping), and so we took the sleeper train up to Xi'an for four days for a break. It was pretty ace, but so as not to bore in this pictureless void of a blog I shall keep descriptions brief. We of course went to see the famous Terracotta Warriors, which despite being encased in a huge concrete complex are actually quite amazing. Qin Shi-Huang, the first emperor to unify China and the guy who who commissioned the army of thousands (way back when in the 3rd century BC - mum, you might remember) had just a wee tendency towards being a power-crazed despot - apparently historians believe that he was so convinced that his rule would continue in heaven that he had the army made to give him the edge in cosmic battles. Unfortunately for him, the majority of them actually look quite smiley and friendly rather than fearsome, which might be why his earthly dynasty lasted a grand total of three years after his death.
Aside from bonding with terracotta dudes, we also hired some boneshaker bikes to do a tour of the ancient city walls, visited some Tang dynasty (7th century AD) pagodas, and went dining and bargaining in the brilliant (read: completely chaotic) Muslim Quarter, from where I bought my first presents for folks back home. Oh, and spent a lot of time chilling, chatting to folks, playing ping pong and drinking copious G and Ts in one of the nicest hostels I've ever stayed in. For 3 pounds a night. I love China.
Oh yes, I should note that Xi'an was actually sunny, and after even two days I finally have something resembling a tan (although thankfully not at Madame Tango levels quite yet). Despite everyone we meet in China telling us about this supposed brain-frying heat of Chongqing, so far it's appearing to be essentially the Manchester of the East in terms of its climate. I know I'm going to regret saying this, but, Chongqing, bring on the heat.
* BTW, what's that thing called where people set on fire for no apparent reason? Stories about it generally turn up in esteemed periodicals such as Love It! and Take a Break. It came into my mind when writing about Till and I can't for the life of me remember what it's called. Typing 'people on fire' into Google for some reason did not help.
According to my manager, who conducted an autopsy on my beloved laptop, Tilly is showing signs of 'significant charring' on the inside, which I interpret to mean that she is really, most sincerely dead. Thank the lord my parents' home contents insurance provider for some reason sees fit to cover the possessions of a 24 year old (note emphasis) wastrel daughter gallivating around thousands of miles from the parental pile, which means that hopefully I can be supplied with Tilly 2 for free sometime in September. Anyway, because of computer self-immolation* I now have to write blogs in the internet cafe and that, sadly, means that I can't upload any pictures. This makes me very sad, not only because blogs without pictures are boring, but because I have so many good pictures from the last few weeks, including some wonderful manglage.
Last weekend we finally got some time off due to China's Labour Day (typically for China, this ostensible celebration of the communist worker is generally celebrated by going shopping), and so we took the sleeper train up to Xi'an for four days for a break. It was pretty ace, but so as not to bore in this pictureless void of a blog I shall keep descriptions brief. We of course went to see the famous Terracotta Warriors, which despite being encased in a huge concrete complex are actually quite amazing. Qin Shi-Huang, the first emperor to unify China and the guy who who commissioned the army of thousands (way back when in the 3rd century BC - mum, you might remember) had just a wee tendency towards being a power-crazed despot - apparently historians believe that he was so convinced that his rule would continue in heaven that he had the army made to give him the edge in cosmic battles. Unfortunately for him, the majority of them actually look quite smiley and friendly rather than fearsome, which might be why his earthly dynasty lasted a grand total of three years after his death.
Aside from bonding with terracotta dudes, we also hired some boneshaker bikes to do a tour of the ancient city walls, visited some Tang dynasty (7th century AD) pagodas, and went dining and bargaining in the brilliant (read: completely chaotic) Muslim Quarter, from where I bought my first presents for folks back home. Oh, and spent a lot of time chilling, chatting to folks, playing ping pong and drinking copious G and Ts in one of the nicest hostels I've ever stayed in. For 3 pounds a night. I love China.
Oh yes, I should note that Xi'an was actually sunny, and after even two days I finally have something resembling a tan (although thankfully not at Madame Tango levels quite yet). Despite everyone we meet in China telling us about this supposed brain-frying heat of Chongqing, so far it's appearing to be essentially the Manchester of the East in terms of its climate. I know I'm going to regret saying this, but, Chongqing, bring on the heat.
* BTW, what's that thing called where people set on fire for no apparent reason? Stories about it generally turn up in esteemed periodicals such as Love It! and Take a Break. It came into my mind when writing about Till and I can't for the life of me remember what it's called. Typing 'people on fire' into Google for some reason did not help.
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Another Year Older...
So, today I was chatting with the Chinese teachers at are school (who are all lovely), and the conversation turned to what our Chinese zodiac signs were. Now, with the exception of our manager, who has recently hit the big 30, every single employee at our school is between the ages of 21 and 26, and so we were trying to group ourselves into our relatively limited Chinese star sign groups.
When I said I was 24 and was thus a rat according to the Chinese zodiac (supposed characteristics: talkative, pioneering, quick-witted, friendly, terrible with money - actually far better than my crappy western star sign of Capricorn, whose sole characteristics appear to be stolid, conservative dullardness), they looked at me with blank incomprehension. According to them, if I was 24 then I would have to be born in 1985, and thus I would be an ox. I attempted to refute that logic by saying I was born in December 1984, and woulld thus still be 24 for another 8 months, but this was met with jokes that I was trying to deny my age!
So, it turns out that in China your age is dependent on the year of your birth; like racehorses, all Chinese people age a year on January 1st (yet they still celebrate birthdays -I'm not entirely sure what the deal is with that.) For a person like me who is born on December 28th, this effectively adds a whole year to my age. So, until September at least, when I will revert to the comparative youthfulness of 24 for a few more blessed months, I have now officially hit the big fat quarter century...
When I said I was 24 and was thus a rat according to the Chinese zodiac (supposed characteristics: talkative, pioneering, quick-witted, friendly, terrible with money - actually far better than my crappy western star sign of Capricorn, whose sole characteristics appear to be stolid, conservative dullardness), they looked at me with blank incomprehension. According to them, if I was 24 then I would have to be born in 1985, and thus I would be an ox. I attempted to refute that logic by saying I was born in December 1984, and woulld thus still be 24 for another 8 months, but this was met with jokes that I was trying to deny my age!
So, it turns out that in China your age is dependent on the year of your birth; like racehorses, all Chinese people age a year on January 1st (yet they still celebrate birthdays -I'm not entirely sure what the deal is with that.) For a person like me who is born on December 28th, this effectively adds a whole year to my age. So, until September at least, when I will revert to the comparative youthfulness of 24 for a few more blessed months, I have now officially hit the big fat quarter century...
Monday 27 April 2009
ST*&*(&(*D F*!&@%G C*($&@$R
I am interrupting this blog's regularly scheduled silence in order to announce that I am having a very bad day. This is because at approximately 2am this morning my computer decided to set itself on fire. There was I, happily sat in bed wasting time meandering around the little-trodden paths of internet (actually being very swotty and reading some journal articles for my masters, so probably very little-trodden indeed), when all of a sudden I noticed a rather strange and decidedly unpleasant smell. To my, ahem, surprise, acrid black smoke was pouring out of the power socket. Rather less surprisingly, as I was going 'shit........,' Tilly the evil laptop then decided to make a strange noise and then turn herself off.
Now Tilly has a history of wilful, capricious and downright shitty behaviour (it was a bad idea to name her after a wilful, capricious and downright shitty 11th century wannabe queen of England), but self-immolation really takes the fucking cake. Unsurprisingly, she's now not turning back on, and so I whilst I am going to take her to the repair shop this week, I suspect that she might this time actually be dead as a dodo. The power supply has gone funny before and was (eventually) fixed, but given that a) I am in China and they might not have the facilities to fix a laptop with a very unusual power connection and b) she set herself on fire, I am not that optimistic as to her future.
I am hoping against hope that eventually she will be able to turn herself on, even if it is temporary, because ALL MY FUCKING STUFF IS ON THERE! Everything before I left for Prague is backed up, but my photos aren't, and lots of important documents I need aren't (although I have got some of the most important stuff stored in Gmail). I shall hang onto her festering corpse until I get back in the hope that either someone can make her come back to life, or I can have the fun of smashing her crappy little body into tiny pieces.
AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
Now Tilly has a history of wilful, capricious and downright shitty behaviour (it was a bad idea to name her after a wilful, capricious and downright shitty 11th century wannabe queen of England), but self-immolation really takes the fucking cake. Unsurprisingly, she's now not turning back on, and so I whilst I am going to take her to the repair shop this week, I suspect that she might this time actually be dead as a dodo. The power supply has gone funny before and was (eventually) fixed, but given that a) I am in China and they might not have the facilities to fix a laptop with a very unusual power connection and b) she set herself on fire, I am not that optimistic as to her future.
I am hoping against hope that eventually she will be able to turn herself on, even if it is temporary, because ALL MY FUCKING STUFF IS ON THERE! Everything before I left for Prague is backed up, but my photos aren't, and lots of important documents I need aren't (although I have got some of the most important stuff stored in Gmail). I shall hang onto her festering corpse until I get back in the hope that either someone can make her come back to life, or I can have the fun of smashing her crappy little body into tiny pieces.
AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
Wednesday 8 April 2009
Mangled English - The Album
Throughout this trip, I have been continuously amazed by the terrible yet wonderful things that English can do in the hands of non-native speakers. Excluding our friend in Prague who was responsible for joylessness way (which, I fear, may never be topped), the Chinese must have some claim to be the undisputed masters of mangled English. Examples of their exquisite crafting of English sentences abound in Chongqing, and they run the gauntlet from the incomprehensible to the unintentionally genius. The best will still be showcased here, but I am - alas - far too lazy to devote a blog post to every double entendre or pile of garble that I come across.
It is thus with great pleasure that I invite you to peruse Mangled English: the Album. Yes, there is an album. On Picasa. That you can look at. The album will grow in time and new photos will appear on the interweb, but here is a teaser of the delights that lie in store if you click here:
These were spotted in our hotel in Chengdu a few weeks ago, and left us wondering just what do they do that is so uncomplimentary? Grow little spines to leave you with hideous cuts? Shout at you and tell you you're doing it all wrong? Laugh at the poor guy who's using it and tell him he should have bought a smaller size? Suggestions as to behaviours of uncomplimentary condoms are of course welcome.
It is thus with great pleasure that I invite you to peruse Mangled English: the Album. Yes, there is an album. On Picasa. That you can look at. The album will grow in time and new photos will appear on the interweb, but here is a teaser of the delights that lie in store if you click here:
These were spotted in our hotel in Chengdu a few weeks ago, and left us wondering just what do they do that is so uncomplimentary? Grow little spines to leave you with hideous cuts? Shout at you and tell you you're doing it all wrong? Laugh at the poor guy who's using it and tell him he should have bought a smaller size? Suggestions as to behaviours of uncomplimentary condoms are of course welcome.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
