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Andrews UK - John Meadows

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119 pages

English

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A further collection of entertaining short stories to complete the author's trilogy of world-wide adventures. His intriguing tales are spiced with lively encounters and astute observations, full of humour and wit. His fascinating historical facts are particularly enlightening, and will have you saying, 'Really? I didn't know that.' Each story will leave you wanting more: Teachers' ghostly prank with a bizarre twist. Sampling local whiskey at a village distillery on the fabled Mekong river in Laos. Two cultures collide when Russian rugby league players invade Wigan, and to complete his experiences, he was proclaimed Emperor of China.

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	18 janvier 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781785388118
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

SIR, WHERE’S ’ TOILET?
John Meadows

First published in 2018 by
AG Books
www.agbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2018 John Meadows
The right of John Meadows to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The views and opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of AG Books or Andrews UK Limited.

Introduction
Apostrophe?... That is the Question.
‘Sir, Where’s ’ Toilet?’... What kind of a title is that for a book?
Let me explain: It is a question that has haunted me around the world for thirty years. It has followed me through Tiananmen Square, Red Square and Times Square; from the Great Wall of China to the Golden Gate Bridge and the Grand Canyon. It is a question which has echoed along marbled, hushed corridors of museums from the Prado, the Louvre, the Uffizi and New York’s Guggenheim. I have come to the conclusion that school children seem to think that their teachers spend years at University exclusively to acquire an encyclopaedic knowledge of the precise location of toilets anywhere on earth; like a London cab driver who has passed ‘The Knowledge’. At least these days, cabbies have got Satnavs, so perhaps one could be invented for teachers in charge of school trips: Satlavs.
The stories that follow are predominantly about travel adventures, some with students and others with friends, including some time-travel, background history, art and culture. There are also behind the scenes revelations about teachers’ antics, escapades and practical jokes; from ghostly pranks to leaving speeches. It’s not just pupils who can be mischievous. In the words of Julius Caesar: ‘Veni, Vidi, Lavatorium’... I came, I saw, I asked, ‘Sir, Where’s ’ Toilet?’
For the benefit of American readers, I am well aware that the term ‘toilet’ isn’t commonly used in the USA; the polite terms being bathroom or restroom, even if it’s a hole dug in the dirt in a forest. A common slang is the ‘John’, but personally I find that quite offensive; my first name being used to signify a toilet! So, whenever I go to America, I don’t use the word ‘John’ for the bathroom. I change it to ‘Jim’. That way, I can truthfully say that I go to the Jim every morning. For any Aussie readers; just call it the Dunny.
No doubt you will have noticed that the title of my book ignores the word ‘the’. This isn’t a typographical error or a grammatical oversight; ‘the’ is an endangered species in the North of England. There is an economy of language, and ‘the’ is often surplus to requirements. It struggles to be included in a sentence in the same way that George Harrison struggled to get one of his songs on a Beatles’ album.
Strictly speaking, I should have included an apostrophe in the title to indicate that a word is missing. However, I didn’t want to confuse readers unfamiliar with Northern colloquialisms and most important of all, for purely pragmatic reasons, Internet Search Engines.
The Northern battle between the apostrophe and the definitive article is every bit as intense as the Wars of the Roses. It isn’t just a Northern phenomenon: Nationwide, there are societies that meet regularly to eradicate the epidemic of inappropriately placed apostrophes. The secretary must have a stressful job taking the minutes of tho’se meeting’s.
Greengrocers seem to be particularly susceptible; carrot’s, turnip’s, apple’s and pear’s for sale. At the time of writing, in 2017, I heard about an anonymous apostrophe vigilante in Bristol. This super hero scours the streets with an apostrophiser correcting misplaced or missing apostrophes on shop signs; like a self-appointed Apostropher Laureate needing his five fruits a day.
Regrettably, some of the distinctive Lancashire dialects, as spoken by miners, factory and textile mill workers, are gradually dying out. However, there are plenty of pockets of resistance and we will be meeting some amusing characters along the way. There are still plenty of Shakespearean ‘thous’ and ‘thahs’, kept alive through the centuries.
Incidentally, in Elizabethan times, often described as the Golden Age of Literature, there was a very relaxed attitude to spelling and grammar. If a word looked and sounded right, and could be understood, then it would do. Indeed, there are six surviving authenticated signatures by Shakespeare; with six different spellings. Remarkably, not one of them is spelled the same as the name we recognize today. That’s right, William Shakespeare, the greatest playwright in the English language, despite all the plays wot he wrote, still couldn’t spell his own name! Perhaps the current texting gener8ion r the true heirs of the Elizabethans. Or maybe it was Slade in the 1970s.
Cramped Accommodation
My introduction to school trips, which was to become a major part of my career over the next thirty years, began when I became an art teacher at Cowley School in St. Helens.
“How do you fancy joining our school trip to Spain next summer?” asked John Dewsnip, Head of Technology.
“Wow,” I answered without hesitation, “I thought there were no perks in teaching!”
The reality proved to be somewhat different...
The sun was searingly hot as we arrived at our hotel in the narrow, dusty back-streets of Sitges. It was early afternoon and everyone was desperate for a shower after a 24-hour coach journey. John organised check-in while I and the other staff, Alan, Sue and Carol, supervised weary, but still cheery pupils. Then, I was asked the question which was to haunt me and follow me around the world: “Sir, Where’s ’ Toilet?”
The hotel catered mainly for the school-tour industry, and very often with such hotels, the reality didn’t quite match up to the photographs in the holiday brochures. However, as with most things in life, you get what you pay for, and after all we were in high spirits since it was the end of the summer term and the start of our six-week summer holidays. We were all looking forward to spending time on the beach, trying out water-sports and just generally having fun.
The first thing I noticed about the hotel was that it was hotter in the foyer than it was out in the street. The air-conditioning system was merely a ceiling fan which was so decrepit that it looked like something out of the movie ‘Casablanca’. It was a three-storey hotel with no lift, just stairs, but everyone managed to drag their suitcases up to their rooms, even the unlucky ones on the top floor. John, Alan and I shared a room which comprised a single bed and a double bed with about twelve inches separating them. There was just about enough space to enable us to shuffle single-file around the edge of the room, backs-to-the-wall like prisoners in Colditz Castle trying to escape while evading the searchlights. Our communal wardrobe was merely a broom handle fitted into a small alcove behind a faded green velvet curtain. There was a small fridge in the room so at least we had somewhere to keep our beers cool. The so-called air-conditioning was the same as in the hotel foyer; a ceiling fan.
“Let’s give it a twirl,” said Alan, flicking the switch on the wall. It was like starting up a Second World War Spitfire. After about three false starts the fan would build up speed so vigorously that the ceiling housing had worked loose. It rocked to-and-fro alarmingly as it rotated directly above our beds, sounding like a helicopter coming in to land.
“Could be painful if that falls on us,” observed Alan ruefully.
“Painful circumcision!” grimaced John, before pulling rank as tour leader and claiming the single bed.
The balcony was small with a slightly rusty wrought-iron balustrade in the colonial Spanish style. We wondered if it would even take our weight as it protruded precariously over a narrow busy street. With trepidation, we slowly ventured out step-by-step, like testing ice on a lake, and at the same time Carol and Sue came on to their balcony, which was adjacent to ours.
Everyone was ready for an afternoon at the beach. Swimming in the warm, azure sea now made our long coach journey from England worthwhile, and our aches and pains seemed to melt away in the Mediterranean sun. Not surprisingly, by about 9-30pm everyone was beginning to feel tired and, following our customary roll-call and room checks, John, Alan and I went to our air-conditioned, spacious suite. At least we could dream. The heat was still stupefying as the three of us lay there on top of the sheets, wearing just underpants, staring at the ceiling fan rotating above us.
“I don’t think I will be able to sleep with that racket going on over my head,” I managed to say despite my tiredness and the heat. No reply. I realised I was talking to myself as John to my right and Alan on my left were already fast asleep. It didn’t take me long to drift off. The next thing I knew was that I was gradually awakened by a murmuring, groaning sound. I slowly opened my eyes and, after that initial ‘where-am-I?’ moment, the room came into focus through the shimmering heat, dimly lit by the streetlights.
‘I knew that fan would wake me up,’ I thought, still semi-conscious, but then the groaning sounds started to get louder and I realized it was coming from