The Songstone

February's winner is regular contender Rod Liddle, for this  nasty little piece in the Spectator (no, I don't normally read the rag but it came up on one of the BBC's stories about Libya as an external link). Of course the breathtaking bigotry and sheer ignorance Liddle displays here fit in well at the Spectator, as a glimpse at some of the comments below the article confirms. For a quick tour of the darkest parts of the Tory soul, look no further. If anything nasty should happen here (I don't remotely anticipate it, but...) I want to make it clear that I do NOT wish to be evacuated, by HMG or anyone else; I shall see it through and observe. Oh and by the way, Liddle, my salary, although quite generous, comes nowhere near the vast sums you rake in. If more proof were needed that there is no correlation whatsoever between remuneration and worth, you have surely provided it.

There's an obnoxious little crow flapping round our school. Foulsmalls is the corvid's name; she stinks of spite and stool An ugly bird, of evil mien, she pecks and caws and claws. Her frizzy feathers, frazzled face are fairly fatal flaws This crow is desperate for a mate (her beady eye's on me). Her halitosis, though, is such Don Juan himself would flee For gossip, innuendo, cant Foulsmalls is your bird; a vicious tongue, a nose for dung: her beak's in every turd

In the compound where I ‘worked’ until yesterday (affectionately known as the Gulag to its inmates), Rashid is the ‘tea boy’. Aged 25 and from Mombasa, he has a degree, fluent English (he was laughing at the native speaker banter in the tea room) and is obviously as bright as a magpie’s eye. So why is he serving us coffee and wiping the tables for 1500 riyals (£250) a month? Corruption, he sighed; unless you know the right people in Kenya, or pay bribes, it’s impossible to find a job. Marwan picked us up outside the souk on Wednesday evening, driving a Toyota that he was using as an unlicensed taxi (the licensed variety are in short supply in Doha). He wanted 15 riyals for the trip back but we beat him down to 10 and got in. He was from Syria, also with a degree and very good English. His day job? A cook in a Lebanese restaurant for 850 riyals a month. So he borrows a car and drives the streets to augment his income, much of which he sends home, and works 20 hour days. After hearin

I am having huge problems accessing the internet right now; multiple proxy servers and stress. Bear with me a while...

Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung Like night, and darken'd all the land of Nile: BBC Middle East and Al Jazeera have rolling coverage of ‘The crisis in Egypt’. Many Egyptians here are glued to their screens watching events, while the government in Egypt has taken to blaming the foreign media, including Al Jazeera, for inciting the protests. This war of words escalated recently: Qatar itself has come under fire for allowing Al Jazeera to broadcast. Tunisia, Egypt, the splitting of Sudan, protests in Jordan and Yemen; I have come to the region at an interesting time. Sad news and good on the ornithological front. Mother dove (for that is what the bird on my window ledge was) abandoned her eggs, one of which soon became putrid in the sun. But 4 days later a new dove has come in and laid two more. The nest, which looks like a mass of multi-coloured electrical wire because it IS a mass of multi-coloured electrical wire, is thus i

I'd like to tell you about adventures of derring-do in the souk ; how I went there with an English rose; how we were set upon by a posse of qat -crazed fiends intent on infamy; how they were fought off with cold steel and stiff upper lip. However, despite sharing a birthday with Rider Haggard I can’t go that far: the rose was tired and we've put it off till tonight. I was given a class this morning! Perhaps not the keenest students I have ever encountered, they are studying to be security guards and firemen. They knew 'stop' and 'fire', or at least most of them did by the end; they should go far. Cooler this morning; a wind from the North made it like a Spring day back home, but the sun is out now and it’s 25C. I'm looking forward to getting home for a nap and then the evening ahead. Toodle-pip.

At once, as far as Angels ken, he views The dismal situation waste and wild: A dungeon horrible on all sides round ran through my mind as I surveyed the outside of Marks and Spencer, Doha. Carrefour is OK: for me at least it’s mildly exotic, but M&S? I didn’t come to the Gulf for fucking M&S; there isn’t even a food section. It was a quiet weekend. I spent much of Friday cleaning, unpacking and trying unsuccessfully to get my mobile to connect to the Internet via WiFi. I called the Indian who acts as our block’s general dogsbody and barked a few complaints about broken lightbulbs. I went wandering in the district looking at Turkish and Lebanese eateries. Most of the time I just slept and watched films. I have taken the first step on the road to the Residence Permit with the blood group test, which involved a prick on the finger and a few drops squeezed onto a glass slide. Two minutes later I had a printout declaring me A negative. Next comes the full medical, which as m

Opiate dependence has its drawbacks in terms of getting things done, so now that I have full medical insurance I decided to do something about my shoulder. After a couple of hours of blood tests, X-rays, prodding and poking, the diagnosis is not as bad as it could be: osteoarthritic changes of the left shoulder joint with narrowing of the lower part of the joint space and marginal osteoaphytic lipping at the lower acetabular margin, just to be clear. What this means in practice is a 10 day course of Divido and Gupisol , followed by a few months on various things to arrest and perhaps reverse the degeneration of the cartilage. Fingers crossed. The clinic itself was a microcosm of Doha: an excellent Egyptian doctor, Indian assistant and Filipina secretary, all speaking good English and working in high-tech efficiency. No queues, no waiting room: in, tests, diagnosis, prescription and the bill - 800 riyals (150 pounds) including the pills. Can’t be bad, especially as I’ll get it bac

Had lunch with the boss yesterday in the Villagio ; lamb with couscous and iced coffee - delicious. She bought me a SIM card, which in theory cannot be obtained until one has a Resident's Permit, which takes a long time. There is WiFi in my apartment, so I shall be experimenting with mobile internet, something completely new to me, but it's free. I was told the stark and awful story of the Canadian 40-something teacher who had sent amorous texts to his 20-something secretary. They had to get him out of the country in two days, because if her father had complained he could have gone to prison. In a country where there are 4 men to every women I can imagine that desperation might set in, and 'lock up your daughters' is clearly the local response.

Friday night/Saturday Left London 6 hours late; sandstorms in Dubai had damaged the plane, which had to be repaired. Once on board I enjoyed Emirates's good food and wine and fell asleep over Budapest. Arrived in Dubai at midday local time and caught the connection to Doha. No luggage in Doha; after an hour of calls and consternation I was told it had been left in London. Airport full of Japanese and Australians here to watch the final of the Asian Football Cup (Japan 1 - Australia 0). My car was waiting for me and things began to improve once I arrived at my apartment: a beautiful 6th floor space fitted with all the gadgets. Fell asleep very quickly and woke up after a few hours to go out for some fried chicken. Bed. Sunday Woken at 5am by the call to prayer; good timing as working hours are from 6.30am - 2.30pm. Minibus drove us to the compound. Not much to do here yet except show our faces, so spent the whole day chatting and playing Scrabble with two fellow English exil

It's strange how things that were on my mind 4 years ago are still topical...   First published on 15 October 2006 Last thing's first   Friday 6th was the Mid-Autumn Festival: the second most important festival in China, traditionally celebrated with lanterns, fruit and mooncakes. In my residential garden many families put lanterns in their windows: a glorious, multi-coloured spectacle. On the Saturday I was invited to a party to appreciate the Moon, so along I went to another residential garden, the Villandry, on the outskirts of town. The opulence! The apartments here would have had the planners of Versailles scratching their heads. I sat by the pool with Mystic Meg from Hiroshima, being served champagne cocktails and watching bevies of beautiful girls with lanterns. On the next table was the Italian consul; some high-ranking executives from Sony on the table after that; the whole place was packed with the movers and shakers of Guangzhou's diplomatic and commerc

I used to write a blog called 'Life in China' when I was living there. The blog has long since disappeared (literally overnight and without warning, when the site was bought by profiteering scum XF.com ) and I thought it gone forever, but the Wayback Machine has come to my rescue, and large parts of it are still extant. I shall therefore offer you a post from those distant days. Art and Observations (1): first published on 4th October 2006 The ferocious heat and humidity are fading away. The North East monsoon brings warm, dry days and cooler nights. Time to reflect on a lazy summer of film, books, music and travel. Over the next few weeks I shall comment on some of the best things I have seen and heard, and some of the worst. The Football Factory "Being beaten up by football hooligans is like getting VD: the fucking pain goes on forever." So begins The Football Factory (Nick Love, UK, 2004) and with an opening like that this has to be compelling viewing. F

I hate to whine, but this last month, with a tendon injury, flu and an ear infection, I have had enough pain to test the tolerance of a flagellant. This culminated in a 4am march to A&E yesterday morning to demand and get massive doses of dihydrocodeine tartrate. The bliss! In a civilised society opiates would be freely available over the counter. Not in Toryland, where even pain is regulated by the masters through the high priest-doctors; you must suffer until you are prescribed, and the holy tablet dispensed unto you. I was supposed to have been leaving the country today en route to run a school in Russia, but pre-Christmas promises and bonhomie have given way to silence and cold feet: yet another example of the high ethical standards and integrity of EFL employers. Perhaps they ran out of money. Still, there has been some consolation: Len McCluskey laying into spivs, media barons, bankers and Tory lickspittles on the Today programme yesterday morning. He didn't actu

So there I was at the  Poets' cafe listening to the regulars and Daljit Nagra . At the interval I stepped outside with my thermos of coffee for a crafty snout. The door opened behind me and out came three young men with pints. One of them engaged me in conversation. I sighed inwardly; a pint of lager in the hand of one's interlocutor is a sure sign of impending boredom at best and unwanted aggression at worst. Lager!? In this weather? Fucking stuff should carry a health warning. Sure enough, the ginger whinger wore a Stella scowl to go with his Heineken hump and was scathing about the comedy act taking place in the other theatre. I adopted an air of unforced bonhomie , changed my register to street slang mode and agreed with everything he said. Don't get me wrong; I've nothing against a punch-up, especially with a fool who's had a skinful and wants to give it some large, but I had a poem to read. Anyway, I went back in and thought nothing more of it, but after

Occasionally a blog comes up that is so good that any comment is inadequate. One such is Tom Clark's , from whom I have learnt, among other things, about the works of Curzio Malaparte . This piece on Girls in the Wheatfields I found almost unbearably horrible. Phil Hall, long the enfant terrible of the Guardian's Poem of the Week , runs an entertaining blog called Donkeyshott and Xuitlacoche , and has been generous enough to supply this list of traditional Christmas carols . John Wells ran a very funny column a few days ago on Steve Bell's Geordie Royalty : "Ahse o' Windsor is too bleedin' poncey this day n' age" "Ah should fackin' coco!" Finally you will indulge me if I mention the beautiful and talented Marie-Claire at Thursday's Child : the diary of a ballerina. On Saturday I spent a few hours in a room full of nerdy fans at Reading Library for a celebration of the works of H.P Lovecraft . I found myself 25 years back in

I have been advised that in order to increase the number of visitors to this site I need to use more terms that will attract them. Sex . The problem is I am not really sure what does attract people. Pussy . This post is therefore an experiment in 'getting with it' in the hope that this space too can be at the cutting edge of the blogosphere. Big dick . Next year's royal wedding (with that ring ) is in everyone's thoughts today. Especially in the USA, where at a safe remove from the idle parasites they can swoon at the charming romance of the occasion. I sincerely trust that in the spirit of the age of austerity the wedding will be held at a Hackney registry office followed by a bacon butty and cup o' char reception. David Cameron has graciously decided that the taxpayer should no longer have to cough up for his personal photographer and film-maker.  The Tory party will instead pay to have him airbrushed. Finally the Eurozone crisis lurches on. The same spiv

Another oldie, from a few summers ago. I understand he no longer works there... Library bar, Thorpeness, Suffolk 'You open?' we cheerily cried at the empty room. 'Suppose so,' came the scowled reply Two pints followed soon. 'The front door’s locked, so we didn’t know if you were open.' 'That's not the front, front’s round the back can’t serve you if you don’t know that!' 'Fucking place is a dump,' he said 'the committee? They're all lemmings I wanted bands, music all night but this inbred bunch is much too tight to spend a fucking penny.' 'So,' said I, 'could you tell me why the Artisan's Cup stopped in '81?' Said he, 'I couldn’t give a fuck and you two boys are out of luck cos I’ve cashed up. It's half past eight so fuck off now or I’ll be late!” © Simon M Hunter 2010

Language Log , which for some incomprehensible reason I had not thoroughly explored before now, is one of the most informative and funniest sites around; not only the articles, but the banter below. This article on an escaped chimp in Kansas City and this one  on leaf blowers are two recent examples. No one will be surprised to learn that I made a fool of myself on John Wells's phonetic blog by suggesting that /əʊ/ might exist in Italian. It doesn't of course, although I was pleased to learn on further reading that /ɔ:/ is higher in Milanese Italian than in the Standard variety, sounding much like /o/. Only 70% wrong then; a triumph. Redbubble is a lovely place for art and writing. So good in fact that I have honoured it by posting some of my verse there (under Simonmh). Another shameless plug: my Facebook writer's page is open to anyone who wants to give it a like, which as you've got this far you may as well; I promise not to sell you anything. You've

Freezing panic, appalling loss; I could not breath for a moment. "Wh... What?" and the young American's voice became impatient. "Sorry, that's what she said, it's really nothing to do with me."   I suppose it wasn't, and I can forgive her for that, for she was only a messenger, but I think I understood at that moment the customs of the old Kings of Persia, who would execute the bearer of bad tidings as though he were the originator of them. But... "Well... OK," I said, choking. "Will you ask her to call me when she can?" She never did call, but I knew she wouldn't. There was a terrible finality in that voice; a tone that said, "Oh hey, here's a loser calling for Michela." I heeded it for a week, desperately hoping that every phone call was her, hurting so bad that I cancelled lessons, staying indoors with drawn shutters, ignoring the New Year, hoping she would tell me everything was fine. And then I had to try

I was dazed; she was too. We knew something then that I think is hidden from most: a secret that cannot be shared with others, for there are no words to describe it; only that it was an exaltation . The kisses became more passionate, and the hands wandered more freely, but we did not go further. "Who says I'd let you?" she said, and we laughed; I think we did. At least I laughed, but looking back I cannot see her. The touch, the smell, the happiness are as clear as today, but I cannot see her laughing face: it is lost to me now. Finally it was time to say goodbye, for darkness was coming. I had another lesson, she had to pack. Our parting hug was lingering, unhurried, our final kiss exquisite, and the memory I have of Michela is her standing outside the door, in the same place she had stood the first day, smiling down at me. I never saw her again. She went to Canada, and from Toronto I received a postcard with 'having a great time' and 'love and kisses'