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» Airport Stories
Football in the South of France
I was "forced" to spend a year in Marseille as part of my degree, and decided teaching English in a school was the way to go.
The Head of English took a shine to me, and made sure I had as much holiday as possible, so I took advantage early on to go home and collect some more of my things. My flight back to Marseille involved me shaking and trying not to vomit due to the vodka and sambuca session the night before, which was not helped by the fact the plane was full of Chelsea scum/fans (delete as appropriate) flying out for a Champions League game against Olympique Marseille.
The queue at passport control was taking ages and once I finally made it to the front, the immigration guy asked me:
"You are 'ere for ze foootball?"
so I replied in French:
"No, I teach English in a lycee here. My residence permit is at the back of my passport. Anyway, I hate Chelsea, I'm an Arsenal fan, so I hope Marseille kick Chelsea's arse!"
He beemed back at me, and I swear he later picked out a cctv picture of me and put in up in all the immigration booths, 'cos from then on I got waved through immigration every time without so much as a look at my passport!!
(Wed 8th Mar 2006, 11:48, More)
Football in the South of France
I was "forced" to spend a year in Marseille as part of my degree, and decided teaching English in a school was the way to go.
The Head of English took a shine to me, and made sure I had as much holiday as possible, so I took advantage early on to go home and collect some more of my things. My flight back to Marseille involved me shaking and trying not to vomit due to the vodka and sambuca session the night before, which was not helped by the fact the plane was full of Chelsea scum/fans (delete as appropriate) flying out for a Champions League game against Olympique Marseille.
The queue at passport control was taking ages and once I finally made it to the front, the immigration guy asked me:
"You are 'ere for ze foootball?"
so I replied in French:
"No, I teach English in a lycee here. My residence permit is at the back of my passport. Anyway, I hate Chelsea, I'm an Arsenal fan, so I hope Marseille kick Chelsea's arse!"
He beemed back at me, and I swear he later picked out a cctv picture of me and put in up in all the immigration booths, 'cos from then on I got waved through immigration every time without so much as a look at my passport!!
(Wed 8th Mar 2006, 11:48, More)
» Airport Stories
Got to love customs
Just over a year ago, I was in Albania, (it's where Mr Helpermonkey is from) as we'd been sorting out the neccessary red tape at the British Embassy for us to get married back home in Blighty. As soon as the word got out that we were off to the UK, up turn all the people wanting gifts taken over to obscure friends and relatives in the UK. Quite clearly our bags are over the weight limit.
Having finally convinced the security guard at the door of Mother Teresa airport that we were indeed travelling, and that we did have tickets and passports, we made our way to the Alitalia check-in, where the bloke confirmed our bags were over the limit, and went off to get his supervisor. I hissed at Mr Helpermonkey: "Just slip yer man some Euros, this is Albania, land of the bent and corrupt, he's bound to let us off." No, we get the only ethically sound worker in the whole bloody airport, and we have to pay full whack.
We had to change at Rome, and because we'd come in from Albania, we had to enter the terminal round the back through a secret door and were subjected to an extra security check and almost missed our connection, as we got to main security just after a flight from Tokyo.
When we finally landed at Heathrow, I managed to bite my tongue as the immigration bitch tried to trick Mr H over the terms and conditions of his visa.
Muttering under my breath, I led the way through the green channel at customs, only to hear: "Excuse me sir, step over here please" Fucksocks, Mr Helpermonkey has been pulled over. I dash back and get: "Are you travelling together, madam?" Jobsworth starts looking through our stuff and asks where we've come from. "Albania via Rome" I fume, and then he asks me: "Did you buy any electrical items while you were over there?" WTF?!? I finally lost my rag.
"This is Albania we're talking about mate, would you buy anything electrical over there?" Twunt zipped our suitcases back up and wished us a pleasant onward journey!!
Apologies for length/girth. You've had better anyway.
(Tue 7th Mar 2006, 21:51, More)
Got to love customs
Just over a year ago, I was in Albania, (it's where Mr Helpermonkey is from) as we'd been sorting out the neccessary red tape at the British Embassy for us to get married back home in Blighty. As soon as the word got out that we were off to the UK, up turn all the people wanting gifts taken over to obscure friends and relatives in the UK. Quite clearly our bags are over the weight limit.
Having finally convinced the security guard at the door of Mother Teresa airport that we were indeed travelling, and that we did have tickets and passports, we made our way to the Alitalia check-in, where the bloke confirmed our bags were over the limit, and went off to get his supervisor. I hissed at Mr Helpermonkey: "Just slip yer man some Euros, this is Albania, land of the bent and corrupt, he's bound to let us off." No, we get the only ethically sound worker in the whole bloody airport, and we have to pay full whack.
We had to change at Rome, and because we'd come in from Albania, we had to enter the terminal round the back through a secret door and were subjected to an extra security check and almost missed our connection, as we got to main security just after a flight from Tokyo.
When we finally landed at Heathrow, I managed to bite my tongue as the immigration bitch tried to trick Mr H over the terms and conditions of his visa.
Muttering under my breath, I led the way through the green channel at customs, only to hear: "Excuse me sir, step over here please" Fucksocks, Mr Helpermonkey has been pulled over. I dash back and get: "Are you travelling together, madam?" Jobsworth starts looking through our stuff and asks where we've come from. "Albania via Rome" I fume, and then he asks me: "Did you buy any electrical items while you were over there?" WTF?!? I finally lost my rag.
"This is Albania we're talking about mate, would you buy anything electrical over there?" Twunt zipped our suitcases back up and wished us a pleasant onward journey!!
Apologies for length/girth. You've had better anyway.
(Tue 7th Mar 2006, 21:51, More)
» Your Weirdest Teacher
South London Independent All-Girls School...
So yes, a high proportion of grade-A mentalists.
Every month, the teachers would have to give an assembly. Clearly none of us ever listened, until the day Mr. S, one of the maths teachers, walked onto the stage with a massive cassette recorder, put it down, pressed play, and walked out of the hall. What followed was a random tape full of conversations with his wife that sounded like they were under water. Cue the head and the deputy head running out of the hall to find him. I think he left shortly afterwards due to his nervous breakdown.
Dr. W, the chemistry and CDT teacher, who according to our English teacher, was prone to spontaneous combustion, which was why, even in deepest winter, all the windows had to be open. Rumour had it the stains on the ceiling were from him exploding. Nearly killed us all once by deciding at the last minute that his demonstration would have been better off in the fume-cupboard, but didn't quite make it in time. Then had to deal with 20-odd girls falling off their stools high off the fumes. Once cut the ties off my science overalls with a pair of tin-cutters because "they looked unsafe". Used to let us burn stuff in the labs as we were "showing an interest in science". Great bloke. Mad as a box of frogs.
Miss. M, English teacher who lived in an attic with no T.V. (clearly odd) but she did have a "wireless". Used to tell us it was rude to sneeze (wtf?). Had a complete nervous breakdown and the head of department told us she'd gone on an extended gambling holiday in Monte Carlo.
Frau. F, the German assistant. Blatant lesbian. Found me sat in reception once waiting for my Mum to pick me up, 'cos I'd had an asthma attack. She dragged me off to the staff dining room to "recuperate" and then insisted I tried her breathing exercises, decided I wasn't doing it correctly, so she stood behind me and put her arms around my waist and squeezed as I breathed in. At this point, the head of German walked in, looked at the pair of us, and just went "Oh, sorry!" and ran out the room as if she'd caught us at it on one of the tables. Once I moved onto A-Level German, I had lessons on my own with her, as there were only 3 of us doing the course. She used to quiz me at length about things like how I'd felt about started my period, and what did I do with my boyfriend, and what were my views on hardcore pornography? Looking back perhaps I should have reported this behaviour.
And finally, Mr. D, the Latin teacher. He wore the same green hairy suit all week, and stank to high heaven. Then someone saw him during the holidays, and he was STILL WEARING THE SUIT. Clearly we'd found the source of the odour. He was also a terrible perv and told us our skirts weren't short enough, and that we all needed a good spanking.
How these people were allowed to teach children is beyond me.
(Mon 14th Nov 2005, 17:33, More)
South London Independent All-Girls School...
So yes, a high proportion of grade-A mentalists.
Every month, the teachers would have to give an assembly. Clearly none of us ever listened, until the day Mr. S, one of the maths teachers, walked onto the stage with a massive cassette recorder, put it down, pressed play, and walked out of the hall. What followed was a random tape full of conversations with his wife that sounded like they were under water. Cue the head and the deputy head running out of the hall to find him. I think he left shortly afterwards due to his nervous breakdown.
Dr. W, the chemistry and CDT teacher, who according to our English teacher, was prone to spontaneous combustion, which was why, even in deepest winter, all the windows had to be open. Rumour had it the stains on the ceiling were from him exploding. Nearly killed us all once by deciding at the last minute that his demonstration would have been better off in the fume-cupboard, but didn't quite make it in time. Then had to deal with 20-odd girls falling off their stools high off the fumes. Once cut the ties off my science overalls with a pair of tin-cutters because "they looked unsafe". Used to let us burn stuff in the labs as we were "showing an interest in science". Great bloke. Mad as a box of frogs.
Miss. M, English teacher who lived in an attic with no T.V. (clearly odd) but she did have a "wireless". Used to tell us it was rude to sneeze (wtf?). Had a complete nervous breakdown and the head of department told us she'd gone on an extended gambling holiday in Monte Carlo.
Frau. F, the German assistant. Blatant lesbian. Found me sat in reception once waiting for my Mum to pick me up, 'cos I'd had an asthma attack. She dragged me off to the staff dining room to "recuperate" and then insisted I tried her breathing exercises, decided I wasn't doing it correctly, so she stood behind me and put her arms around my waist and squeezed as I breathed in. At this point, the head of German walked in, looked at the pair of us, and just went "Oh, sorry!" and ran out the room as if she'd caught us at it on one of the tables. Once I moved onto A-Level German, I had lessons on my own with her, as there were only 3 of us doing the course. She used to quiz me at length about things like how I'd felt about started my period, and what did I do with my boyfriend, and what were my views on hardcore pornography? Looking back perhaps I should have reported this behaviour.
And finally, Mr. D, the Latin teacher. He wore the same green hairy suit all week, and stank to high heaven. Then someone saw him during the holidays, and he was STILL WEARING THE SUIT. Clearly we'd found the source of the odour. He was also a terrible perv and told us our skirts weren't short enough, and that we all needed a good spanking.
How these people were allowed to teach children is beyond me.
(Mon 14th Nov 2005, 17:33, More)
» Urban Legends
Some more recent ones...
A few years ago there was talk in these parts of "The Forest Hill Starer", a man who would break into people's houses at night, and then just watch people sleep. My friend had to sleep with the light on for about a month after hearing that one.
Also now doing the rounds is the one about the squirrels of Brixton being off their tits on crack after digging up stashes that local dealers have hidden in people's front gardens, or nibbling on discarded crack pipes. So if a squirrel starts staring you out, run. It might mug you to get its next hit.
(Thu 12th Jan 2006, 15:41, More)
Some more recent ones...
A few years ago there was talk in these parts of "The Forest Hill Starer", a man who would break into people's houses at night, and then just watch people sleep. My friend had to sleep with the light on for about a month after hearing that one.
Also now doing the rounds is the one about the squirrels of Brixton being off their tits on crack after digging up stashes that local dealers have hidden in people's front gardens, or nibbling on discarded crack pipes. So if a squirrel starts staring you out, run. It might mug you to get its next hit.
(Thu 12th Jan 2006, 15:41, More)