Going Native

Ever so often, in a remote hotel room, in a remote country, a mobile link is not sufficient to maintain the brain cells synapsing to a homeland and we enter the state of "going native". It may be once upon a time an old codger that once boasted he danced the 'Time Warp' admirably, is now being called upon by a local Latina office girl to dance, obliged to dance once more, challenged as part of Team Building. A bi-polar oppportunity to dazzle or be daft. An unwilling non-native participant who at best knows that each arthritic hip connected still somehow to aching bum muscles have lost the will to sync to a musical beat, muscles super-keen now to remain clenched to a seat, rather than clenching and unclenching to an unknown beat.

But it has to be done, to enter the spirit, and one thanks God at least for the inward entering of alcoholic spirit to soften the embarrassment, to provide a false bravery and an excuse for such appalling dancing tomorrow at the office...... or perhaps not. Perhaps one still is the dancer of old, the funkmaster...one might still have it.

Polite applause is duly provided by the local smiling audience which may mask a genuine appreciation for having a go; or a gentle mocking that begs a question can Europeans dance without a neck or wrists; or worst of all ......one has indeed become an office coffee machine talking point tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, a 2015 Christmas party favourite anecdote .

A Danger sign is waved like a smuggler's lantern warning of the phantom cliffs, daring me in, a Danger sign unfoitunately waived - Do not dance do not drink anymore, because one is not returning to youthful attractiveness and one is not a wee bit suave, because one can bend a knee...slowly. One is not as yet as one with the local populus' dancing skills, because it is not a success if one just manages not to fallover, whilst appearing as if it is one dance slide away from falling over.

It is here that reality check of a bald fat guy wobbling about blushing like a 14 year old, whilst pretending to stare at something in the distance is not a pretty sight. Boasts of "cutting shapes" last night will not probably cut it with the co-workers, sub-workers and uber-workers tomorrow as they giggle into their freshly tepid coffees.

Sanity check is needed before job is lost, passport exchanged and hip replacement is undertaken not by the NHS. Going Native is dangerous stuff.

Once upon a Song

Songs previously condemned as clippity clappetty twangy wangy foreign clatterly clatt claptrap and now by a matter of willing indoctrination of being locally "in", an absorption of cultural assimilation a one-disliked drumbeat tapped out by fingers like a native, a once unknown bunch of verbs are whispered in a hum to the throng as a native might. One even knows the top jingle jangling guitar banjo thingimajig playing names to drop into a conversation. An expert camouflage of the ex-pat abroad, infiltrating the ranks, becoming a rank and file, a native bar for the sunburn.

Once there was feline-a-calling vowels without a forgiving consonant to bring to its earthly end, as eardrums beg fingers to plug ears for fear wax production will not save the day. One once thought that this so-called musioc was several vowels merging discodantly into what can be best described as mating calls of at best tigers or at worst back-alley cats.... somehow are now absorbed as being of meaningful cultural character......of historical significance...of representing a worthy heritage. Local becomes good. One makes recommendations to Blighty for CD collecting cousin, Blighty looks at you funny as CD collecting cousin thinks you owe him ten quid in real money.


But as an exception to prove the rule, and for the record, Spanish flamenco dancing is good, Spanish flamenco singing is ... I am sorry... not. It is still cat-a-wailing... there are limits to my entry into foreign society and for the sake of being able to hear other music and in particular the Beatles when I am 64.... sorry.... singing requires a melody and what I call music requires melody, flamenco singing requires a tom-cat being indelicately squeezed .


Whlist for the record, we Brits now how to rally a crowd, uplift the gallant masses, motivate the executive team "And we were singing.....We shall not be moved.....And we were singing.....Here we go...Here we go...Here weeee.....need a dictionary"

Luck of the Yer-wish

Yer lucky


For all my insistence on ex-pat times are tough, my older wiser colleagues who stepped on and off the boat before me, remind me; of times of no satellite TV to homeland channels, no instant dial telephone to home, no supermarket stacking Heinz baked beanz as a 'norm', no Cornflakes leading the Hypermarket Sales drive.


They stared potholes in a road, the locals called a road and the Europeans called a dirt track. Expats that were not tourists, were not travellers, were adventurers. N ow once in a while as adventurers they stared them in the face of adversity; from a car jacked up with a spare tyre looking bare of tread.
They sought guidance on a monthly basis at a designated time to a European home office after they made the round trip to a phone, to phone home with an echoing hum and a raising of a vooce in a futile attempt to bridge an ocean. A phoning home to confirm funeral arrangenments could be postponed for another month, whilst the home office made their round trip to the suburbs and felt a hob well done was being done by somebody else... and the credit was made in the weekly ceo report and the point to all this ......therefore daily the adventurers felt that the sharp end was pointy.


And so my winges are by comparison those of a spoilt child, but human nature will help me overcome my guilt. I want my Cadbury's chocolate cake and I want to eat it.

What the...whether

They stare in the equivalent of "What the..." seeing a strange sights in their local sites, perhaps it may seem an alien has been seen - their first contact or perhaps they know I am an illegal resident- another kind of alien. For here the alien is me, damned by the normal behaviour in Blighty. Here it is called in question .....here.... They say that it is not a poor climate, but a poor choice of clothes and here an ex-pat is like the weather. It is not being an ex-pat but a poor choice of clothing. Whether to wear Blighty trackies or the local clothes. Clothes of an older Blighty generation.

Here I might be "in", if only I had brought over and somehow retained that 70's wardrobe of corduroy. Then I could have camouflaged myself like a zebra on a zebra crossing.


Occasionally I wear a football shirt, not that I play beyond a father-son kickabout; and so by this choice of fashion, I am not like the other dads, no .....not ever .....wearing footie shirts was UK-stylie. Here it is cardie or light pullover, in smart shirt casual. Society demanding I am old before my time.

I am a middle aged Rebel with a cause to revel in growing old with dignity of a bald head hidden under a Baseball cap. Foreigners are from Mars and Locals are from me'n'us.

Let's not do the Time Warp

A concert in a foreign land, a jumble sale of 60's, 70's, 80's songs of the evil english-speaking empire sung as a second tongue by what used to be called in English a troupe, but is probably best called here a Peace Corp in case I am in for some dirty looks of transaltions gone wild. The local amateur dramatics doing rather well. And all is well with the odd wrong note, the odd mistimed turn, all forgiven by the well meaning audience paying a pittance to be entertained. But a crime is committed against the cultural heritage of the Western World. Audience participation is called for...the audience stands up, the massed ranks of locals in the majority and isolated ranks of the foreigners in the minority. The audience participation is in the 'Time Warp' where choreography has been localised to a static arm-waving throwback to a pre-Morris Dancing square dance for a bloke with a limp. It is an outrage. It is not Brit dancing Time Warp, fine tuned by yours truly in many a late 80's - early 90's disco. So we Brits, we two represent Western World . The Western World standing out like a sore thumb in the outstanding standout competition.

Stiff upper lip, and without an alcohol drop entering my body. Booty is flipped, with a little more weight than in my svelte 80's hey day, but flipped it is, without recourse to a criminal investigation by tax authorities. It was a case of " This is how it should be done." "Look and Learn compadre."

Children are proud of the Brit parents dancing despite the mocking looks of the locals as our dance steps involve actual body movement. Our children admire their true Brit spirited parents as they blush in quiet admiration, as look away in quiet admiration, as they find a dark corner and ask for DNA tests to prove that they might just be not belonging.





Rock on.