Oh no - not in the milk...

OK, OK, I know it's been a while but I'm back in business.

After much consideration I have started an intensive NCTJ course at Brighton Journalist Works.

One week in I have a feeling it could be one of the most important things I'll do in my professional life.

Part of our training is to write a blog, so I thought I'd update you on my progress here.

I have promised a couple of times to write about Spanish swearing. This came about after reading Hemingway's 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', set in Spain during the civil war.

The book is obviously written in English and Hemingway uses certain devices to show that the characters are speaking Spanish.

He translates the rather rude Spanish phrase, "Me cago en la leche", as "I obscenity in the milk". It really means, "I shit in the milk."

Which is quite a bizarre thing to say, even in exasperation.

And if you think that's bad, here's the full version: "Me cago en la leche de la puta que te date la luz", which translates as, and anyone of a nervous disposition should look away now, "I shit in the milk of the whore that bore you".

Ouch.

Although Google Translate thinks it means, "Fuck the bitch's milk you light date".

And there's more. "Me cago en su madre" is "I shit on your mother, "Me cago en todos tus muertos" means "I shit on all your ancestors" - one can add the suffix "uno a uno", or "one by one", if this is just a little too tame - and a personal favourite is, "Me cago en Dios" ("I shit on God").

It gets worse - "Chupe mantequilla de mi culo" means "Suck butter from my ass".

Now - I like an insult as much as the next person, but the mind absolutely boggles as to how those words could've ended up in that order.

All of the above makes our English swearwords seem naive and positively anaemic.

But this doesn't make me like the Spanish any less - in fact, it makes me like them more: the passion of flamenco, the drama of the bullfight, and the staggeringly creative swearing.

Look further afield and swearing becomes something of an art form.

"Airy fe dameerak" apparently is Arabic for "My dick in your conscience".

"Grozna si kato salata" is Bulgarian for "You're ugly as salad".

And what better way to end than with some Finnish: "Kuse muuntajaan" - or "Piss into a transformer".

So if you're ever stuck when you really want to speak your mind, look no further than the above for inspiration.

An element of the absurd

My parents recently went on holiday and unfortunately were delayed by six and a half hours outgoing.

My Dad was very annoyed, and asked me to help him pen a letter of complaint to the airline.

I have previously blogged about my skills in writing letters of complaint, so was more than happy to help.

Well, these artful complaining abilities must be hereditary and run in our veins, as I picked up some great tips from Pops.

These two handy hints for writing letters of complaint I had not considered:

• Make it personal: my Dad pointed out to the airline, quite rightly, that he'd been delayed when he previously flew with them; but, he added that this was frustrating because he missed the Champions League final, and described himself as an "avid fan". I think here my Dad is hoping for them to supply him with tickets for this year's final, as compensation.

• Add an element of the absurd - purely to make it hard for the complainee to gauge their response to you; do they write you off as crazy? Could they think that you are not entirely serious? This way you make their job that little bit more difficult and can really lay in to them should their reply not be to your satisfaction. My Dad achieved this absurdity by finishing his letter asking if the airline had considered charging a passenger for their total weight, that is the combined total of their body- and luggage-weight...

If a well-known British airline takes up this suggestion, you know whom to thank.

Funny Running

...hee hee, ooo, ha ha. Oh dear, I still can't believe it.

On Sunday morning I participated in my first organised run. I prepared myself for it - I only smoked one cigarette on Friday night, and had a four-course meal at the amazing London House restaurant on Saturday night. Beans on toast were breakfast on Sunday (more carbs than Shreddies and amazingly, Start, which is the athlete's cereal of choice). I was ready for the 5k.

And I bloody won! Out of 31 people, I came first, with a time of 21 minutes 43 seconds.

Of course I was pleased - it was my first run and the course 'undulated', having a hardcore hill. The route was later described in a press release put out by JW Training, the people who organised the run, as "gruelling."

I am probably making my win sound far more impressive than it was.

In fact, I have a confession, and a few things to point out.

I cheated. The run was a fun run, for which people were asked to wear fancy dress. I didn't. I wore my running shoes, t shirt and shorts.

I dressed as a runner. Everyone else was wearing fancy dress. A huge shark attack outfit. A fruit machine. A monkey onesie. You name it.

So I had an advantage. Although I must admit, a couple of guys dressed as the 118 118 chaps, in vests and shorts, so I had little advantage over them.

And I was out to win. I took part in the second of the two races, and got off to a good start, running in a group with two other people.

One of these was dressed as a cheerleader. I quite easily ran past him halfway through the first lap.

I then spent the rest of the race pretty much on the shoulder of one of the 118 118 guys.

I was breathing heavily, and must've sounded like a steam train, letting 118 118 know I was there.

(Actually, I'd often dreamt of chasing the 118 118 blokes round a park, ready to clobber them.)

I then waited for the opportune moment, about 50 metres or so from the finish, and simply sprinted passed 118 118, to finish first and win by two seconds!

The poor guy had been leading the whole race.

I am really pleased to have won, but realise I am not as fit as I was two or three months ago.

I won five personal training sessions with the owner of JW Training.

He's the man-mountain dressed as Lady Ga Ga on the right. He is scary. I politely declined the offer of the five personal training sessions - my excuse was that I wanted the proceeds from the prize to go to the charity we were raising money for, Youthline.  


So all in all, an outright success. I am running further and further each week, trying to build my fitness back up, and trying to stop having cheeky fags when I'm drunk at the weekend.

What do you think?

I am frustrated. I am thankful that my three-month contract in my current Communications role was extended - by a month - but, worst case scenario, I will be unemployed again very soon.

I remain positive, but my frustration comes in here - I am considering taking an expensive intensive NCTJ diploma course to help me get a journalism job. NCTJ stands for National Council for the Training of Journalists, and it seems that most of the jobs I apply for require this qualification.

But - and this is a big but - I studied Journalism and News Media for three years at university. After that, I worked for three and a half years at a national, consumer magazine. I have written freelance articles for a local paper and several websites, on subjects such as music and travel.

After working for the magazine - as some of you may know - I went travelling for eight months, and arrived back in the UK at the end of last year.

I was unemployed until May this year.

I am frustrated because I consider myself a journalist. What do you think? Rather, am I a charlatan, a dreamer?

I feel I will already know much of what is taught on this course and would spend a large amount of money - money that I don't have - to simply get those four letters on my CV.

This is where I would like some feedback from you. Should I do the course? Should I carry on looking for work with my current qualifications? Should I get a job in Sainsbury's?

Should I carry on intermittently writing on this blog, having no one commenting on it?

I had promised an article on Spanish swearing. One will follow. And I had promised myself that I wouldn't begin this blog post by saying sorry for having not posted, but I wanted to get something written and this is what I wanted to write about.

I didn't want to start by apologising, so that's how I'll end.

Obscenity-ing in the Milk

This is atonement: I haven't posted for a while, so I'm hoping to make up for it from now on.

I posted yesterday for the first time in ages - I've been telling myself that I've been too busy writing other stuff - and had only posted once in the month of May; the last time before that was mid-April, when I mentioned I would be reading Hemingway's 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'.

I finished it a few weeks ago, and here are my thoughts.

By simple maths, you can work out how long it took me to read 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'; it didn't immediately grab me like the only other book I've read by Hemingway, 'A Farewell to Arms'.

I found the first part of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' fairly hard-going - I guess I didn't feel as much for the characters or care about their fate - initially - as I did with those in 'A Farewell to Arms'.

This may be because you're introduced to more characters in 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', and they have more dimensions to them, so it is harder to form quick opinions on them - although you would think this would have the opposite effect, of drawing you into the book, with the characters being more fleshed out.

I have heard Hemingway's prose described as "masculine", and, based on 'A Farewell to Arms', didn't understand this - however, having read 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', I now do.

The main character, Robert Jordan, whose mission, during the Spanish Civil War, it is to blow up a bridge, soon establishes himself as the alpha male in the guerilla gang tasked with helping him.

Robert Jordan is masculine, perhaps even hyper-masculine; he is more machine than man - throughout the book he is constantly referred to as 'Robert Jordan', labelled like a Lee-Enfield rifle, or a M4 Sherman tank. I cannot remember one occasion on which he is called anything but Robert Jordan.

This shows the dehumanising effects of war.

In 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', there are obvious parallels between Robert Jordan and Hemingway - even to my basic knowledge of the writer's life - in that we know Robert Jordan's father committed suicide, as did Hemingway's, leaving Robert Jordan feeling that his father is a coward. I am unsure if Hemingway felt the same.

On a more positive note, 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' introduced me to some mind-blowing swearing.

In the book, Hemingway uses archaic English language, such as 'thou', to show that the characters are actually speaking Spanish - which could be another reason why it took me a while to get into the story. He translates a famous, bizarre Spanish profanity, "Me cago en la leche", as "I obscenity in the milk" - obviously sparing some blushes, as it actually means, "I shit in the milk".

I shit in the milk. I hope to write more about Spanish swearing in a later post.

The narrative in 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' really begins to pick up as the day of the bridge bombing nears. I truly believed in the passion of the characters, as the day they fear they will die approaches, and especially in that between Robert Jordan and Maria, the young Spaniard with whom he falls in love.

The pair dream of life together after the war. Without giving too much away, I was absolutely heartbroken at the book's end.

'For Whom the Bell Tolls' has a very ambiguous ending - finishing with the narrative device often used since, of the story just cutting off. I don't know if the book was the first to do this, but would be interested