A Tale of Teachers in Inverted Commas

The Kingdom of Thailand: an exotic land filled with beautiful smiling people and also filled with English language teachers. I was one of these English language teachers and it is my dubious pleasure to paint you a picture in words of one particularly memorable and deplorable incident.
Imagine, a beautiful weekend in the countryside, filled with the laughter of children and blasting voices amplified through huge speakers. Take another step and imagine a disparate group of Farang (Westerners) hired to give meaning to this delightful weekend through the wonderful magic of the English language. This is how the organizers imagine things when then put on an "English Camp in Thailand.
Now juxtapose that with a more defined image of the group of English language teachers, and a more incongruous picture you will find it difficult to imagine. Of the seven of us, four have a basic level of professionalism, grumpily able to smile and get on with it, and the further three are pretty much one hundred percent, loony tune, and raging alcoholic unprofessional. None of us are enamored with the idea of spending our weekends, after a hard weeks teaching at our respective schools, doing further teaching in our free time. But, for one reason or another, we are all compelled to do so, and those with more that 50% professionalism consider it their duty to do the best they can under the circumstances.
The morning goes smoothly; fun and games are had by all. The lunch is good and it is also free, we are happy and laughing together. We discuss things and in the shadowy world of appearances it seems we are all of a similar mind. Then the bombshell hits. We are informed that our further duty as educators is to put on a short "skit for the ensembled that very evening. This is a much honoured tradition in English camps, and the students will also be "performing in English.
We grumble, we moan, now more then ever we feel a closeness, a bond, and the pressure is on for us to come up with something in the few free hours we have before the shows begin. Somehow it is decided to go for a beer to discuss the problem.
You are probably thinking a beer is not a good idea, but trying to deny a guy a beer on a Saturday evening is like trying to deny a child an ice-cream on a day out to the beach. And what would one or two beers hurt? Nothing, if you are not one hundred percent, loony tune, raging baboon, alcoholic unprofessional.
So, the beer interlude begins in a small eating hut off the side of the motorway, the sun is setting, the heat of the smiley country is subsiding, and all is well. We discover more about each other. The fine Irish gentlemen sitting to my left has the pleasure of a wonderful nickname he's earned by working in all the schools he's managed to get fired from: "Ajarn Mao which means, literally, "the drunken teacher. The handsome middle aged Londoner to his left reveals all the swearwords in his paranoia he believes the students are constantly calling him, how much he hates the students, and teaching in general, and how much he loathes England. He is adamant that if he were to return to England he would die within a year. We take him at his word.
More beers are ordered, and it is apparent that these two fine human beings are a little past sober, and after only a few sips! The reason for their being in this town in the middle of the countryside is now apparent: not for adventure, or discovery, but because the city wouldn't have them. Oh dear, now they are swearing in every other sentence. And showing us their tattoos.
Time passes and the wonderful teachers show must go on. We (the sober) plan a skit that we think even these drunken fools couldn't mess up, though we have our doubts, and return to the student invested pavilion.
Now the true nightmare begins. One baboon grabs the mike from the native teacher who is in the middle of a fun filled activity. Being Thai, nothing is said and this teacher in inverted commas is allowed to proceed with his rendition of the Chelsea supporter's ballad against their least favourite club, Man Utd. Apart from the fact that this ditty is filled with obscenities, it is also impossible to hear the words properly. After a once over with the whole group he grabs two students at random and forces them to sing. They don't know what to do, what is happening, who is this scary man. Fear is apparent in their eyes.
As for us fellow teachers most of us watch in horror at this performance, and we can't think what to do. The utmost care must always been taken when handling the drunk and insane.
A senior Thai asks me to sort things out. I feel a pang as I realize whatever these drunks do will be reflected on all of us. What can I do? It had to stop.
I walk stridently towards this raving Irish Stamford Bridger and confidently take the mike from his hands, praying he doesn't see red. I strike quickly, putting my hands together and encouraging all and sundry to give this man a big clap and congratulate him on his successful activity. Problem number one solved. But the two troublemakers soon disappear back to the road side hut.
Problem number two happens about an hour later. We haven't seen them all this time, and we're praying that we don't, but sure enough they turn up and now drunker than ever. This time it's the turn of the paranoid Londoner to grab the mike. In his drunkenness his simply walks around in circles, picking students at random and asking them to do press ups and to sing an old ditty he's suddenly found a love for. He slurs his words; he leers and shouts at students who talk amongst themselves. He must have silence for his performance. We look on in pain from the sidelines, and the Irish tattoo artist comes and sits next to me with an evil look of nothingness upon his face. He too turns darkly to a firey temper whenever a student makes a noise, and even raises a foot to one. The smell of alcohol simply oozes from his body, and I can't bear to be next to him, yet I don't want to show too much anger for fear of igniting something and putting the whole English camp to shame.
Once again they eventually disappear, undoubtedly to the shack, but now another of us has been lost. The one Australian amongst us is bored, and he drinks his way out of it. Now he wants to play the electric guitar and the bongos, pleading with the confused band in English even I can't understand. When he realizes his audience isn't captivated, continuing with their performances oblivious, he becomes reticent and simply walks away. He is not seen again until the next day, when a ceremony is performed to give us our meager pay.
The rest of us, now down to four basically professional teachers, are left to pick up the mess. We feel down and tired and simply sit and wait for our turn, always praying that the drunken baboons do not return. The shows continue endlessly. One group does a fashion parade, the next a dance, the next a song, I am forced to do a rumba like movement with a male student dressed in a tutu, to my huge embarrassment and the delight of the crowd, and eventually the time for our skit draws closer.
And then the two loony tunes come back, now almost in a paralytic catatonic state of disrepair. We frantically recap them on our planned skit, where their only requirement is to sit in a chair and say "What's the time?
We desperately hope they're up to it. Laying down our chairs, the time has finally come.
Complete disaster. The phrase "What's the time? is too much to handle for them; they instead feel it's their duty to ramble in endless gibberish about God, religion and football. We sit in horror as the singing Londoner gets out of his seat and strides shakily around the hall with the mike in his hand. Once again he is singing his incomprehensible song, but this time we a re all sitting together on show for the ensembled students and Thai teachers who are looking at us wondering what on earth is the matter with foreign English teachers? Why can't they ever work together? We feel the pain of this shame and try to whisper to our "colleague to please sit down at once. Our anger mounts but also our frustration as we yearn to shout at this man to tell him to simply "shut the fuck up!!!!
We run our way through the skit unenthusiastically and with an eye for getting the hell out of the nightmare, but it's impossible to pass the two nutters by without giving them the mike for them to simply ask the time, which they never quite manage. Mr.Tatoo rambles on again about how we should all simply love each other, how we don't need a religion, religions are bad they only kill people. My blood rises and I grab the mike from him and pass it on to the next teacher who is sane. I don't care if he doesn't like it he's simply gone too far.
The skit ends eventually, the students clap dutifully and I can sense the sympathy of some of the more perceptive of them. We leave the scene ASAP for a stiff drink and to get away from one of the worst nights of our lives.
A postscript to this little story: the next day the two drunkards couldn't be bothered to turn up for the mornings work. Our activities go well and we are not sad they didn't come. However rumours of lecherous behaviour abound amongst the Thai staff. Apparently the pair took a liking to some of the young girls and tried to kiss them. Some students almost got into a fight with one because of it (this is completely unheard of in Thailand, where teachers are always given the utmost respect). Amazingly the pair have the audacity to turn up for the payment ceremony, still drunk and smelly.
As a final parting of ways us respectable lot are given a warm round of applause while the two beer monsters are notably left chewing the silent cud. They deserved far worse, but this being Thailand they will probably get away with it and find welcoming jobs in a whole host of pretty, small, provincial, desperate towns who know very little of the ways of the wayward Falang. God help them.