On the Ball

I'm quite accustomed to feigning an interest in football.  Whether it's an attempt to bond with my brother, or to feel a part of the World Cup frenzy, I have tried.  The aesthetically pleasing footballers made it a little more bearable but still couldn't hold my interest for a full 90 minutes.  It just felt that whatever I did, I couldn't convince myself that this was anything more than a game.  An expensive popular game but a game nonetheless.  And I really couldn't be bothered playing along.

The first (and last) football match I ever went to was Manchester United vs. Tottenham.  I hoped the fact that Ronaldo was playing would keep me focused at least until half time.  But it seemed I was far too distracted by the beer-bellied old man behind me, yelling at the top of his lungs at the slightest movement of the ball.  I spent the majority of the match trying to ensure that in his excitement, he didn't drop one (of his many) beers all over me.  I'm sure you can imagine the type.  'COME ON MY SON!' is probably the only statement of his that I can write down, and still echoes in my ears now.  With his commentary, there really was no need to watch the match. I could have known everything that was going on by just closing my eyes, and absorbing his angry shouts.  In any other situation, I feel I would understand, even applaud, so much passion.  But I just can't understand why you need to get so angry over a ball game.  A friend once told me that he no longer watches football because he 'gets too angry'.  Oh please.  To me, this is the equivalent of having a tantrum in a PE lesson when the other team score a goal.  I didn't understand it then, and I still don't get it now.

The other thing that depresses me greatly is the amount of air time football seems to consume.  It's not enough to just watch the match anymore. No, it's necessary to listen to the commentary, watch the discussion at half time and catch up with the replays on Match of the Day.  Obsession much?  And if it's not the actual game, it's the footballers themselves, how much they're worth, who they're dating and what car they are driving.  It's these pretentious details that Heat, Closer, OK, Hello and so many more trashy magazines love to eat up and feed to the gossip-hungry public.  So in some ways, football seems to fuel the celebrity-driven society we live in today.  Hardly a reason to want to support my local team.

Although clearly not an avid fan, I can appreciate the advantages of living in this football-driven society.  It brings people together.  Sure enough, pushes them apart too. The rivalry between Liverpool and Manchester United is perhaps why these two northern cities have never got along.  But there's always going to be some people who want to take a bit of healthy competition too far.  Although, in social situations, football seems to provide the basis of a conversation, the perfect starting off point.  Many times I've been in awkward situations with new people, searching desperately for common ground in order to break the ice.  Football is the one topic that usually evokes a reaction and gets the ball rolling, if you excuse the pun.  Even if, like me, you have absolutely no interest, you can use the knowledge you have to start a little healthy banter.  So yes, I do appreciate the value of football, even if only for shallow, selfish reasons.

Regardless of my opinion however, I cannot ignore the fact that football is a huge part of many people's lives.  And for the unity it brings and support it gathers, particularly during the World Cup, I really do believe it is wonderful.  But I can't pretend to care who wins or loses.  And to me, it will always be just a game. 

Tech-NO-logy

Technology. Impressive yet depressing. I was hesitant to write this blog for fear of sounding like a technophobe or just an old lady, but I've decided I'm willing to take that risk. Prepare yourselves.

It appears to have become an absolute necessity to have the world at your fingertips. Let me start with the Blackberry. Originally designed for the workaholic or hardcore businessman who 'needed' immediate access to his emails (you know the type), the Blackberry seems to now be in demand from even my 14 year old cousin. Why? The main reason seems to be Facebook. It seems we need it on the go 24/7. It couldn't possibly be an option to switch on the laptop when you get home. No, we need to see the uploaded pictures from last night, and we need to see them NOW. We also need to tell the world exactly where we are and what we're doing. I wouldn't mind if it was remotely exciting but to be frank, it seems some people have zero creativity when it comes to the Facebook status. I have on occasion read 'on the bus', 'bored' 'tired' to name just a few. Yes, I'm including myself in this stalker activity, although still holding out on the Blackberry I'm proud to say.

And what is the point in BBM? Are there not enough modes of communication in the world already? Though this one does have a slight twist: the sender can see when the receiver has read their text. Wonderful. So even if you wanted to politely avoid someone, they would know about it. They may as well hold a sharp instrument to your throat and force you to speak to them.

And even with all these modes of communication, life doesn't seem to get any easier. If anything we have become more analytical, starting to ask questions like 'so what does one 'x' at the end of the text mean?' It's exhausting. I miss the days of the phone call, which provided no room for ambiguity. Yes, you could hear from the pitch, tone and manner of speaking exactly what is said and how it was meant. And then you could happily (or unhappily) continue with your day, without giving it a second thought. But no, living in the 21st century means that even if they didn't call, you should check your BBM, Hotmail or Facebook wall.

The world, with myself included, has been sucked into this frenzied over-communication. It makes me question why anyone even bothers getting out of bed when you can just see your friends on Skype. Have you ever wondered how many people you would actually talk to if we just had the phone call? If we had to make the effort to pick up the phone, dial the digits and have something constructive to say without the 'like' application or poking war? I'm sure your 'friends' would decrease considerably.

Yes, I am aware that having a Facebook account makes me a slight hypocrite. But if you can't beat them, join them right? And now Facebook's worth over £25 billion, the chances of me winning are a little unlikely. But I do make a concerted effort to have as many face-to-face conversations as possible in my day, even if it's just distracting people from BBM.

Having said all this, I do have respect for Skype. Being able to see and talk to people from a different continent is quite amazing. But talking to your flatmates on Facebook chat is just plain lazy. I'm not asking you to abandon your Blackberry and deactivate your Facebook (God forbid). No, I'm just saying I would prefer a normal conversation where you can witness facial expressions without the 'smiley' and actually hear someone laugh without them having to write 'haha.' Wouldn't that be refreshing? And if that makes me sound like an old lady, then so be it.

An African Adventure

I've never been the outdoorsy type. Even as a child, I much preferred to be inside reading, making chocolate cornflake cakes or watching CBBC. Getting messy was never on the agenda. Growing up, I tried to venture towards the more active extracurricular activities: hockey, lacrosse, football. Football was a dare, I'll admit. Winning the dare however never really compensated for the number of matches lost. Lacrosse was an instant fail the minute I was winded by an overly-passionate player, dramatically falling to the ground like a wounded soldier. And in all honesty, I just hated wearing that horrendous mouth guard in hockey. I think this adequately paints the picture. I'm a home bird, a strictly indoors type of girl. Ask me any day about my political stance but just please don't ask me to catch a ball.

With this in mind, you will probably wonder why I signed up for seven weeks worth of volunteering in Eastern Africa. Yes, I single-handedly made the decision to travel to distant lands to try and 'make a difference', help some cute kids and catch a bit of sun. I'll admit, I was slightly delusional. Travelling halfway across the world to live without electricity seemed much more exciting than working in a soup kitchen in Manchester. This was what I tried to explain to my Dad when he suggested that 'charity begins at home.' He clearly thought I wasn't fully aware of what I was signing up for, and honestly, he wasn't entirely wrong. Although I went through the motions of looking at expenses, health, security and safety, I had already made my mind up. I was going.

I'm not a forward-thinker, and in true Rachel-fashion, the panic set in on the plane. Who was I kidding? I couldn't do this. I didn't even want to walk to the bus stop, let alone build a water tank. I liked my home comforts. After a couple of minutes, I decided that short of asking the pilot to turn around, there was absolutely nothing I could do about the situation. So I sank back into my seat, found Aladdin on 'Emirates Movies' and treasured my last few hours of familiarity.

It was only when I arrived that I actually began to feel excitement. Surrounded by chaotic, unknown territory I realised that I may as well have landed on Pluto. I could probably compare this to the mixed feelings most people have on a roller coaster; absolutely terrified but excited at the same time.

I felt I had so much to give. But even more to learn. The idea of 'cultural exchange' was something that was introduced in training, and one of the most valuable pieces of advice I've ever been told. The last thing I wanted to be was patronising, but I could see myself entering this world and wanting to change it in true Western fashion. But changing it wasn't the answer. The difference in wealth and prosperity didn't make me right and Ugandans wrong. It wasn't even a question of right and wrong, it was just different. We taught Ugandans how to improve their sanitation, make their cooking devices more fuel-efficient and purify their water. But we experienced an alien culture, a new language and another perspective on life. It would be hard to say who gained more.

With the physical challenges such as brick-laying, I quite simply had to 'man up.' There was this one mountain (or rather large hill) that never failed to leave me breathless, despite climbing it at least once a day. I'm not going to lie; there was a strong correlation between times of homesickness and the physically challenging incidents. Probably similar to those days at Uni when you can only be bothered to make toast, and wish your mum was around to whip you up a roast dinner.

On the whole though, stove building, brick-laying and painting the water tank proved to be good fun and great team bonding exercises. Without becoming sycophantic, it has to be said that if I weren't with such a group of wonderful people the experience would definitely not have been the same. Waking up every morning for seven weeks to look at the same five faces staring back at you could've proved the source of many problems, but I was incredibly fortunate. We were a diverse group of people with different interests, ideologies and perspectives but somehow it worked. Frankly I can't imagine the experience without them.

At the same time it wasn't easy. Especially when your greasy hair, hairy legs and overall grungy appearance had to face a bunch of boisterous albeit enthusiastic children. One of the comments of the villagers when we were leaving made me smile: 'we used to think it was just Africans who were dirty, but we have seen you and now we know that is not true.' Wow. It was nice to know we had made an impact, even if it wasn't in the way we hoped.

I surprised myself with the fact that I rarely got upset. Being someone who gets a lump in her throat during X factor auditions, I figured I'd need a lot of Kleenex in Uganda. But I began to look from a different perspective. Ugandans may have to walk a mile to access clean water every day, but the United Kingdom has one of the highest levels of obesity in Europe. Who's to say what's right and what's wrong? Ugandan life appeared hard to us because we were so westernised. We weren't accustomed to having cold bucket showers, sleeping on the floor or getting rained on in the middle of the night when there was a hole in the roof. But this was how the villagers had lived their entire lives. It seemed that living in the East enabled me to see the West with an entirely new outlook.

However I was upset by how widespread AIDS was. Twelve per cent of people in Africa have AIDS. It seemed that every Ugandan I met knew someone who had been affected by this disease. I met one man who was taking care of four children, in addition to his own, due to the fact that their relatives had died from AIDS. I was asked on more than one occasion 'how do we prevent AIDS?' The fact that this disease was so rife, and they didn't have adequate medical expertise was tragic. At the time, it was something that left me feeling frustratingly powerless, lacking any expertise in the medical field. It was around this point that I realised how big the problems were, and how finding solutions was no easy task.

Recalling these encounters makes me realise that this experience was real, as ridiculous as this must sound. Uganda was so far removed from anything I had ever been subjected to before that it almost seems like a dream, something I'm now detached from because life here is so different. Our ability to adapt as human beings amazes me. The expression 'a fish out of water' couldn't be more appropriate to describe how we were removed from everything we'd ever known to be placed in an alien environment with new expectations. You couldn't eat with your left hand. Going outside after 7pm was considered unwise. Skirts worn above the knee were inappropriate. Saying it was different was an understatement. Think Avatar!

The main lesson I learned is that you can't change the world. But it doesn't mean you can't try. Realistically, spending seven weeks in a country is not going to move mountains. However, I do believe there are some Ugandans in the village that will never forget us. And if they do, there's a 10,000 litre water tank there to remind them. And I won't forget them. A few people had a huge impact on me personally. Stephen, a preacher who, even if a little too religious for my liking, wanted more for himself and his family. Even though his house was better than most in the village, he knew that he could do better. And I really believe he isn't going to stop until he is content with his achievements. Mabala Wilson, the headmaster of Masaaka Primary School, where we taught lessons on sanitation. An absolute character with a permanent smile, an odd dress sense and a habit of using the phrase 'is it?' a little too much. Florence: our adopted mother and the woman we shared our living space with. Heavily pregnant with her fourth child yet still able to carry out all the daily duties expected of a wife and mother in Africa. This is no easy task when cooking beans on toast would probably take an entire hour on a sigouri (stove).

Returning home was strange. I ate with my hands for a while, found all my clothes too revealing and began to think hot showers were heaven on earth. But it didn't take long before I reverted back to my Western ways. So what changed? I spent my summer broadening my horizons; learning how to use a hoe, killing chickens, making bricks and eating lots of bananas. I believe we helped our village, even if it was just scratching the surface of problems that are over a hundred years old.  Finally I'd like to recommend this to anyone. Do something out of your comfort zone, and who knows where you will find yourself?

Gunchester? I think not.

'You're from Manchester? Oh my God, how are you still alive?' were the words of an obnoxious Londoner around four minutes after meeting me. Putting aside the fact that this guy seriously lacked social skills, I decided enough is enough.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aware of Manchester's bad reputation. It has been labelled the 'ASBO capital of Europe' for its sky high rates of teenage pregnancy, vandalism and gun crime. Yes, I confess that there are some areas of Manchester where I lock the car doors, accelerate and try not to make eye contact with any pedestrians. But please don't tell me the south has never been subject to crime or vandalism. These are common characteristics of an inner city area in any city.

May I remind you that Manchester is a beautiful, friendly Northern city. It's brought us Oasis, The Smiths, Joy Division, Jason Manford, Ian Brown, Anthony Burgess and Wes Brown to name just a few. I would go so far to state that Manchester is the melting pot of the North. The Gay Village, China Town, the Curry Mile and the diverse music scene give it distinct individuality as a city where anyone is welcome. I can't imagine living anywhere else.

The idea that we are all common is also something that grates my Mancunian pride. Contrary to what many southerners may think, it is possible for someone who eats pasties and doesn't pronounce the invisible 'r' in 'bath' and 'grass' to be from a stable background. Maybe people shouldn't listen to the fuelled prejudices surrounding certain regions, and actually give the person a fair shot before denouncing them as a commoner.

Let me conclude with the fact that Manchester is a multicultural, fast-moving vibrant city and I'm proud to call it my hometown. No amount of ignorant comments will ever change this. I'd like to think that everyone should be proud of where they've come from. After all growing up in a particular region is part of who you are, and helped form the person that you are today. Why not be proud of this?

To google or not to google? That is the question...

Wikipedia. Spark Notes. Google. Saviours for students but an academic's worst nightmare. As an English student, I hold my hands up. Yes, I have occasionally read the summaries instead of the books. It's just so hard to resist when someone offers you a whistle-stop tour through Jane Eyre. Why spend hours wondering what Mr Rochester meant when you can find a neatly bullet-pointed list in under a minute? In all honesty, it just seems more efficient.

However, it seems I'm not the stereotypical English student. Through studying English, I've discovered that there are certain assumptions made about English students in particular. At some point in time it seems the English student was defined, and there have been certain expectations ever since.

Firstly, that we are all budding actors: a fact which is entirely untrue for the majority. My dislike for acting stemmed from aged eight, when I was chosen to play the role of the 'bauble' in the Christmas play. Yes, a bauble. School were clearly desperate after 'Shepherd number five' had been allocated, so felt it necessary to personify a bauble. And from that pivotal moment, my acting career was clearly over before it had even begun.

Next, that we have read everything that has ever been published. From William Wordsworth to Jeremy Clarkson, the entire spectrum. Again, entirely false. Would you ask a paediatrician about the elderly? No. So please don't assume that I have digested the library.

And the third major assumption? That my attire should be that of an 'artsy' student. I was once asked if I owned a beret. Ludicrous. As if studying English would somehow persuade me to want to look like a French wannabe.

I would like to remind those select people who make these assumptions that yes, I am an English student. But I am also nineteen. I like to go out, let my hair down, take off my beret. I don't spend Friday nights pouring over Pride and Prejudice with a cup of cocoa. I don't want to be in the West End. I would just like a degree to enable me to get on in life. Now that is the truth. And that is also why I called on spark notes so I would be able to go out tonight.

In the Mix

More mix-raced children are being born than ever before. In fact we are the fastest growing race in the United Kingdom. As an Irish Indian, I'm proud to be part of this 21st century advancement in society. Being mix-raced has enriched my life more than you could probably envisage. It has been suggested that mix-raced children struggle with a sense of belonging, caught between two different worlds. It has even been said that we may be 'confused' about our identity. I would like to set the record straight.

I've often been in situations where people refer to me as 'half' whether it be half-Indian or half-Irish, implying that I'm somehow not a whole person. Born from a Catholic mother and Muslim father, the issue of religion has also been raised. 'What are you then?' Children at school weren't exactly tactful in approaching me, and I often found it necessary to 'explain myself.' Many people have found it difficult to understand that I wasn't half, I was double. The integration of two cultures and religions had created more love in one household than you could ever imagine. From an early age, I learnt that there was one God, and although people used different paths to reach Him, we all arrived at the same place. I've been to Ireland and India, kissed the Blarney stone and visited the Taj Mahal. Praying in both church and the mosque, I never felt excluded anywhere. Named Rachel Ayesha, I am able to interchange between two worlds, and adapt to any environment. Far from being half a person, I was almost leading a double life.

Being mix-raced has not only enriched my experiences but it has affected my perception of people and the world. From being very young, I learnt that people cannot be classified by race or cultural background. With regards to marriage, I was not advised to find 'a nice Indian boy' or a 'good Irish Catholic lad.' The words were, if I remember exactly, 'it's hard enough to find someone to love without worrying about race or anything else.' At 19, I have much to learn in that department but at least when I do settle down I won't have to worry about the colour of their skin. This is something I have discovered common amongst even my generation: the idea of finding a 'suitable' partner with the same background and culture. This aggravates me profusely. I believe my parents are soul mates: the Catholic and the Muslim; the Indian and the 'Paddy'; the Tory and the Labour supporter. Explain that. After 25 years together, these theoretical 'problems' have never actually been an issue.

I truly believe in 50 years the majority of the nation will be mix-raced. My wish is for everyone to witness the merge of two worlds, just as I have. This is the key to end discrimination forever and open our eyes to the vast range of cultures that are part of our society. It can create more love and understanding, and with these at our fingertips we can tackle the world.