Denmark, People, Places

286 – Notes From Copenhagen: The Takeaway Attendant

I’ve been in Copenhagen two weeks. The city is flat and low rise.  The streets are wide. There’s more bicycles than cars and people seem happy. I haven’t totally adjusted to life here, partly because I’m still expecting to wake up and look out over hills, lakes and forests. But any city where you can swim in the harbour and where cyclists get priority over cars, is certainly worth a few months of my time.

I even brought my vintage 1980 Peugeot PK 10 with me so I could try and look as cool as everyone else. Although my street cred took a hammering on my first morning when a lace from my chunky green Lidl trainers (cool?) got wrapped round my front pedal, upsetting my balance on a bike that’s already three sizes too small for me and sent me crashing to the floor like someone who’d just graduated from a tricycle.

I managed to compose myself, pretending it was some mechanical problem caused by shoddy French engineering, rather than my own incompetence. I then carried on to the city centre and witnessed my first ever cycle-jam.

40 or 50 cycles queuing patiently at a red light which made me wonder whether they’ll have to widen the lanes like they do to motorways to take more traffic. The lights went green and we all moved on, all 100 bikes now, for another 200 metres, until the next traffic lights where we all stopped again for another few minutes.  Nothing is perfect I thought. Even Copenhagen.

As for the Danes themselves. They are everything I expected. I went to the jobcentre on my first day here to ask about employment issues (tax, bank, legal status) and it was as though I was visiting an old friend. The man treating me as though I’d lived here all my life and wasn’t some scrounging Englishman looking for an EU passport.

I found him pleasant.  He smiled and got to the point – Danes don’t do small talk I’m told –  telling me to find a job (with a contract) and come back here and we’ll go from there. I left feeling confident that I might find my dream job here in the Kingdom of Denmark.

That was 10 days ago. Tomorrow I start work in an Indian Takeaway. There is a French phrase: faute de grives, on mange des merles, which I learnt when I first rocked up at the cycling club in Caussade on my vintage Pk 10 when everybody else was sporting 3 grand tour bikes.It roughly translates as beggars can’t be choosers or half a loaf is better than none. (*Literally, if you can’t eat thrush, eat blackbird).

In the interview with the takeaway owner he asked me where I lived. ‘Sankt Jakobs Plads,’ I said.

He was impressed. Then questioned me on why on earth I wanted to work in an Indian Takeaway, waving my CV in his hand like a judge pressing a charge. My CV is a schizophrenic mess of short contract teaching and catering jobs spanning most of my life. And he’s probably right, I’m probably over qualified – just.

I thought of telling him that I’ve never worked in an Indian Takeaway before so I’m just filling in the blanks. Getting more experience. Instead I told him the truth. ‘I’m running out of money in one of the most expensive cities in Europe. I need a job.’

I’m not sure he was entirely convinced, dressed as I was in a checked Pringle shirt, blue cotton trousers and brown brogues. And as I live in one of the most expensive parts of the city (a flat courtesy of a friend), I looked more like I was a home counties lawyer on a day out at the races, than a man looking for a job as a takeaway attendant.

‘How do I know you’re not going to run off after a few weeks and get a job at Berlitz?’ he asked me.

I laughed. ‘I doubt it, they pay less than you.’

He liked that one. ‘Really! Less than me,’ he said laughing.

‘Yeh,’ I replied. ‘Teaching English is notoriously badly paid. Don’t you know. It’s why most teachers end up working in bars and restaurants. Or working in shops. Or dead.’

After becoming serious again, he said I had the job and that I could start Monday. ‘But you must learn the menu over the weekend,’ he said pointing to it. ‘Tuesday’s going to be busy. Gun’s and Roses are playing.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I said, genuinely perplexed. ‘Guns ‘n’ Roses, as in the American rock band?’

‘At the stadium. Just there.’ Pointing to the national stadium which is literally over the road.

‘The original lineup?’ I asked.

Now it was his turn to look confused. Perhaps thinking I was referring to his menu rather than which burnt out rock stars were reuniting because they were skint fresh out of rehab. ‘As in Slash, Duff, Izzy?’ I said.

‘Just learn the menu,’ he said curtly. Clearly not a fan of classic rock.

I said I’d see him Monday and spent last night learning Indian Menu codes while drinking generic Carlsberg lager that’s half the price of The Best Lager in the World. I only got as far as Chicken Madras 228, Lamb Spinach 333 and Fish Tikka 447 because I couldn’t help thinking of Guns and Roses.

I’d seen them (the original lineup) in 1993 at the Milton Keynes Bowl. Driving down from Nottingham and parking my ancient metro in some industrial estate on the outskirts of town (if Milton Keynes is a town). Then walking 5 miles to the venue. Getting there at 11 o’clock in the morning and waiting until 10 at night with nothing to eat or drink (just a few cigarettes) before they came on.

That was 24 years ago and as I tried hard to remember vegetable curry codes, I couldn’t help one of those stupid questions people always ask filtering into my head:

‘Hey Oggers, if I said that the next time you hear Guns ‘n’ Roses play live you’ll be taking orders in an Indian Takeaway in Copenhagen, what would you say?’

‘I’d say, don’t be so fucking stupid. How would that ever happen?’

(to be continued)

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Places

233 – Loch Swimming, Canal Walking, Russian Oligarchs, Cardiff Castle and Teaching in Marrakesh

Since my last post I’ve swum in a freezing cold Scottish loch, visited an utterly drab Cardiff, camped out in sub minus temperatures in North Yorkshire (in August), walked along the Avon Kennet canal for four days and four nights for no reason, read the first three Knausgaard books, taught English to Russian oligarchs who live in Geneva under Cypriot passports (très intéressant!), and been brought to my knees with a cold virus from another planet.

If I was a football manager describing his season so far, I’d describe the last three months as mixed. Mid table obscurity. No romantic cup runs. No plaudits. No prizes. No glamour. No style. A very average summer peppered with fleeting moments of joy and intrigue. Like when the Russian oligarch I was teaching told me he’s actually retired from business. A minute before charging out of the classroom on an urgent ‘business call’.

‘Your wife?’ I joked when he returned (we were on good terms by this point).

‘Ha!’ he boomed in his loudest Siberian roar, his large red mouth as big as a halved ruby grapefruit. ‘My wife never phones,’ he continued laughing. I laughed back in my loudest English roar even though I was absolutely terrified.

My return to the UK has had its moments for sure, but on the whole it’s been a big disappointment. Full of Chino Moments, referring to the time I bought a pair of new grey Beau Brummel trousers for my first school disco. And didn’t get a single dance all night. Standing in the corner for four hours clutching a flat bottle of Happy Shopper Coca-Cola waiting for someone to ask me.

Me and Elizabeth have given thought to staying here, renting a place and giving old Blighty another go. Another throw of the Britannic dice. Batten down the hatches and wait to see what the British winter brings. But after much discussion – about a minute – we’ve decided not to. (Warning: Football analogies ahead) For the simple fact that the country has underperformed. Expectations were high at the beginning of the season, but the defence has been porous, the midfield lazy, and the forward line-up greedy and wasteful. Greedy being the overriding adjective. Is there any reason the Roman Baths in Bath cost nearly fifteen quid to get in? Or Cardiff Castle,  no more than a ruin on a pile of mud, twelve. Or a three bedroom house in Chesterfield, over 300 grand. Or train tickets, 75 quid for a mere 86 miles. Or French wine in Sainsbury, 7 quid. Are you serious? Even Wimbledon was crap. And as for the weather! What was that? Summer? More like a microwaved March. Hot at the edges, cold in the middle.

The only things I’ve found cheap here are bottles of Real Ale from Aldi. Black pudding from a butcher in Aberfoyle. Two pairs of trousers from a charity shop in Neston. And a pair of second-hand Birkenstock – which I didn’t even pay for. They were given to me. I’m not the biggest shopper in the world. I try to buy nothing and spend even less, if that’s possible. Reinforcing my title as the world’s tightest man as I was once called by a university friend. Waiting around until people donate stuff to me, rather than me wasting my money buying it.

My close friend Justin recently moved to Barcelona after fifteen or so years of living in London. When I visited him in May, I hadn’t seen him so happy since the day I met him way back in Nottingham in 1997. His line to me was: ‘Phil, this is paradise!’ I replied by saying that after living London, anywhere is paradise. Talking of paradise, I’m off to Marrakesh in a few weeks time on business…

‘Business, Oggers? I thought you were a TEFL teacher. Teachers don’t go away on business.’

Well, I am. I’m going to teach at a phosphate mine for a week on a special assignment. I see myself as the James Bond of the TEFL world. A quick in and out special ops mission to teach the present perfect to a host of middle managers. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never been to Morocco and even though I’m not beating a path through the desert on a stolen camel, it’s better than walking along the Avon Kennet canal for half a week waiting for the work to start, as happened in July after a student cancelled at the last minute and left me homeless for four days. It was an interesting few days in the end, and I’m glad I did it. But I really wanted to work this summer, not stomp along a canal in the rain and cold of a British summer. I wanted to ponce around in my linen suit in a conference room full of students who each have their own bottle of mineral water and a company embossed pen set.

There are many things wrong with teaching English as a foreign language – students cancelling at the last minute for one and not getting paid. However, if there is one big advantage, it is – if they don’t cancel – there’s always work somewhere. Always some Russian Oligarch, Moroccan phosphate mine owner, German tyre maker, or some Swiss air conditioning magnate looking to tighten up their vowels.

So that’s been my summer. The blog continues…

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Random, Writing and Books

201 – What do you actually do, Blogley?

My main profession – if you can call it a profession – is Teaching English as a Foreign Language, commonly known as TEFL – a horrible word for a horrible profession.

The result of a five week course I did in Nottingham in 2000 paid for by money I earnt testing anticoagulant drugs for AstraZeneca. £1800 for 9 days in hospital where I was injected with drugs and then bled to see how long it took to clot. Continue reading

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