Instructive Behaviour

“What do I do now, Tommo?”

“Breathe in, Granddad. Then, slowly breathe out – as you release your grip.”

“Why’s it shaking?”

“Coz, you’re pulling too hard. Just relax a bit. There! Now, breathe in… Good. Now, slowly breathe out; then, let it go.”

“Nothing’s ‘appened.”

“You’re still gripping it tightly, Granddad.”

“It’s me fuckin’ arthritis in me index finger, innit? I can’t straighten it quick enough.”

“Look down, Granddad. Can you see what you’re doing wrong?”

“I’m extending it too much?”

“Correct. And you’re holding on to it with your middle finger. Your thumb should be tucked in, and you should be using both index and middle finger in the shape of the letter V.”

“Like Winston Churchill used to do in the war to signify victory?”

“Yes, Granddad. An ancient symbolic and iconic gesture of defiance. Subsequently adopted by the British population to animatedly demonstrate a way to express themselves when telling people to F-Off.”

“One of the few good things that came out of the war. Churchill was good at stickin’ his fingers up at everyone.”

“I know you’re old and melancholic, Granddad, but wasn’t the war over before you were born?”

“Less of the old, you cheeky bugger, and yes, I was born after it ended. I grew up in a different world from yours. Didn’t have everything given to us. Didn’t have a television in our home, gas and electricity had to be paid for by putting coins in a meter in your hallway, and telephones were a luxury item with expensive bills. We had to work hard for what we earned.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“I mean, after the war, Britain was practically bankrupt. A third world country in a new world order. We ‘ad returning servicemen who couldn’t find work after fighting for their country, refugees creating food shortages, septics that stole our women – whisking them away to the land of Uncle Sam, chewing gum, and Coca Cola. Then, there was the Jewish problem.”

“You’re not going to say anything bigoted, are you?”

“Wot you take me for, Tommo? Everyone has a right to live free of tyranny, slavery, and persecution. Wot I’m talkin’ about is ‘ow the lost children of Zion were relocated to Palestine, cuckooing the natives out of their nests. I mean, it wasn’t their fault. It was the bloody British that created that mess, and they couldn’t just say, There you go. Your new home. Enjoy it. We’ll be keeping an eye on things from afar. No, the idiots in government decided to oversee the displaced Jews, rule them like subjects of an empire long lost, and treat them nearly as bad as the bloody Nazis did.”

“What, our British government?”

“No, you pillock. My British government. Your British government is too busy impinging on the rights of its people with CCTV, parking fines, tv licenses in the age of the Internet, VAT, low wages, and high taxes. George Orwell saw it all coming.”

“Wasn’t he anti-Semitic, Granddad?”

“Yeah, but not a lot of people know that. He once wrote that Jehovah was a tribal deity of the worst type.”

“Wow! That must have been controversial to his fans.”

“Confusing, more like it. He later wrote about being sympathetic to Holocaust Jews trying to get to the land of Israel – which doesn’t make sense. Poor buggers. No-one wanted the Jews. The Arabs hated ‘em. Then, after the Arab revolt – where they attacked the Jewish population, we went and fuckin’ partitioned the place and named one half, the state of Israel. No getting rid of them, then.”

“But wasn’t Israel already a country?”

“You know, I sometimes forget that for a history teacher, you know absolutely nothing, Tommo.”

“Thanks, Granddad. My degree says otherwise.”

“I know. I’ve read it. One of the easiest degrees to get.”

“Who says?”

“The tossers that fail English studies.”

“I didn’t fail English. I switched majors.”

“Pardonnez-moi, gentlemen. Shall we continue with your archery lesson, Monsieur. ‘Arrees?”

“It’s Harris with an H.”

“Then, excusez-moi, si’l-vous-plait, Monsieur. ‘Arris. Ma English is not always H friendly.”

“French, are we, Claude?”

“Pierre, Monsieur. My name is Pierre. It is written on my name tag stuck to my chest – as you can clearly see.”

“Not without me binsies on.”

“You’re what, Monsieur?”

“His glasses, Pierre.”

“Oh, I ‘ave not ‘eard zat one before.”

“Traditionally, there’s two English languages here, mate. One for the toffs and one for those born within the sound of the bow bells.”

“Ah, I see, Monsieur ‘Arris. I know something of this Cockney rhyme and slang. Apples and pears - stairs, oui?”

“Yeah, mate. Apples.”

“The shortened version, oui! The nuances of your quaint language are a such a challenge to learn. It seems I am not the only one giving lessons, today.”

“Perfect job for a Frenchie to have at an archery school, innit?”

“Sorry, I don’t get it.”

“You never ‘eard of Agincourt?”

“Granddad.”

“Perfectly innocent question, Tommo.”

“If you are referring to zeh famous battle of the year Fourteen ‘undred and fifteen, then oui, it is as historical to us as it is to you, non?”

“That’s where Churchill’s two-fingered salute originated, Tommo.”

“He wasn’t at Agincourt, Granddad.”

“I know that - you underqualified historian. You see, young Henry the Fifth had his longbows made from the yew tree. Lightweight, bendy, and powerful bows that helped blot out the sun when a couple of thousand arrows filled the sky. You know, the Frenchies used to cut the middle finger off of the captured English archers, so they couldn’t pluck the strings of their longbows properly.”

“What did they do?”

“Well, typical English behaving like the stereotypical English abroad, they’d pick up their chopped middle fingers and point it at their captors shouting, Pluck Yew, Pluck yew! Heh heh heh.”

“Is that a joke, Granddad, or did that really happen?”

“If I may, Messieurs. I ‘ave it on the greatest of authority, zat zat is a complete myth.”

“Henry the fifth, mate! Taught you frogs how to fight and win. None of that run away shit you do in every war.”

“Granddad. You can’t say that.”

“Wot, run away?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. Sorry, Pierre. My grandson constantly reminds us he’s awake.”

“It’s Woke, Granddad.”

“That’s wot we used to say about you when you was a baby – after you was done sleeping. It’s awoke, it’s awoke! On account of you looking a bit like Frankenstein with that oddly shaped head of yours and that mole on your neck that looks like the nut of a bolt.”

“Woke, Granddad, is a state of awareness. A sensitivity to the bigotry and xenophobia your generation and the ones preceding it, carry like a badge of honour.”

“Wot’s xenophobia – when it’s at home?”

“It is like being a nationalist, Monsieur ‘Arris. One zat borders on being a racist.”

“I’m not a racist! Tell him, Tommo. I’ve got nothin’ against anyone.”

“No, you are not a racist, Granddad. But some of the things you say sometimes, come from an era when that was acceptable speech, and now is thought of as bigotry.”

“Oui, Monsieur Tommo. My very own parents are close to your grandfather’s age, and they too speak like him.”

“Wot, fuckin’ Cockney?”

“Non, Monsieur. ‘Ow you say it… Ah, oui. I think it is referred to as, Jingoistic! Born from extreme patriotism.”

“Fuck me, Tommo. He knows bigger words than you, and you’re from ‘ere wif a failed English degree.”

“History, Granddad. And I passed!”

“Listen, mate.”

“Pierre.”

“Pierre. I don’t give a flying fig about nationalism or flag waving. This country went to shit long ago, the minute it opened its borders to people like you.”

“What are people like me?”

“…Foreign!”

“But you are also foreign, n’est-ce pas? Was this land not the realm of the Anglo-Saxons?”

“Yeah, English, mate.”

“But the Anglo-Saxons were a collection of people from places like Germany, the Netherlands, and Scandinavia. You know, the Vikings? So, Monsieur, you are just as foreign to zis land as this Frog that stands before you.”

“He’s got a point, Granddad.”

“…We finishin’ this archery lesson or wot?”

“Oui, Monsieur. We can finish this demonstration just like the way in which your King Henry murdered French prisoners at Agincourt… Immediately!”

“O, ‘tis a gallant king.”

“What is that, Monsieur ‘Arris? More witticism from the child of a failed empire?”

“Shakespeare, Pierre.

Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the

cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done

this slaughter: besides, they have burned and

carried away all that was in the king’s tent;

wherefore king, most worthily, hath caused every

soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat.

O, ‘tis a gallant king!”

“Bravo, Monsieur ‘Arris. I would not have taken you for a fan of the Bard.”

“Yeah, Granddad. Surprised me, too.”

“Retirement, Tommo. Lots of time for learning something new. The Internet has provided many a snippet of information to be used when needed. I’m getting culturefied, Tommo.”

“Is culturefied a word, Granddad?”

“It will be when the Urban Dictionary accepts my entry to it.”

“You’re full of surprises.”

“Learning is not just for kids, Tommo. Remember that when you return to that school for the not-so-gifted you teach at.”

“It’s a remedial school.”

“Call it what you will, Tommo. In my day, it was called being held back. But these days you can’t do that for fear of stunting the child’s growth.”

“Kids are sensitive.”

“Kids are kids, Tommo. What’s wrong with a kick up the backside every now and then?”

“It’s not an acceptable practice in today’s society.”

“Nambi-Pambi is what today’s society is. Everyone’s too afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. In my day..”

“..I know. In your day kids were seen but not heard.”

“Precisely. Oh, what’s that Junior? You got a C in English? Toughen up ya little..”

“It was only a few years ago zat my country also banned corporal punishment in schools. So, England is not the only place accommodating modern societal growth.”

“Growth? More like a step to the left, Pierre. Blame them and that wanker, Karl Marx, mate. Bunch of bloody spineless hypocrites, the lot of ‘em.”

“How did we get onto this subject, Granddad?”

“Dunno. I just felt like griping about something. It comes with age.”

“Why don’t you raise your bow and point the arrow at that annoying bullseye down range. Pretend it’s the eye of Karl Marx.”

“Don’t get me started on him, Tommo.”

“Zat is good, Monsieur ‘Arris. Now breathe. Then, like your grandson instructed, breathe out slightly and let go of the string. Voila! You are a natural! Dead centre of the target.”

“Nice one, Granddad.”

“Like most things in life, Tommo. I just needed a little motivation. You know, this ain’t a bad pastime. I’ve never shot arrows before.”

“Not even in the war, Granddad?”

“Less cheek from you, please. In my day, it was catapults and pea shooters and tin cans as targets.”

“You ‘ave one arrow remaining, Monsieur ‘Arris.”

“Call me, Reggie, Pierre. It sounds younger.”

“Okay, Monsieur Reggie. Load your arrow, pull back on the string with your index and middle finger.”

“Yes yes. I’ve got it.”

“Breathe, relax, and fire. Excellent! Bull’s eye again!”

“It’s in the lineage, Pierre. That’s how we won Agincourt.”

“Oui, you may ‘ave won the battle, but we ended up winning the war.”

“It took you a hundred years.”

“It was worth the wait.”

“Yeah, but who came back to help you fight the Germans - twice?”

“Touché, Reggie. Old combatants became new allies forever.”

“Bloody hell, Granddad! There’s not many people that match you for world history and social commentary, but you’ve got to admit that Pierre is pretty good.”

“For a Frenchie, oui?”

“Yeah, well… You’re not all bad. Got some good footballers.”

“Oui, zat is a fact. Who is your favourite player?”

“Zidane.”

“Ah, Zizou! A legend, oui. But why him?”

“For the way he headbutted that Italian prick, Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup. He only headbutted him in the chest, but Materazzi went down like he’d been shot. You see, the real violence wasn’t the headbutt. It was the unheard words Materazzi said about Zidane’s sister.”

“What’d he say, Granddad?”

“Well, Materazzi was marking Zidane so tightly and holding on to him, that Zidane sarcastically offered him his shirt. Materazzi – being the prick he is – answered by telling Zidane that he would prefer his sister, so Zidane turned to face him and launched his version of a Glasgow kiss toward the Italian. Problem was that Zidane started too far away and ended up hitting Materazzi in the chest. You’d think he’d been hit by a train – the way he fell, clasping his face instead of his chest, like he’d been slapped by a wet fish. He succeeded in fooling the ref, and got Zidane red-carded and sent off.”

“Oui. That was a sad moment for French football. It ended his career.”

“I’ve had harder kisses on the lips from my missus.”

“Thanks for that indelible image you just planted in my brain, Granddad.”

“You’re not always young in this life, Tommo. But that don’t mean youth leaves you when you get older.”

“Alors, Messieurs Reggie and Tommo! I’m afraid we are past our closing time. Please accept this voucher for a free future visit. I look forward to more stimulating conversations with you.”

“Very kind of you, Pierre. Listen, do you fancy a pint with me and Tommo on your way home?”

“I don’t see why not. Merci, Reggie.”

“There’s a pub nearby that still has a dartboard. I’ll teach you how to play the Agincourt darts game.”

“What’s that, Granddad?”

“It’s a bit like 301, but you launch all three darts together and subtract your total score. First one to zero wins.”

“What happens if any of your darts end up on the floor?”

“Then, you play on with whatever darts that don’t – until, you get to zero or you run out of arrows. That’s called surrender. A French invention.”

“That is fascinating, Monsieur Reggie. I didn’t realise that arrogance was an English invention. But tell me. What ‘appens if you go past zero?”

“That’s called a Henry Five.”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“It’s considered a slaughter of all the points you have captured and game over.”

“Ah, I see. But you forget that war is not won on one battle alone.”

“Don’t worry, Pierre. I’ll give you another chance to lose. Just like the Germans did.”

“Granddad…!”