Our finest minds

The class system in England remains as engrained in society today as anytime since its original conception and integration. Close to the top you'll find the landed gentry, complete with their Barbour jackets, flat caps and le Chameaus off to shoot clay pigeons from the comfort of private family estates. On the other end of the spectrum you'll find us, the working classes. Me? I teach in Canning Town, London. In a lot of places in England that would probably make me middle class but not here in Newnham. I'm don't think I'm doing people here a disservice by admitting that most don't have a pot to piss in, me included.

It's Friday night which generally for us means only one thing, decamping at the end of the working week to the Princess Alexandria public house on the Barking Road. If you're looking for Michelin Starred cuisine you've come to the wrong place my friend. However on a Friday night you will find a group of men and women playing their own version of clay pigeon shooting. Don't worry, the days of men carrying sawn off shotguns in Canning Town is long consigned to history. Electronic transactions mean banks no longer carry large reserves of cash and even if they did you'd only get seven foot down the road in the getaway car before grinding to a halt in traffic. No, this version, the working class version, invariably involves Dave stood at the bar and launching packets of crisps across the heads of locals sat at tables in-between as we all take it in turns to shout “PULL!” and desperately try to catch the airborne snacks. Why Dave? Well at 6ft 3” tall his starting point usually means less chaos. Not like we've not all had a go over the years with varying degrees of success. Lou at a diminutive 5ft 2” was always a disaster waiting to happen. Funny how people don't appreciate being smacked around the chops with a flying packet of crisps. This being Canning Town though humour wins through most of the time. “I wanted ready farking salted. Fark me. They'll do I suppose,” and just like that you're a couple of quid out of pocket as the poor sod turns his brief pain into his own win and starts eating them. Lessons learned all around, the moral of the story, don't let the short arse throw the crisps around just in case that wasn't painfully obvious to you. Especially not when they cost London prices even when they're caveated as being Canning Town, London prices. They're still hefty enough. 

Despite a lack of money in the area there's no shortage of sharp minds. The language used might not be to Eton standards but the points made are no less important or eloquent in their own way. Talking about my working week with the gang brings me as much joy as my working week itself with the kids I teach. So shout to Dave what you want whilst he's at the bar, take a seat around the table and don't forget to shout “PULL!” 

“Come on spill the tea Tone, what have your class of genie arses been up to this week?”

“Lou, did your mother never tell you that patience is a virtue?”

“Course she didn't, who do you think my mum is the fucking Pope?”

“Oh. Well I've got no comeback to that. Let Dave get back from the bar first otherwise I'll only have begun and have to start it all again. PULL!” Dave turns 180° at the bar, picks up a packet of cheese and onion and with almost military precision sends them thirty foot across the bar and by some minor miracle I managed to catch them much to the chagrin of everyone else around the table who much prefer abject failure over any form of success. 

“You jammy cunt.”

“Why thank you Toby, you've such a beautiful way with words. I'm sure Shakespeare is turning over in his grave. Kaz love how was your week?”

“Oh you know the same as always?”

“What old blokes staring at your tits?”

“Yeah, same old. Dirty bastards.”

“Cheese and onion cheer you up Kaz?”

“Yeah go on then why not. Ta!”

“Davey boy, here comes my hero. Thank you Sir, despite what all this lot say about you behind your back I think you're a legend. Cheers everyone.”

“So then come on what happened in this week's debate?” Lou asks me straight on my case again before Dave has even got his backside touching the cloth in his chair. 

“Jesus woman your mum might not have been the Pope but I bet your gran was in the fucking Gestapo. Fuck me. Chill your boots. Let me wet my whistle… right better. So, this week's sociology debate… Drum roll somebody?”

Dave duly obliges with his hands on the table.

“The subject was … sports washing.”

“Ohhhhh interesting,” Kaz replies. 

“Oh’” is all that Lou can add. She maybe needs to work on hiding her disappointment a bit more as well as her levels of patience I feel. Fair to say the lads don't really care either way.

“OK Tone, basic premise?” Kaz asks me. 

“Oh yeah sorry that might have helped. Simple question: does sports washing exist? Team A - argue the case for its existence. Team B - argue the case that it doesn't exist. Are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin. Edited highlights. Team A led by Ade, bosh, straight out the gates. Of course sports washing exists. You'd be crazy to think it doesn't exist. In fact it's not a new concept. It's been around since 1893 and was an English invention.”

That perks Gal's ears up. “Hang on, you what? Sports washing is an English invention from what year? 1983?”

“Jesus pay attention will ya? You're as bad as the kids. 1893. Right, let me finish mush. So I'm like you, sat there totally flumaxed. Where the fuck are you going with this Ade son? I'm thinking to myself. So he delivers the pièce de résistance - Arsenal invented sports washing!”

“You what?” Gal asks, fully engaged now. Reel em in son. 

“I mean to be fair to you Gal at this point I'm sat there thinking what the acual fuck Ade? Boys done his research though!!! Clubs founded by this geezer who works at the Woolwich Arsenal. I'm still south of the river at this stage. Ade fills in the missing blanks. Anyone wanna guess what they are? You're all looking as blank as I was. Anyone? Anyone at all? No? Give up? What is an arsenal?”

“It's a two bit football club Tone.”

“Brilliant Gal. No, what is an actual arsenal?”

Still blank looks around the table. 

“Christ. What did they teach you all when you were at school? It's where they store guns and ammunition. What better way to disguise the horrors of war and death with sports washing and creating a football team? Fucking genius. I'm tempted to hand Ade the win there and then before he starts on the obvious - Qatar World Cup, PSG, Manchester City, Newcastle and the Arabs pumping billions into sports. Job done. I mean try to argue it doesn't exist after that!”

“Who made the case against Tone?” Lou asks me.

“Karim.”

“Ohhh Karim the dream,” she replies knowing the name but never having met the kid. If you think Ade is going to come leftfield you've not seen anything yet. 

“Come on then Karim let's see what you've got up your sleeve I'm thinking to myself. So he's straight out the traps. Lays the argument that sovereign nations are merely diversifying their economic interests. It's not sports washing, it's a way of ensuring that by the time the world has gone green and no longer oil dependent, that these nations can have a tourist economy. It's a way of forming national pride and identity. The evidence doesn't exist that nations are trying to wash away negative perceptions about their countries. We're all going to think the same about them whether they buy Ronaldo or not in Saudi Arabia. Kids got a future in the diplomatic core I'm telling you all now. I mean it's good but it's well polished PR bollocks. It's not Woolwich Arsenal! Karim’s not finished though. Ade started his with the big guns. All puns intended. Toby please pay attention son.  Karim ends his argument with his parting shots across the bow - Sports washing can't be real. Lists all the examples of how women are not equal citizens in Arab countries. How homosexuality is outlawed.”

“And?” Lou demands.

“And… the day the Saudi Arabians buy a women's football team, install a gay player as Captain and embrace campaigns such as the rainbow laces on an annual basis there can never be any claims that sports washing is being used to cover up negative perceptions about a sovereign Arab nation. If and only when that happens can you lay claim to sports washing being an actual thing.”

“Fuck me that's genius,” Gal surmises. Lou nods in agreement suitably more impressed than when she heard the subject. 

“Karim's won it for me,” adds Kaz. 

Dave's turn to nod in agreement. Nod from Toby.

Andy who's not said a word through this whole affair finishes off his crisps, runs his finger into the corners of the packet and licks the remanence of salt and vinegar from his finger, then neatly folds the now empty packet into a triangle and throws it onto the table completely unawares that everyone has stopped what they were doing and are staring at him intently for his reaction. 

“What? Why are you all staring at me?” He asks.

“Who won?”

“What do you mean who won? I was eating my crisps.”

“No you doughnut. Who won the debate for you? Ade or Karim?”

“Ohhh. Karim the dream. Not even an argument. Boys a genie arse.”

“The expression is Andy that it takes one to know one but I'm thinking someone might be lying when it comes to you. Perhaps I'll make you the topic of next Friday's debate.”

“Oh funny fucker. Whose round is it?”

“Yours Andy. Yours my son!”