First Impressions of Subject
Kumail arrived in the UK wide-eyed and innocent; you could say he was Bambi in human-form. Unfortunately he did not eat grass of which there is plenty, just the food in the fridge of which there is just what fits in the fridge. The initial impression was therefore of a happy-go-lucky youth skipping through a forest stopping occasionally for a fridge feeding frenzy. However, those new to the subject should note that if poked with a stick he is prone to become a rabid nationalist and is a different proposition all together. Though this can be alarming, the fiery rhetoric can be tuned out and it soon fades of its own accord as he starts feeling peckish. Such an episode should last no longer than 4 minutes.
Visit to the Subject’s habitat
After ensuring my poking stick was left in its case at home I journeyed to Bradford “The city of dreams” on the National Express magic carpet ride.
My re-acquaintance with the place was bittersweet. There was no commemorative plaque marking my stay at my old halls of residence. This is largely due to the accidental demolition of Shearbridge Halls in favour of a car park. Whilst weeping for the state of civilisation I searched for Kumail everywhere in JB Priestly library. There was no trace of him so I called him to meet me. When I mentioned I was outside the library there was a long pause on the other end of the line, almost as if he was searching his memory. My head was bowed in my fevered emotional state as the thought of the car park preyed on my mind. The spell was broken as a voice emerged from a red pair of eyes behind a curtain of hair “Asif bhai, hi, are you OK?" Bambi had obviously been burning the candle at both ends. It is a mystery how he navigates his way round the campus with his hair-obscured vision. I think he must have evolved some sort of sonar ability. I noted with relief he had no utility belt, we’d all been worried that if left alone he would indulge in his habit of fighting crime for snacks.
When we arrived at his digs it was predictably deserted and his room was quite neat. It seems word had gone out that the “eagle has landed” or “code red” or whatever army term was taking his fancy to ensure my investigation avoided controversy. The subject stated the kitchen was tidy. This was instantly confusing- mainly because it wasn’t tidy. He absent-mindedly opened the fridge helping himself to cheese marked “Zack” with a grace suggesting the manoeuvre was well-practiced. My hasty suggestion to eat out was accepted (readily). As we ambled towards lunch I subtly probed him about what he was up to when not standing bolt upright saluting the Pakistani flag and belting out the national anthem in an Irish accent. He said he was keeping fit, writing essays, growing his hair and saving money. He directed me to a restaurant and we had some medium spiced tandoori fare. Kumail seemed emotional throughout the meal. Any concern I had soon evaporated when I found his nationalistic tendencies did not extend to the spices found in Pakistani cuisine.
After ensuring my poking stick was left in its case at home I journeyed to Bradford “The city of dreams” on the National Express magic carpet ride.
My re-acquaintance with the place was bittersweet. There was no commemorative plaque marking my stay at my old halls of residence. This is largely due to the accidental demolition of Shearbridge Halls in favour of a car park. Whilst weeping for the state of civilisation I searched for Kumail everywhere in JB Priestly library. There was no trace of him so I called him to meet me. When I mentioned I was outside the library there was a long pause on the other end of the line, almost as if he was searching his memory. My head was bowed in my fevered emotional state as the thought of the car park preyed on my mind. The spell was broken as a voice emerged from a red pair of eyes behind a curtain of hair “Asif bhai, hi, are you OK?" Bambi had obviously been burning the candle at both ends. It is a mystery how he navigates his way round the campus with his hair-obscured vision. I think he must have evolved some sort of sonar ability. I noted with relief he had no utility belt, we’d all been worried that if left alone he would indulge in his habit of fighting crime for snacks.
When we arrived at his digs it was predictably deserted and his room was quite neat. It seems word had gone out that the “eagle has landed” or “code red” or whatever army term was taking his fancy to ensure my investigation avoided controversy. The subject stated the kitchen was tidy. This was instantly confusing- mainly because it wasn’t tidy. He absent-mindedly opened the fridge helping himself to cheese marked “Zack” with a grace suggesting the manoeuvre was well-practiced. My hasty suggestion to eat out was accepted (readily). As we ambled towards lunch I subtly probed him about what he was up to when not standing bolt upright saluting the Pakistani flag and belting out the national anthem in an Irish accent. He said he was keeping fit, writing essays, growing his hair and saving money. He directed me to a restaurant and we had some medium spiced tandoori fare. Kumail seemed emotional throughout the meal. Any concern I had soon evaporated when I found his nationalistic tendencies did not extend to the spices found in Pakistani cuisine.
FNDOn our return to the deserted halls we continued our chat, if only to break the silence the exclusion zone he had placed around me had created. It turned out to be most illuminating and positive. He mentioned something called the FND, a Muslim prayer group called Friday Night Devotion. He said people there were so ecstatic with spiritual fervour they appeared almost intoxicated by it, even speaking in tongues (more investigation needed).
We had a video call from Kumail’s parents. They were pleased that a person of maturity, judgement and wisdom had called on their son at such a critical stage of the impressionable lad’s development.
Influences
We then encountered Tommy, Kumail’s hall mate who had returned from playing football earlier in the day. He was cha
tting to a sleepy chap canvassing supp
ort for his campaign to become an elected student union rep. Tommy was exchanging pleasantries like “so you’re doing this for your CV then?” I then saw the candidate manage to look both sleepy and uncomfortable at the same time- a feat I had not seen before but resisted the urge to applaud. It was all very relaxing except I was slightly concerned the naked careerism displayed would rub off on young Kumail. Especially considering he is already planning to be a benign dictator of Pakistan and has opened several Swiss bank accounts in preparation. At present these accounts only contain 2 for 1 pizza vouchers but he must not go unchecked- vigilance is the key. The thirst for power must not overwhelm balance and good judgement.
We then encountered Tommy, Kumail’s hall mate who had returned from playing football earlier in the day. He was cha
tting to a sleepy chap canvassing supp
ort for his campaign to become an elected student union rep. Tommy was exchanging pleasantries like “so you’re doing this for your CV then?” I then saw the candidate manage to look both sleepy and uncomfortable at the same time- a feat I had not seen before but resisted the urge to applaud. It was all very relaxing except I was slightly concerned the naked careerism displayed would rub off on young Kumail. Especially considering he is already planning to be a benign dictator of Pakistan and has opened several Swiss bank accounts in preparation. At present these accounts only contain 2 for 1 pizza vouchers but he must not go unchecked- vigilance is the key. The thirst for power must not overwhelm balance and good judgement. As the evening drew in he seemed disappointed that the study group session he had arranged with his pals had been cancelled, by way of consolation I took him to see a film called “Legion”. It was so terrible I was screaming inside throughout, not least because it gave me flashbacks of the red-eyed demon greeting me in front of the library. All that screaming meant I was tired on our return to base. I took the liberty of shooting a dart containing a tracking device before I nodded off in the back of his neck (note to self: remember to sterilise in future). This enabled me to have data on his movements and heart rate ready for when I awoke. It showed the subject had been oscillating between the kitchen and his room all through the night. The chilling part was that the data appeared to show he was asleep the entire time.
After refusing the offer of Kumail’s artery abusing omlette special I found myself alone in the “tidy” kitchen. Moments later a student called Zack appeared. “You must be Kumail’s cousin?”. I confirmed I was, prompting the observation: “But you’re a fully grown man!?” I did not understand how his mind worked and decided I wouldn’t try. Privately, I congratulated my hormones for having done their job. You never know with all the oestrogen in the water nowadays. On the whole he Zack seemed fine and not necessarily an individual Kumail should be protected from. Zack’s cheese should however be protected from Kumail.
Conclusion
In conclusion it was a useful visit, Kumail seems fine and I am pleased with his interest in Friday Night Devotion. There is no need to worry about whether he is eating properly as he takes this responsibility seriously. His friends seem fine and are steadily turning him into a strange Irish Pakistani hybrid. This probably should be stopped but I am too curious to see the end result of this bizarre experiment. I am sure he said “What's the craic Asif bhai?” when I met up with him. I can’t be sure though, because the hair/red-eye combo took up much of my mental processing power leaving little spare capacity to focus on his Irishness.
In conclusion it was a useful visit, Kumail seems fine and I am pleased with his interest in Friday Night Devotion. There is no need to worry about whether he is eating properly as he takes this responsibility seriously. His friends seem fine and are steadily turning him into a strange Irish Pakistani hybrid. This probably should be stopped but I am too curious to see the end result of this bizarre experiment. I am sure he said “What's the craic Asif bhai?” when I met up with him. I can’t be sure though, because the hair/red-eye combo took up much of my mental processing power leaving little spare capacity to focus on his Irishness.
