Progress Report 9.1

Amyongh hasseyo, mo'fos.

How you doing? Good stuff. Me? Pfft. Not too bad, I suppose, but I've got an issue to deal with before we get down to business this week.

After last week, I received an email from one Nicholas 'I live in Henley' Clark, that slammed Progress Report 8.1 as, *ahem*, 'lacklustre'. Yes, lacklustre. As in 'lacking brilliance'. In fairness, I'm happy to concede that last week's dispatch was not one of my greatest efforts, but I really don't think it deserved such a gloves-off critical mauling. It's led to much introspection on my part as I've analyzed the content, timbre and rhythm of the report, sifting for a lack of lustre on each criterion; holding each word up to the light and checking every morpheme with a jeweller's loupe. My findings concluded that if there was a problem with Progress Report 8.1, it is that I've now reached the point in my Korean project where I'm failing to distinguish the irreducible difference of life on this curious peninsular. The peculiar has become normalized.

It is with this in mind that I've dragged myself through the past week with a particularly keen eye, looking for the details that eight weeks ago would have had me stopping and staring and clenching my fists. For instance, I don't even flinch now when I enter a restaurant and I'm expected to take my shoes off and sit on the floor. When I encountered this for the first time, I was outrage incarnate. 'Get up off the damn floor, you animals!' I demanded, as I dragged dumbfounded diners to their feet by the back of their shirt-collars. However, one quick lesson in Korean customs and a severe beating from the waitress later, I began to understand. This is the traditional way to eat in Korea, apparently. It's especially good in winter, when you can be closer to the underfloor heating. I might not like it (I have the suppleness of a poppadom so find sitting cross-legged a bind), but I've got used to it. Obviously, there's no sense or logic to it - it wouldn't be Korean if there were - but I've granted it the honour of my acceptance.

Also now languishing in the stately pleasure-dome of my assent is the norae-bang, or karaoke room. Endemic wherever bars gather and soju flows, these establishments offer groups of drunken revellers the opportunity to shout into a microphone along to awful electronic re-renderings of their favourite pop tunes in the comfort of a private room and the accompaniment of random images from someone's holiday videos on the big screen. In Korea, karaoke isn't just for ageing slappers who dream of wowing Simon Cowell with their take on 'I Will Survive' as he fortuitously passes through the lounge of the Dog & Hammer - no, it's a big part of a night out for everyone. I've been to a norae-bang at least five times that I can remember in the past two months, compared to the three vaguely-toe curling attempts at karaoke I'd chalked up in the twenty-nine years prior.

When rupturing my norae-bang hymen, I was all apprehension, but as soon as I realised that you're not expected or even meant to sing with any degree of ability, they couldn't get the microphone out of my hand. Musical illiteracy is no obstacle to your enjoyment of the norae-bang - I've heard Korean girls cover three octaves in the space of one syllable - but the lack of choice of Western choons is a bit of a bummer. The song directory is as thick as a phone book, but only six pages are devoted to songs in English. How these titles are chosen is a mystery that science could never unravel. No credence is given to the popularity or previous commercial success of the artists, hence Nazareth, Stryper and Skid Row all find themselves inexplicably well-represented, but in amongst the shite there's a few nuggets of pop sweetcorn - 'Sloop John B', 'The Boxer', and even 'Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You' by Led Zep, which I performed on Saturday night in full wailing, soaring Robert Plant mode. Needless to say that my audience were left crotch-sodden.

The other five hundred or so pages of the norae-bang directory are occupied by K-Pop classics. K-Pop? Korean pop. Unless you've been here and sought it out, you will be completely and blessedly unfamiliar with even the most chart-busting of K-Pop anthems. This is a shame, as I find myself constantly surprised by the harmonic sophistication, rhythmic inventiveness and the dynamic instrumentation that keeps Korean pop as an artform forever reinventing itself and surprising the listener in ways they couldn't have imagined... Only joking, of course - Korean pop is retarded, asinine swill, just as pop music should be. But there's something charmingly naive and uncynical about it that leaves you unable to dismiss it completely, especially when a good-looking Korean girl is caterwauling along to it at the norae-bang and your vision's been softened by soju.

Speaking of reduced optical accuity, I recently learnt that no-one in Korea suffers from the blight and heartache of long-sightedness. Amazing, isn't it? However, don't unfurl the bunting just yet, as the downside to this medical miracle means that your lacklustre adventurer has been left high-and-dry without contact lenses for the past two weeks. After a fruitless day trawling the streets of a rainy Seoul, being directed hither and thither by well-meaning opticians like a younger JR Hartley, I was forced to the conclusion that if I wanted +2.25 lenses with a base curve of 9 and a diameter of 14, I wasn't going to get them from a Korean. It's okay though -you needn't to sprint to Vision Express - I've got a three month supply winging their way to me as we speak. But who'd have guessed that I'd have come up against a closed door for such a simple requirement? Not me. But now you know...

At this point, you might be suspecting that I'm becoming complicit in the various crimes against taste and common sense commited in Korea on a daily basis, and to a certain extent you'd be right. I'm only moderately ashamed to admit that I own a Burberry umbrella (it's okay - I didn't buy it. I found it in a taxi. It was under the driver's seat, as it goes...), but even this guilty sin can be left by the wayside now as the rainy season draws to a close and the umbrella can be left broken in the gutter where it belongs. There are certain wrong-doings, however that I shan't have on my conscience. Chief among these is accepting as reasonable the beliefs of Christians. It's not like it is back home, where Christians know their place. Here, being Christian is not seem as a mark of shame but almost something to be proud of. Just the other day, I saw an old woman pass unharrassed through a subway carriage as she swore a firey death-in-eternity for all non-believers there present. If she'd tried such a trick on the tube, she'd have been meeting Jesus a lot sooner than she might have previously countenanced.

It's this attitude of tolerance that also grants my students the courage to express moronic biblical opinions in my conversation classes. No longer do I persecute them for their blind and cowardly beliefs though, as I've found a much more satisfying way of dealing with them - a little game I call 'rhetorical chess'.

The premise is simple. Your opponent cites a Christian view that is virulently offensive to those possessing critical faculty. You give yourself a limited number of moves to put them in checkmate; that is to silence them, or, in the parlance of my schooldays, to 'clamp' them. Let's look at an example. Stupid, pointy-faced Christian has played a weak offence on the subject of credit and debt, and despite some perfunctory bloodletting in the middle ranks, no real attempt has been made on the king. The conversation moves onto bankruptcy. 'Bankruptcy is a judgement against those who lead an extravagant lifestyle,' states Christian. Teacher to play; checkmate in three moves.

Can you see where to go next? Visualize the board. Look at his position. Got it yet?

Let me give you the solution. Teacher counters with: "Is your lifestyle extravagant, Kwang?"

It's an aggressive move which Christian is forced to defend against. 'No,' he predictably responds, leaving himself hopelessly vulnerable.

Teacher goes in for a surgical kill: "Would a North Korean think that your lifestyle was extravagant?"

There it is. Mate. Checkmate. The game is poetic in its beauty, isn't it? I sat back rightly proud of that gambit as Christian made a face like a goldfish that had leapt out if its tank, but I did resist the urge to stick my finger in his face and tell him: 'Aaah! CLAMPED!'

He hasn't been back to class since, which is a magnificent bonus, but there are tougher opponents to challenge. One of them is a principal at a local high school, and we had a fascinating exchange of pieces on the subject of gay marriage and adoption, but I refrained from taking his king as he had a look about him that suggested that he might reach across the board and break my nose. Sometimes I'm willing to be tolerant of others' beliefs...

Right, I've got a bumper round of thanks to distribute this week as the postman brought me a hefty parcel of books that I assume had been hiding out at the post office for some time. He tried to explain something about the package in Korean and I had to shoo him away. First on the thanks-list is one Xanthe 'Please-Don't-Mention-My-Surname' Butterwedge (not her real name), who blessed me with the following: The Last King of Scotland, by Giles Foden; Scoop, by Evelyn Waugh; Death and the Penguin, by Andrey Kurkov; Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut; The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Murakami and The Tiger in the Smoke, by Margery Allingham. Xanthe receives gratitude so thick and creamy that you could stand a teaspoon up in it.

Xanthe has effectively wrecked the grading curve of future gratitude with such a magnaminous donation to my appeal, and I've no doubt that Mark 'Cruelshoes' Surname-Unknown will be absolutely furious at her when I offer him inevitably more watery gratitude for his nonethless magnificent contribution of 'A Journey Through America With The Rolling Stones', by Robert Greenfield and 'Cover-Up of Convenience' by John Ashton and Ian Ferguson. And more furious will Chris 'Ginger, Out and Proud' Laity be when he finds that his gratitude is thinner still, despite the fact he sent me 'Beckett', by A Alvarez; 'Man and Superman', by George Bernard Shaw; 'The Alchemist' by Ben Jonson and a collection of plays by Pinter, Willis Hall and NF Simpson.

Alas, Sam 'Smut-Peddlar' Pinney will find my gratitude spent, and despite his best efforts to perk it up by sending me a copy of his she-scud periodical Scarlet, I'm afraid he'll have to wait til next week for his thanks.

I'm still only too happy to accept further donations to my appeal if you haven't already pledged. Whatever you want to send I shall be delighted to receive. Honestly, anything.

That just about does her for now. I should have some photos for you midweek, so if you've nothing else to live for, please stave off your suicidal urges until then.

Amyonghi kasseyo for now,

S

Progress Report 8.1

Amyongh hasseyo, chaps.

Ooh, you're looking well. Have you started working out or something? No? Well something's giving you a particularly healthy glow. Whatever it is, keep it up. You look great.

Anyway, it's that time of the week again. I'm happy to be here hiding out at the 'PC bang' as at home, my phone's been ringing out every twenty minutes or so since lunchtime. I know who it is calling (which is why I haven't been answering it) - it's someone who wants to show me how to make kimchi (as I'd previously arranged with her early in the week), which is a lesson I most certainly do want to learn but I just can't face it today. The thought of massaging the fleshy folds of a Chinese cabbage with a thin, blood-red chilli paste is something I just can't stomach in my hungover state.

With kimchi, as with most Korean food, that first taste with the eyes that presages mastication is not particularly delightful. If I could eat my meals blindfolded without being thought peculiar, then I happily would. Kimchi is a particularly good case-in-point. In the bowl, it looks like newspaper that's been used to clean up after a stabbing. Once you're munching it, it's delicious, but prior to this, it's necessary to forego the serious doubts that a visual appraisal impart. The typical meal becomes a test of your mettle; an exercise in extending the mental list of what you'll dare put in your mouth. Nine times out of ten, you'll be most pleasantly surprised - the vile titbit that you'd gingerly pronged and poked with your chopsticks turns out to be a real oral pleasure - but the other ten percent will have you beating the waitress: vegetable matter that won't give no matter how hard you tooth it; mushrooms that taste like spraypaint; insect larvae - these are the Korean foods that make you regret that the Japanese weren't more brutal in their colonial programme.

I've now become used to thrice-daily ordeal of eating, but there's certain differences in the Korean way of life that I shall never tolerate silently nor forgive. Heading up the pack and a cause of much chagrin to your ambassador of English civility is the amount of time one is made to wait a pedestrian crossings on the Korean peninsular. The perambulatory traveller is treated with scant regard by the town planners of Seoul, and as such given such low priority that it is not unusual to be made to wait several minutes to cross. Several minutes may not sonund like an especially long time, but try holding a lighter to your eyeball for that amount of time or stand staring at eight lanes of traffic and it suddenly seems like an epoch. Reader, I'm not exaggerating when I say that I have heard myself age whilst waiting for the green man. Mis-timing your approach to a pelican crossing can not just cause you inconvenince - it can alter the course of your life.

But Koreans will stand and wait patiently and not register the slightest protest. I can be on to my third aneurysm, but my yellow friends will refuse to be ruffled or riled by the geological timeframe of the lights. I put this down to the complex system of seniority that is an essential part of Korean society. Pedestrians are happy to accept the contempt with which they are treated because they see themselves as inferior to the motor vehicle. Whilst this may not be inaccurate for most Koreans, my own value system does not permit me to think in such terms. I may regularly coruscate my body with the agri-chemical products of the Korean brewing industry and voluntarily swallow coins, but in the hazy system of existential ascendancy, I place myself somewhat higher than a Daewoo.

I also rank myself above the elderly. This thinking leaves me painfully foreign over here. Since Korea dumped rationality and reorganized their society in Confucian terms, the old have been afforded a rank that they scarcely deserve. This means that they must be treated with deference and given special linguistic consideration. (You have to alter your verb forms when addressing someone older than yourself.) It also leaves them at liberty to wander into your path, to move you out of their way and to otherwise interfere with your day. This enrages me in ways that are supernatural. I'm happy to respect anyone who I consider to have acheived more with their life than I have, but to automatically give the elderly respect without first seeing their CV is an utter nonsense to me. Am I meant to respect the stupid, the boring, the ugly, Capricorns, just because they've been here longer than I have? It's ludicrous. According to this system, I might have to bow to an ageing Canadian, which is flawed in so many ways that it could almost warrant a blog all to itself.

And on anon to the next idiosyncrasy of life here - the widespread, muted acceptance of Canadians. Do you recall the Canadian who so enraged me two weeks ago? The one with the encyclopaedic knowledge of Czechoslovakian zymurgy? We bumped into him on Saturday night, and in a sainted turn of events, he blanked us. He was sitting drinking alone in a bar with a look of thunder and misery and he thorooughly refused to talk to us. Take a moment to picture the scene and his emotional discomfort and have a little chuckle to yourself. I've no idea what was the matter with him, but I can only pray it was (and continues to be) something truly awful.

Another aspect of life here that exercises me beyond belief is the fact that if you order drinks in bar here, you're also expected to order food. Ne'ermind that you're not hungry - if you want a beer, you've got to get some tentacles to go with it. I'm quite happy more than I'm entitled to as a human being, but a long session on the Hite can cost you an arm, a leg and your slender figure. As a good-looking and pleasantly-scented whitey, I'm afforded some leeway by waiting staff, but if you're out with Koreans and you don't order food, waitresses will be mystified and insulted. You could write a thesis on the stark illogicality of the practice, but it would fall on deaf ears. Ask a Korean why it goes on and they'll simply tell you that that's the way it is. As is the case with most injustices and irrationalities, It doesn't occur to them to question or rebel. To a battler as myself, it leaves me speechless.

Anyway, I'm going to have cut my discourse short today as I need a poo. There's just time to proffer a messy faceful of gratitude to my new favourite Hullite, Ms Emma Vine, who celebrated the momentous event of turning thirty by sending me a book - Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell. It's arrival on Friday was delightfully timely as I'd almost finished the last contribution to my cause (The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, which I recommend without reservation), and was about to be left high, dry and bored shitless.

And speaking of intestinal expulsions, I'm sorry to report that not a single solitary one of you has made a request for me to send you the coin I swallowed. As a result, I've sweetened the deal a little by swallowing it again. I'm sure there are many of you who can say that you've passed currency before, but how about the same coin twice? If any of you would like this piece of monetary history, frame your reasons in a hundred words or less. Should any of you display willingness to also allow it to pass through your digestive system, you shall be given automatic priority.

Right, I'll have to rush off - I think my arse is about to pay out.

Amyongh hasseyo for now,

S

Progress Report 7.2

Amyongh Hasseyo,

Right,

I promised it and here it is - your very own dogmeat factfile. Enjoy.

WOOF! The practice of eating dogmeat is most commonly associated with Korea, but if you think it's just a Korean thing, you'd be barking up the wrong tree. The Chinese also eat dogs (and much else besides) and the practice is thought to originate from there.

WOOF! If you're planning on walking into a butcher's shop in Korea and buying a joint of beagle, you'll be chasing your tail. This is because dogmeat is only sold in specialist dogbutchers, and dogbutchers are an increasingly rare sight on the Korean highstreet. In fact, you could say that they're going to the dogs....

WOOF! Dogmeat is only sold in dog restaurants and since Seoul hosted the Olympics back in 1988 (or whenever it was), these restaurants have not been allowed to have any signs in roman script. This was so visitors to the city who hadn't done their research could be spared from theatrical outrage. Any restauranteur advertising their dog products in roman script these days will quickly find themselves in the doghouse!

WOOF! Dog is rarely cooked at home in Korea because of its strong odour. (A student of mine recalled the distaste she felt whenever her dad would cook up a batch.) A skilled dog chef uses just the right amount of perilla (a herb of the mint family) to mask the natural smell of cooking dog.

WOOF! The taste of dog is said to be similar to beef but stringier. It apparently tastes much better than it looks, so you might say that its bark is worse than its bite...

WOOF! The Korean name for dogmeat soup (bosingtang) literally means 'stamina soup'. Koreans believe that eating dogmeat soup improves their stamina and virility and helps them get through the hot Korean summer. A student of mine recently even had a bowl on his mother's advice to help him get over a sore throat. So you know what to have next time you're feeling a bit 'woof'...!

WOOF! Dog soup is also considered good for a hangover. How's that for hair of the dog!

WOOF! Though dog soup is the most popular way of eating dog, it's not the only way. Dog can be barbecued, boiled and can even be made into burgers. There is at least one restaurant in Seoul that has dogburgers on the menu (Renoir Restaurant, 143-5 Songpa-dong, Songpa-gu, Seoul. Tel: +82 2 421 6345), though it is not clear whether or not they also offer labrador McNuggets.

WOOF! To make bosintang yourself, boil 100g of dogmeat in a thin soy paste, add spring onion, leek, garlic and taro stalk and boil it again to make a broth. Serve with kimchi, fresh peppers, cucumber and a glass of soju. (Soju is the traditional and ubiquitous Korean spirit, made from fermented from sweet potatoes. It goes well with most Korean food and can also be used to strip roadmarkings.)

WOOF! Younger Koreans are generally against eating dogmeat and see it as old-fashioned and cruel. Even though it would seem that dog has had its day, you should still have no problem finding a dog restaurant without too much trouble. They are especially popular on dog days - three days in summer determined by the lunar calendar when it is considered especially good to eat dog.

WOOF! If you're thinking of eating your own dog, think again. Only one breed of dog is considered to be worth eating (the nu-rung-i or yellow dog), though there are rumours of other large breeds of dog being stolen for meat out in the countryside.

WOOF! Dog-tired of your usually brand of toiletries? Well you'll be glad to know that there is a range of cosmetics made from dog! Oil extracted from dogmeat is added to a cream and emulsion to leave you with puppy-soft skin and a long glossy coat.

(The full range of Sys-Max dog cosmetics.)

WOOF! The practice of eating dog started when an emperor of the Shang Dynasty awoke one morning to find that his dog had chewed up his favourite pair of slippers. He had his chef boil the dog into a thin, tasty soup as a punishment.

WOOF! When ordering dog soup in a restaurant, it is traditional to point to it on the menu and then tell the waiter to 'FETCH!!'.

That's all for now. I'm planning on having dog on either the next dog day (20th July) or the one after (29th July). I also look forward to a rigorous ethical debate on the matter. Perhaps you might like to 'paws' for thought and reflect on your own feelings on dogmeat...

Anyonghi hasseyo,

S

Progress Report 7.1

Amyong hasseyo,

How you doing? Yeah? Tell me about it.

Once again, I'm submitting this progress report from a mire of post-intoxication filthiness, having spent the day yesterday at a 'music festival' in Itaewon. As you'll no doubt recall, Itaewon is where Seoul's ex-pat community is based, and you'll also recall that, in concurrence with the long-standing tradition of ex-pat communities, it's vile.

This music festival was in actuality just three bars permitting their premises to be used to indulge the hopelessly misguided ambitions of various North American 'singer-songwriters', along with one or two 'comedians', and then selling lots of Korean beer to an audience that were desperate to try any method to make the pain go away. There were one or two acts that could have almost been justified in calling themselves amateur musicians, but I would hesitate to call the comedians as such, principally because they were about as funny as the Holocaust. There were two that I actually managed to sit through. One was an Irishman and was just plain unfunny, but the other was a Canadian and was abhorrent in a way that merits further comment.

No-one likes Canadians - this is scientific fact - but this so-called comic could make you hate Canadians so much that you would be spurred to political action against their country. 'Hold on', you're no doubt saying; 'if the lad had the guts to get up to the mic and have a go, then you can't fault him for that'. Not a word of it, I would have to respond. The fact that he has the confidence to believe himself a comedian is a terrible indictment against humanity. Too far? Here's a sample joke so you can judge for yourself: 'Having sex with a Korean chick is like putting a hotdog in a keyhole'. (Cue ape-like whooping and whoahing from the clodwitted audience.) 'It's okay to laugh at that', he generously reassured the audience. 'You're all thinking it, I'm just saying it'. Well isn't he just the perfect f*cking iconoclast?

You should know that this sharp-eyed social commentator was about six foot seven, easily twenty stone and had a stupid goatee beard - the only place his hotdog has ever been for free is his right fist. But still he felt he was placed to give his us off-kilter take on Korean-Western
relations; his unique (and sometimes risque!) views on the experiences of the white male in North East Asia. This is the sort of arrogance and blindness that makes the North American subcontinent hated throughout the world. And these are the sort of people to whom I have allied myself by coming to Korea. Take a moment to now to wonder at my bravery.

Sorry if I'm biling up your day, but I need an outlet to express the teeth-grinding rage I feel whenever I've been to Itaewon. If you'd cast a glance about the audience at this bar yesterday, you'd have been forgiven for thinking that it was a holding cell for the godless results of a secret experiment to splice the genes of a human with those of a hippo. Oversized, lumpy, clumsy trash to a man. In case you think it's unacceptable to dismiss people on the basis of appearance, let me also add that if you'd have listened to any snippet of their conversations, you'd be seriously weighing up the pros and cons of life within the Korean prison system that would no doubt be the result of the ensuing violent murderisation. Everything to them is 'fucken awesome' or 'totally brutal'. They're utter f*cking idiots. But still they're allowed to teach Koreans our language. At one point, this comedian proudly proclaimed that he didn't "know about fucken subject-verb agreement or adjevtives an' all that shit" - note that he was boasting about this, like it was something we should salute him for - but still he's allowed to teach English. The fat, disgusting lunatics have taken over the asylum.

Anyway, let's change the subject, as I'd hate for you catch me sounding like I care about teaching. I've had a complaint, as it happens, from one Janey 'The Cockney' Collings, claiming that I haven't spoken enough about my work (which, whilst it may be true, smacks distinctly of ingratitude), so in the absence of anything better to tell you about, I may as well expend a couple of paragraphs on the matter. For the most part, I teach adult advanced speakers in free conversation classes. This involves me choosing a subject (usually based around something photocopied from the Korean Times in the two minutes before the class begins), opening the discussion, then forcibly dominating it with my own viewpoint for an hour and a half. This happened for the first couple of weeks more than it does now, as I soon realised that tying Koreans up in rhetorical knots is just too dispiritingly easy. Now, I tend to sit back and let the students duke it out between themselves, only stepping in when the flow of conversation lulls. Depending on the class and their willingness to disagree with each other, this can happen once or twice a lesson or every twenty seconds. It's more often the latter - one realisation that I've come to in the past six weeks is that for the most part, Koreans are deeply boring people.

This is most telling when you've only got a small class to teach, and most telling of all when you've only one student. This is currently the case for my 6.30am class, where I have to talk til eight o'clock with a Korean dentist whose family live in Canada and thus uses English lessons in a surrogate capacity. You may know that rising early has always made me murderously misanthropic, and when this hatred for earlybird humanity is married to forced pidgin conversation, it makes me cry blood. The one time that he didn't show up for class and I got to state quietly at the whiteboard for an hour and a half was more wonderful than I'd dared dream. It's not really that there's anything wrong with the chap, but there's nobody reading this now whose ever been privileged enough to get an hour and half's conversation out of me before lunchtime, and I consider you all to be enlightened and fantastically interesting people. Can you imagine the strain on my highly-forced niceness a dull Korean dentist puts me to at 7am? If it wasn't for black coffee, he'd be a dead man.

He's not my most hated student though. That honour goes to the young Christian lad I told you about last week. There's something about him that really makes me want to smash his face in. I don't know if it's his pointy features, or unstyled hair, or shit clothes, or skinny frame, but something really makes me want to slam his head in a door. He tried to steal from me last week, you know. His conversation class starts at half nine. Last Monday, he strolls in at nine twenty-five, whilst I was desperately preparing my kindergarten class, and starts asking me about my weekend. He wants five minutes of extra conversation that he's not paid for. That's theft in my book. Eighth commandment, son - 'Thou shall NOT STEAL'. After dismissing his first question with a grunt, I responded to his second by telling him straight: "Look, mate - this class doesn't start for another five minutes. Either shut up or f*ck off."

Don't get me wrong though - for the most part, I like my students. Heck, I'd even stick my fingers in a couple of them. It's very rewarding to be treated with deference and respect just because you can speak your own native tongue, but this is what my students give me and it makes me even fonder for them. But I like none so much as the kindergarten class. If you don't like wild lurches away from hard-nosed cynicism look away now, because I'm about to confess that I love my kindergarten class to bits and can't wait to get there every day. I go off-campus to the kindergarten, and it's a nice, private Catholic school, which means the children are clean and well turned out and not malnourished and lifting with lice like they would be back home. I get a rockstar's welcome on a daily basis, uproarious adulation for the lamest of jokes, and I occasionally get the Korean teacher giggly. What's there not to like? It certainly puts the crack-of-dawn pain-versation in the shade.

However, no matter how much I enjoy discussing my favourite colour with five year olds (the strawberry blush of the westering sun, in case you're wondering), the kindergarteners aren't much use when it comes to garnering information about the practicalities of life in Korea. My adults, though, are ideal. It's come gradually to their attention that at some point in every lesson, I manage to steer the topic of conversation onto food. No matter that we've made an uncomfortable semantic leap from abortion to live baby octopus, I just love drilling them on the vagaries and extremities of Korean cuisine, pumping them for info on where, when and what I should eat next and how I should eat it. It's a result of these question and answer sessions that I am able to present you with a fascinating pamphlet of delicious doggy facts on the Korean delight that is dogmeat. This report will be submitted within the next few days.

I shall leave you now, but not before I'm done with two additional points of order. Firstly, I'd like to thank my new favourite Welshman (and funnily enough, the first ever holder of that title), Mr Rob 'Llanelli Boy' James, who guaranteed himself a place in heaven by sending me three books: Child Of God, by Cormac McCarthy (which I greedily wolfed in two sittings); Tietam Brown by Mick Foley (which I've also greedily wolfed and I highly recommend), and The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, by Michael Chabon, which I've not started yet, but no doubt will greedily wolf as well. Rob is no doubt experiencing a more fulfilling life as a result of responding to my appeal and you can join him by sending me any book in English at your earliest convenience. Not got my address? Email me and ask me for it. If you've already sent me something and it's on its way, thank you very much.

Secondly, on Friday 7th July, during a brief but consequential episode of drunken misadventure, I swallowed a 100 won coin. The coin completed its digestive transit at 5pm on Sunday 9th July. I've retrieved it and rinsed it off and now I'd like to make you all an offer. I'm willing to give this coin that has known me so intimately away to the person who can best explain in less than one hundred words why they want it and what they're going to do with it. If I remain unconvinced by all entries, it's going on eBay. Thank you.

That's all for now,

Amyong hasseyo,

PS A message to the doubterz and the haterz - despite what you thought about my maths, I can now inform you that I've just finished my first toilet roll a full FIVE WEEKS after starting it. Have that, Benny Blanco!

Progress Report 6.2

Kasseyo,

Here's a few food photos that aren't that good. But you're here now - you may as well have a butcher's...

Here's me registering my disapproval 0f pickled yellow radish. It's hard, it's vinegary and frankly, it can piss off.

Ahh, some kimchi! Now that's more like it...

A mandu - proper!

Now this is more like it! Mouthwatering sannakji, still in the tank and fresh as you like...

That is all,

S

PS Pleae note that these pictures were taken at five in the morning after the England game, hence the Glasgow tan - I haven't actually got AIDS.

Progress Report 6.1

Kasseyo,

How's it going? Yeah? Same here.

Well, chaps, I'm submitting this report with a subdued air, reaching out as I am from the petrochemical haze of a Korean beer hangover and the disabling malaise of another England disappointment. Yes, I'm disappointed. Not with the team, and not with the fans, and not even with the actions our potato-headed star striker; no, I'm disappointed that when I logged onto the BBC News website just now, the lead headline was not: 'Referee and his children tortured with bottles'.

It seems a shame that after so many years of being embattled against officials, a few of our boys can't finally take matters into their own hands. The problem is that referees can react with the luxury of non-consequence. I think it would be a different story if they knew that pointlessly penalising England out of malice and hatred might carry with it the possibility of abduction and a slow, painful death. It would only take one referee to be graphically Ken Bigley'd for the message to be sent out to all of officialdom. Come on, our boys - get it seen to.

Anyway, English football is not the only gift from our glorious, sceptr'd isle that is roundly targeted and maligned by lesser races - our language is under attack as well. How so? Well, as you probably know, I'm here to learn Koreans how to talk our talk. However, when Koreans learn 'emselves the English, they don't want to talk it with an English accent. No, they want to talk like Americans. Yes, Americans. Despite the fact that most Americans have a working vocabulary of around one hundred words (half of which refer to extra large portion sizes and deep-frying), the Koreans regard their moronic phrasing and ludicrous inflection as being somehow more 'correct' and desirable than the angelic British lilt.

I know, I know - it's a direct and forthright offence. They may as well fling jizz at the queen. But if you find that infuriating, you might want to pop a spoon in your mouth for the next part, as you're at risk of swallowing your tongue in a fit of rage. When a student complained about my properly-rounded vowels and elegant plosives, it was suggested by the head teacher that 'perhaps' I might want to lead my classes in an American accent. 'Oh, yes, perhaps I might,' I told her. 'Perhaps I might also want to grow gills and live in a duckpond. Perhaps I might want to sh*t you a lump of Perugian marble. And PERHAPS I might I want to eat your tits with some rice and kimchi.'

Nothing more was said on the matter, but the fact remains that despite my best pedagogical efforts, there are people in Korea that think that offence is spellt with an 's', colour without a 'u' and that cholesterol is one of the main food groups. The textbook I use to teach my kindergarteners baldly preaches that 'I got one' is grammatically correct. (I regard this as little better than child abuse.) Another textbook we were given to approve was propoganda of such transparency that it would have made even Stalin think he was pushing his luck. (Honestly, it had articles detailing the open Native American arms that awaited the arriving pilgrims, and the universal, border-crossing appeal of baseball.) But despite the educational agit-prop, Koreans continue to have an ambivalent relationship with our corpulent friends from across the pond.
The reason for this is America's military presence in South Korea. For every American film that wows Korean audiences with explosions and stale dialogue, there's a pissed GI in Itaewon making a nuisance of himself, ensuring that cultural charm offensive isn't entirely unhindered. The yanks found themselves rounded on a few months back, when they accidentally ran over three Korean schoolgirls in a tank, and there were calls for them to kindly take their humvees and f*ck off, but that's not actually likely to happen too soon. This is because as soon as American army manoeuver their fat arses out of here, the Norh Koreans will come marching across the border as soon as they have a free afternoon. Like it or not, Koreans are stuck with the Americans, and the relationship between the two sides has become like a bad marriage - the Americans come home drunk and occasionally get violent, but the Koreans are just too needy to live alone. God knows what the sex is like.

It could be worse though - I could have been asked to lead a class in a Canadian accent. I know I promised I wouldn't mention the C-word again, but I really have to tell you about the one I met last night as I sincerely believe he was the most nob-headed prick in the whole of Christendom. He was sitting outside a bar when we sat at the next table, but as soon as I heard him speak, I knew we'd made a tactical miscalculation of Goran Ericsson proportions. He declaimed at a volume normally associated with heavy plant, and came out with such idiocies that I wanted to push a lit cigarette into my ear to make it stop. I sat with my back to him in a fashion that any non-idiot could clearly see was passive aggression, but being an idiot, he didn't read it that way. 'Hey, buddy,' he hollered. 'Watching the game tonight?'

As soon as I responed, all hope was lost. We were roped into conversation. Well, I say conversation - it was more like he held court whilst the rest of the company shook their heads and wept for the hopes of the future humanity. There was a bottle of Czech beer on the table that he was claiming was not actually Czech. He presented his case in minute detail, repeating each point until it was indelibly etched upon our collective brains like trauma. How long did he discuss this one bottle of beer? I'll tell you, but I want to make it absolutely clear that I'm not exaggerating for rhetorical or comic effect. He talked about this bottle of beer for an hour and a half. If you don't believe me, you can email Australian Dave and ask him. (His email address is ono206@yahoo.com)

The sad fact is that the Kiwi bloke he was with was actually a nice guy, but we had to sacrifice him to save ourselves. We eventually slipped away on some hastily-improvised pretext, but as I looked back I could see the naked pleading in his eyes. It was painful to leave him, but like eating a dog, some things you just have to do. I'm no hero - I could only save myself. In an ideal world I would have returned to beat the Canadian to death with a plastic chair (the only weapon to hand - believe me, I checked...), before reaching out purposefully to lead the New Zealander by the hand to another bar and freedom. But this isn't Hollywood; it's Hogwon-gaaaaa, and it's a man-eat-dog world out there. (See what I did there?)

Goodness, is that the time? I do ramble on, don't I? I've barely time left to tell you about the Christian conspiracy against me. Let me precis - there was a young Christian student in one of my classes who was desperate to save my soul. He took advantage of the teacher-student relationship to make the wholly improper suggestion that I might want to join him in worship. Being in a position of responsibilty, I couldn't well tell him to f*ck right off as I normally would given a similar offer, so I had to be polite and tell firmly that, no, thank you, I'm not a religious person. He took this as an entreaty to please try and change my mind, and so asked again, and again. I was quickly running out of excuses ('Sorry, I can't today - I'm going to spend the afternoon breaking the arms off crucifixes), and so I was very glad when he had to return to America to study. But no sooner had I rid myself of one pesky god-botherer than another one appeared in his place. I could tell he was a Christian without him even having to tell me - the lack of hair product and the excellent complexion were a dead-giveaway - but he told me anyway. And so it has begun again.

I may be being paranoid, but I'm terrified that the two are in cahoots. I'm not sure how Christians work, but I strongly suspect that the departing student put his replacement onto me, telling him of a juicy and pleasant-smelling soul in need of salvation at the local English school as he left for the airport. I'm terrified that they might start organising against me until I succumb. How might I best fight them off? It's one thing to tell them 'no thank you, I'm capable of formulating moral values without reference to a bunch of Jewish folk stories', but these people are determined and committed in ways that only non-drinkers can be. I can't take many more of the dejected looks I get when I turn down their offer of salvation. I'm not strong enough to keep fighting on my own, so please, if I ever suggest to any of you that you might benefit from letting Jesus into your life, please please do the proper thing and kill me. Do it quickly, do it humanely, and remember that the real me with already be dead - you'll just be killing my body... Thank you.

Anyway, I'm desperate for a shit so I'm going to have to go.

Just time to offer my undying gratitude to my new favourite Jew, Ms Danielle Berg. She's proved her worth as a person by sending me a book - 'Fatherland' by Robert Harris, and for this I give her my thanks. Let her lead you by her example.

(Please note - if you've sent me something and I haven't got it yet, don't be overly concerned. The speed with which such things are delivered is entirely dependent upon the postman's ability to read roman script. If he can't read it, it'll be taken back to the sorting office where postmen will puzzle over it in their coffee break much like British postal workers would puzzle over a children's wordsearch or a dot-to-dot. It will get to me eventually. I hope.)

Amyonghi kasseyo for now.

S