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
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
posted by Stephen Beckett at 5:36 PM
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