Progress Report 12.2
Amyongh hasseyo,
Oi! ... Oi!!... OI, YOU!!!
What the f*ck you lookin' at?
Just kiddin' wiv yer. Sorry this report is being submitted four days late, but as I explained last week, I've been away for a few days, though not as I originally claimed to Pajeon (which is actually a type of Korean omlette), but to Paju. What is there in Paju? Significantly less than what there is in a Korean omlette as it turns out, but I wasn't there for sightseeing anyway.
I was there to visit the New Yorker I met at the rock festival as reported in 10.1, who trains teachers at the English Village, which is just outside of Paju. The English Village, in case you don't know (and I think it's fair to assume that you don't), is a meagre theme park of Englishness built for the express purpose of 'creating global Koreans'. Designed to be a facsimile of a typical quaint hamlet, the Village provides a temporary home for a week at a time for groups of disappointed middle school students so that they can experience rustic Britannic life first hand, and thus improve their English and anglicise their bearing without the risk of being interfered with by scrumpy-drunk farmhands. The phone boxes are red, the lampposts Victorian and the streets cobbled. I even had a pang of nostalgia when I spied a genuine Royal Mail post office sign (of highly suspicious provenance, incidentally, as I doubt that the Royal Mail just give these to anyone who asks for one). However, these frills are as far as the Englishness goes. Maybe I'm underfamiliar with heartlands of Albion, but I've never visited an English village with a Mongolian barbecue restaurant, a pizza restaurant, a Chinese restaurant and Museum of Fun, but nevertheless, we should all be proud that the UK continues to live on in the popular imagination of foreigners beyond the misdeeds of our football hooligans.
Even though the English Village is an utter nonsense to anyone who's actually visited one, I'm secretly happy that Englishness is still framed in such terms, and as long as it continues I shall do my utmost to trade upon it. Koreans are usually delighted to hear that you're from the UK. To them it means that you will be charming and courteous, as well as reserved, intelligent and cultured. Even though I do my best to shatter this illusion in every 6.30am class, I'm generally only too happy to play up to the stereotype. It grants one licence to not prepare for lessons, to not listen to students' responses and generally behave in a shiftless and British way. Any accusation of unprofessionalism can be met with effusive and hammy charm (though it has to be said this works best on the women). Greater sins require a higher level of Hugh-Grantitude, but so far, there has been no misadventure that has gone unforgiven.
I'm not saying I like it. I'd much rather respond to indictments with obnoxious belligerence, as served me so well for the first twenty-nine years of my life. But whilst the weapon of charm is in my arsenal, I shan't hesitate to see how far I can push it. I don't expect you to forgive me for this, and nor do I want you to, but I do feel better coming clean about it. I'm really glad to get it off my chest. Anyway, I shall be brought sharply back down to earth when I make a temporary visit to the UK next week, for the occasion of my sister Katie's wedding. It shall be interesting to see if a hardened Heathrow customs officer is convinced when I try the 'gosh, ...ah, ahem... I say... how embarassing... how did that get there?' line on him.
It certainly shall be interesting to be back in Britain, albeit only for a weekend. First port of call will be the kettle, followed shortly after by the mug tree, and thenceforth directly to a proper British cuppa. I'm by no means a bigot when it comes to tea bags but the only foreign bags you can get here are Lipton (beloved of Australians, and marketed with the slogan: "Tea's just not tea until it's been swept up off the floor"), and for three months now, I've been gasping - gasping - for a steaming mug of Yorkshire Gold, with proper British semi-skimmed, and nothing else will quite get me off. Then on I shall go to the white bread and tins of Heinz, whereupon I shall feast upon a heaping plate of beans on toast (with added chilli, naturally), and thence to a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and then maybe to the pub for a pint of Carling. I'll listen in to conversations conducted in English accents, and read about immigrants and gays in the Daily Mail. Then I reckon I'll be ready to head back to the airport.
That I want to come back to Korea at all might surprise you once you've heard the tales about to follow.
Here is what I shall call the Korean Animal Misuse Cycle. It is composed of a triptych of tales related to me last week. The first two take place in The Countryside (which I've long suspected is a Korean metaphor for some otherworld where one can play out the darkest fantasies of the soul), and the final part of the cycle took place here, in the city, in Anyang. If you're eating, go and spit it out. Ready?
I. My student was a child, staying for the summer with his auntie and uncle at their home in The Countryside. They had a pig that they were fattening, and towards the end of his stay, my student's uncle suggested that the time was right for slaughter. To prepare for this, my student had to tie a rope tightly around one of the pig's back legs and leash it tightly to a tree. The pig panicked at first, but once it realised it was unable to move around, it laid down calmly. The uncle then presented my student with a heavy hammer and the instruction that he should hit the pig on the forehead with all the strength he could muster, with the intention of rendering the pig instantly dead. This my student duly attempted, but being just a child, was only able to leave the pig with a massively cracked skull and thrashing and squealing in a way that no doubt reflected its discomfort. The uncle comandeered the hammer and finished off the excited beast with a series of well-aimed blows.
II. Another student, who grew up in The Countryside, once witnessed a dog being slaughtered. The dog had one end of a rope tied around its neck whilst the other end was thrown over the branch of a tree. The dog was then hoisted into the air whist two burly country types beat the living daylights of it with heavy sticks. This, he explained, was to get the dog's adrenalin flowing through its muscles, which makes the meat all the more tender.
"Didn't the dog make a hell of a noise during all of this?" I asked him.
"Oh yes," he beamingly replied. "It screamed like a baby."
III. Yet another student described to me an incident that had happened the Friday prior, at his workplace. He works in laser research for a small company that hopes to market its technology to medicine. His boss asked him to go out to the butchers and fetch back a pig's head. In the spirit of unquestioning respect of one's superiors, this my student did. When he returned with a pig's head in tow, his boss cut the edges of the pig's eyes and mouth 'to make it appear as if it were smiling'. He then called his employees around whereupon they were required to join him in prayer. He muttered some Shaman imprecation and then took out an envelope full of money. This he placed in the pig's grinning mouth. After another prayer, he then took out a variety of notes and rolling them up, placed them in the pig's nostrils and earholes. Then, having once again led his underlings in prayer, announced that the ritual would guarantee the firm good fortune in the coming financial year. (I may be being too Western, but I sincerely hope that my owm employer has a more conventional business development plan than this.)
These three tales were all illicited in the space of one regrettable conversation class, which on the one hand reaffirmed my commitment to vegetarianism, but on the other hand made me laugh with horror much more than would be considered professional. I had to work the charm very hard to reassure the females in the class that I wasn't of unstable mind. And in case you're wondering, despite my best efforts, my dogmeat bedsheet continues to remain unbloodied. After hearing the second part of the Cycle, you're no doubt thinking this to be distinctly for the best, but you needn't worry - they don't kill dogs like that anymore. They just electrocute them.
ANNOUNCEMENTS: Any London-types in the capital on Thursday evening (24th) and with a clear diary should stand by for an announcement concerning the drinking of alcohol in my company. For one night only, I shall be consuming booze somewhere in Zone 1. Perhaps Islington, or maybe somewhere central. If any of you have an express preference, state it quickly. A venue shall be decided within the next two days.
Sam 'Porn Baron' Pinney is this week once again the recipient of lukewarm gratitude, this time for sending me a book which he himself describes as 'SH*T' - Essays in Love, by Alain de Botton. After reading the first of these cloying, undergraduate, cod-philosophical essays, I'm inclined to think that Sam's being far too kind in his review.
Next week's report should hopefully be submitted on Monday as normal.
That is all.
Amyonghi kasseyo,
S
PS I was reminded by the New Yorker last weekend of something hilarious I did at the rock festival that I'd forgotten about due to drunkeness. It involved going up to a random whitey and telling them with faux-concern: "Look, mate, I don't know what you've done but that girl over there says she's going kick your head in," and then pointing at a completely unaware New Yorker. This would cause whitey to panic and plead innocence, to which I would respond, "Not my business mate. It's nothing to do with me. I'm just telling you."
I would then stand back and watch events unfold.
I really deserve a kicking, don't I?
Oi! ... Oi!!... OI, YOU!!!
What the f*ck you lookin' at?
Just kiddin' wiv yer. Sorry this report is being submitted four days late, but as I explained last week, I've been away for a few days, though not as I originally claimed to Pajeon (which is actually a type of Korean omlette), but to Paju. What is there in Paju? Significantly less than what there is in a Korean omlette as it turns out, but I wasn't there for sightseeing anyway.
I was there to visit the New Yorker I met at the rock festival as reported in 10.1, who trains teachers at the English Village, which is just outside of Paju. The English Village, in case you don't know (and I think it's fair to assume that you don't), is a meagre theme park of Englishness built for the express purpose of 'creating global Koreans'. Designed to be a facsimile of a typical quaint hamlet, the Village provides a temporary home for a week at a time for groups of disappointed middle school students so that they can experience rustic Britannic life first hand, and thus improve their English and anglicise their bearing without the risk of being interfered with by scrumpy-drunk farmhands. The phone boxes are red, the lampposts Victorian and the streets cobbled. I even had a pang of nostalgia when I spied a genuine Royal Mail post office sign (of highly suspicious provenance, incidentally, as I doubt that the Royal Mail just give these to anyone who asks for one). However, these frills are as far as the Englishness goes. Maybe I'm underfamiliar with heartlands of Albion, but I've never visited an English village with a Mongolian barbecue restaurant, a pizza restaurant, a Chinese restaurant and Museum of Fun, but nevertheless, we should all be proud that the UK continues to live on in the popular imagination of foreigners beyond the misdeeds of our football hooligans.
Even though the English Village is an utter nonsense to anyone who's actually visited one, I'm secretly happy that Englishness is still framed in such terms, and as long as it continues I shall do my utmost to trade upon it. Koreans are usually delighted to hear that you're from the UK. To them it means that you will be charming and courteous, as well as reserved, intelligent and cultured. Even though I do my best to shatter this illusion in every 6.30am class, I'm generally only too happy to play up to the stereotype. It grants one licence to not prepare for lessons, to not listen to students' responses and generally behave in a shiftless and British way. Any accusation of unprofessionalism can be met with effusive and hammy charm (though it has to be said this works best on the women). Greater sins require a higher level of Hugh-Grantitude, but so far, there has been no misadventure that has gone unforgiven.
I'm not saying I like it. I'd much rather respond to indictments with obnoxious belligerence, as served me so well for the first twenty-nine years of my life. But whilst the weapon of charm is in my arsenal, I shan't hesitate to see how far I can push it. I don't expect you to forgive me for this, and nor do I want you to, but I do feel better coming clean about it. I'm really glad to get it off my chest. Anyway, I shall be brought sharply back down to earth when I make a temporary visit to the UK next week, for the occasion of my sister Katie's wedding. It shall be interesting to see if a hardened Heathrow customs officer is convinced when I try the 'gosh, ...ah, ahem... I say... how embarassing... how did that get there?' line on him.
It certainly shall be interesting to be back in Britain, albeit only for a weekend. First port of call will be the kettle, followed shortly after by the mug tree, and thenceforth directly to a proper British cuppa. I'm by no means a bigot when it comes to tea bags but the only foreign bags you can get here are Lipton (beloved of Australians, and marketed with the slogan: "Tea's just not tea until it's been swept up off the floor"), and for three months now, I've been gasping - gasping - for a steaming mug of Yorkshire Gold, with proper British semi-skimmed, and nothing else will quite get me off. Then on I shall go to the white bread and tins of Heinz, whereupon I shall feast upon a heaping plate of beans on toast (with added chilli, naturally), and thence to a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes and then maybe to the pub for a pint of Carling. I'll listen in to conversations conducted in English accents, and read about immigrants and gays in the Daily Mail. Then I reckon I'll be ready to head back to the airport.
That I want to come back to Korea at all might surprise you once you've heard the tales about to follow.
Here is what I shall call the Korean Animal Misuse Cycle. It is composed of a triptych of tales related to me last week. The first two take place in The Countryside (which I've long suspected is a Korean metaphor for some otherworld where one can play out the darkest fantasies of the soul), and the final part of the cycle took place here, in the city, in Anyang. If you're eating, go and spit it out. Ready?
I. My student was a child, staying for the summer with his auntie and uncle at their home in The Countryside. They had a pig that they were fattening, and towards the end of his stay, my student's uncle suggested that the time was right for slaughter. To prepare for this, my student had to tie a rope tightly around one of the pig's back legs and leash it tightly to a tree. The pig panicked at first, but once it realised it was unable to move around, it laid down calmly. The uncle then presented my student with a heavy hammer and the instruction that he should hit the pig on the forehead with all the strength he could muster, with the intention of rendering the pig instantly dead. This my student duly attempted, but being just a child, was only able to leave the pig with a massively cracked skull and thrashing and squealing in a way that no doubt reflected its discomfort. The uncle comandeered the hammer and finished off the excited beast with a series of well-aimed blows.
II. Another student, who grew up in The Countryside, once witnessed a dog being slaughtered. The dog had one end of a rope tied around its neck whilst the other end was thrown over the branch of a tree. The dog was then hoisted into the air whist two burly country types beat the living daylights of it with heavy sticks. This, he explained, was to get the dog's adrenalin flowing through its muscles, which makes the meat all the more tender.
"Didn't the dog make a hell of a noise during all of this?" I asked him.
"Oh yes," he beamingly replied. "It screamed like a baby."
III. Yet another student described to me an incident that had happened the Friday prior, at his workplace. He works in laser research for a small company that hopes to market its technology to medicine. His boss asked him to go out to the butchers and fetch back a pig's head. In the spirit of unquestioning respect of one's superiors, this my student did. When he returned with a pig's head in tow, his boss cut the edges of the pig's eyes and mouth 'to make it appear as if it were smiling'. He then called his employees around whereupon they were required to join him in prayer. He muttered some Shaman imprecation and then took out an envelope full of money. This he placed in the pig's grinning mouth. After another prayer, he then took out a variety of notes and rolling them up, placed them in the pig's nostrils and earholes. Then, having once again led his underlings in prayer, announced that the ritual would guarantee the firm good fortune in the coming financial year. (I may be being too Western, but I sincerely hope that my owm employer has a more conventional business development plan than this.)
These three tales were all illicited in the space of one regrettable conversation class, which on the one hand reaffirmed my commitment to vegetarianism, but on the other hand made me laugh with horror much more than would be considered professional. I had to work the charm very hard to reassure the females in the class that I wasn't of unstable mind. And in case you're wondering, despite my best efforts, my dogmeat bedsheet continues to remain unbloodied. After hearing the second part of the Cycle, you're no doubt thinking this to be distinctly for the best, but you needn't worry - they don't kill dogs like that anymore. They just electrocute them.
ANNOUNCEMENTS: Any London-types in the capital on Thursday evening (24th) and with a clear diary should stand by for an announcement concerning the drinking of alcohol in my company. For one night only, I shall be consuming booze somewhere in Zone 1. Perhaps Islington, or maybe somewhere central. If any of you have an express preference, state it quickly. A venue shall be decided within the next two days.
Sam 'Porn Baron' Pinney is this week once again the recipient of lukewarm gratitude, this time for sending me a book which he himself describes as 'SH*T' - Essays in Love, by Alain de Botton. After reading the first of these cloying, undergraduate, cod-philosophical essays, I'm inclined to think that Sam's being far too kind in his review.
Next week's report should hopefully be submitted on Monday as normal.
That is all.
Amyonghi kasseyo,
S
PS I was reminded by the New Yorker last weekend of something hilarious I did at the rock festival that I'd forgotten about due to drunkeness. It involved going up to a random whitey and telling them with faux-concern: "Look, mate, I don't know what you've done but that girl over there says she's going kick your head in," and then pointing at a completely unaware New Yorker. This would cause whitey to panic and plead innocence, to which I would respond, "Not my business mate. It's nothing to do with me. I'm just telling you."
I would then stand back and watch events unfold.
I really deserve a kicking, don't I?
posted by Stephen Beckett at 4:50 PM
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