Progress Report 24.1

Anyongh hasseyo, cabrón,

How's things? You well? Good.

Me? Yeah, not so bad, but let's not fuck around with pleasantries; let's get straight down to business.

I've been here for ten months now and, nimbly asiding the inevitable response on time's flyingness, I thought it might be interesting to revisit some themes addressed in prior reports to see if the progress of time allows us to add additional understanding, clarification and opprobrium to matters that have previously pricked my dander. It'll be like a deeper look at the trivialities that barely warranted our attention in the first place, and as such, it should be a good shade more entertaining than me trying to pontificate about such high-falutin topics as education, like in the last report.

So what better place to start than TV - there's none so trivial as Korean telly.

If you recall, back in the day, I had no cable TV and so only had access to the dozen or so channels that are laid on for free. These were largely sales-orientated offerings featuring bad fashions demoed by awkward models, soft furnishings and kimchi fridges, along with the magic channel, the fishing channel and some dull fucker with a blackboard. It would have been considered poor entertainment even by those recently arrived in a time machine from the very distant past, and you'll remember that the only thing keeping my telly's centre of gravity on the stable side of my balcony's edge was Series TV, a channel devoted to interspersing infomercials with reclaimed American dramatrash. Permafrost boredom led me to over-invest my conscious mind into the hilarities and heartaches of the A-Team, Crockett and Tubbs and the wooden-faced angel out of Highway to Heaven, and while I can see now that it was not a healthy way to engage my need for social interaction, it saw me through some dark and solitary times.

Once I bought my laptop, though, I turned away from 80's US social-realist drama, and instead ploughed my psyche into the internet, choosing to get with the times and watch downloaded programmes made in the past decade. (Every day I continue to grow as a person). For this reason, the TV was left to moulder. Only recently did I return to my old associate, and found it changed in ways that shook my very foundations. Whilst Magic TV remained in place at the head of the queue, followed by the usual rogue's gallery of shopping channels, Korean soaps and edu-tainment, once I reached the familiar home of Hannibal and the gang, I found only strangeness in its place. The reassuring 'Series TV' corner graphic had been replaced with a logo bellowing 'SUPER ACTION', and in the stead of dated 80's hi-jinks was a US movie outing from the slightly-more-recent past. The facts were there to behold: Series TV had been closed down and replaced by station devoted to mindless, flashy, no-brand action.

So now, even if I want it, there's no more Miami Vice and no more Michael Landon, their vintage charms superseded by less charming, less vintage, more straight-to-video fare. Don't it always seem to go, reader, that you don't know what you've got 'til its gone? While I was being seduced by the brash charms of broadband, a free-to-air friend was in need of my help. Colonel Decker finally apprehended The A Team; Crockett and Tubbs turned to dealing coke; and the family from Seventh Heaven succumbed to the twin vices of crystal meth and satanic child abuse, and where was I? Eyeballs-deep in a downloaded episode of Deadwood. I'll understand if you turn away from me, as I did them.

But in truth, and sad as it may seem, I really have no time for the telly these days. The only time I currently call upon it to dance before my eyes is for the five minutes it takes me to eat my Coco Pops, before I leave for class on a morning. The timeslot this currently occupies is 6.50am to 6.55.

Offerings at this hour are meagre - limited mainly to news-studio-based speculation on traffic trouble-spots and more half-hearted-than-usual selling - but one offering more meagre than most is an educational broadcast called English Café, a programme curiously compelling in its mix of dubious pedagogy, bright colours and unbelievably annoying presenters.

Its mission is to teach our language through the use of repetition and synonymous reformulation, a method that goes against current thinking in language learning (not that would hinder flagship educational telly in this country for a second). It is presented by a team of people whose bright clothes and swift gestures belie the hopeless look in their eyes.

Leading the team is a Korean man (name unknown) whose hair is high maintenance and whose eyes are heroin chic. His bright purple jumpers and orange shirts can't hide the look of exhaustion in his features, and whilst you might invite him to a drugs party, you'd never let him near your kids. He knows he's at the helm of a ship on a suicide mission, but he tries hard to hide this from his men.

His glamorous female assistant is undeniably enthusiastic, but quite clearly only in it to be spotted. As she beams at the camera, she haemorrhages ambition, and each hammy-happy delivery of English clashes with her undoubted iciness off-screen. I would suggest that she is responsible for at least half of the darkness in her co-presenter's eyes and also that she wouldn't hesitate to stab, slash or otherwise wound another cast member if it meant the advancement of her own career.

It would be nice if this cast member could be either of the two Western presenters. Both are insufferable, but one is more insufferable than the other. The lesser of the two evils first: He looks a little like a cheaper version of Dr Egon Spengler out of Ghostbusters, and has the comic range of a paused video. He mugs along to the action with vague enthusiasm, but doesn't seem to be under any huge illusions about his abilities. To be fair to him, he seems like he's probably an alright guy in a bad situation, and he's raised a smile from me on a couple of occasions, but that still doesn't let him off the hook.

And most assuredly on the hook is his colleague, who is possibly Canadian, and whose utter blindness to his own lack of comic talent make your most tragic and painful misfortune seem funny. He dances around and pulls faces and puts on voices and generally acts the cunt, but with the wholly evident belief that what he is doing is hilarious. Watching him act up to the camera is more personally chilling than being told bad news by a doctor. I fully expect that very soon, mid-show, the camera will cut away quickly from his tedious antics as a crew member finally decides that they've seen enough and marches on set to throttle him with a cable. I keep my fingers crossed for that day.

Joining this ensemble are two more Koreans, whose purpose, it seems, is to not be able to speak English but to try, and a band, who live permanently in the background and who talk amongst themselves throughout each show. They contribute to the feeling of amateurishness and help make English Café essential morning viewing. If it sounds like unlikely entertainment, it's because it is. But somehow, the parts come together to make a compelling whole: It's angrifiying, baffling, unprofessional, colourful, it works hard but achieves little and it tries its best to speak English. In other words, it's quintessentially Korean. (You'll find more info right here: http://www.ebs.co.kr/Homepage/?progcd=0001450)

You may think that the second Western presenter mentioned above must be the absolute nadir of Korean on-screen loathability, but sadly you'd be wrong. There's one more whitey presenter who pushes the anti-charisma/anti-talent envelope even further, and who is the perfect example of someone who could only make it in Korea. He appears on the programme that's on before English Café, which is similar in aim but more civilized in style. The first time I saw this particular presenter perform, I became so utterly enraged that I immediately went out and killed a prostitute.

His job is simply to read phrases in English, a simple enough task, but one that he manages to perform with such oleaginous smarm and smugness that were someone sufficiently high up in the nation's government to see it, then all Westerners would immediately be expelled. He simpers at his Korean co-host as she does her thing, and then, when prompted, reads a sentence in over-enunciated English, before letting a sex offender's smile slime across his face, like he's just uttered something both seductive and profound. I hope that I don't come across as twisted or psychotic when I say that if I were ever to meet him in the street, he would be eating a handful of my shit within the minute.

So that's what's new on the TV front.

Now, if you've been paying attention over this past nine months, you'll have noticed that a recurrent preoccupation of mine is my stomach, and my keenness for pushing unusual things into it. When I first arrived here, I was a most happy gastric adventurer, for there was a wide swathe of novel gourmandial experiences awaiting me: kimchi, bibimbap, live octopus, dog, usw and I indulged my curiosity with gusto. Every mealtime brought a new taste sensation, a new discovery and an extended vocabulary. They were good times.

So I imagine you'll double-take when I say that after nine months of careful digestion, consideration and cogitation, I am now of the opinion that Korean food is, in the final analysis, absolutely, unremittingly and inexcusably awful.

Yes, that's right, I said it: Korean food is fucking shit.

But before you spill your herbal tea in your rush to leap to its defence and to upbraid me for my generalizing negativity, let me ask you a question: How many Korean restaurants have you been to in your time upon this earth? How many Korean restaurants have you walked past in your lifetime? How many times have you popped for a Korean takeaway on the way home from the pub? How many times have you browsed the Korean section of your local Tesco's, fascinated by the range of foods and flavours? If the answer to any of these questions is anything other than 'never' or 'very, very seldom', then you are Korean and must stop reading immediately, as what follows you will consider to be both blasphemous and seditious.

There is a edifying and instructive reason behind Korean food's meagre market share: It's because it's absolutely dreadful. Aside from one or two dishes (that benefit greatly from a lack of interference from their 'chef'), Korean food is bland, limp and occasionally offensive. It is unvaried, uninteresting and unlovable. Whilst most certainly distinct in its own way, once its novelty has been displaced by routine, there is little left to rub yourself over. The range of textures and flavours is limited and unappealing. Its visual presentation is unthoughtful and usually off-putting. Its capacity for repulsion is only thing that manages constantly to surprise.

Let me take you, if you'll permit it, through a wearingly typical experience...

Last Friday night, myself and the rest of the staff at my school were taken out for dinner by the boss. Generous? Yes. Well intentioned? Indubitably. An evening in good company? Most definitely kinda. A treat for the senses? Not on your nelly.

Like most Korean restaurants, the establishment we visited specialised in one particular cul-de-sac of indigenous cuisine and in this case it was black bean tofu. (If you're wondering, black bean tofu distinguishes itself from its soy-based brother not by having flavour but by being grey.) We were seated on the floor in a miserable strip-lit room in front of low tables laden with small bowls of various varieties of kimchi, accompanied by a few bottles of soju and a bowl of an astringent homemade rice spirit known as makgoli. Chopsticks and spoons were lain before us, along with a couple of large plates of sliced black bean tofu with steamed pork. The underfloor heating set my arse to sweating, whilst the anti-ergonomic seating arrangements got to work on doing irreversible damage to my knees, hips and lower spine. We toasted with the makgoli (which tasted like sake mixed with stomach acid) and were encouraged to get stuck in.

Honestly, I gave it a go. I was only too happy to try some of the clay-like tofu stacked with kimchi, but after a few mouthfuls, I tossed my chopsticks aside. It was simply unappetizing. It wasn't offensive, but it just wasn't nice. Nothing thus far experienced in the meal had the slightest trace of pleasure about it. It was mulch, ballast, landfill, pulp. It was food with no self esteem.

The main course though had a little more to say for itself.

Its arrival was hailed with the placing of a gas burner in the centre of the table (always a sign that something gross is about to happen), followed by a tray of bean sprouts, tofu and a stack of octopus in red pepper sauce. The server then proceeded to cut up the plentiful tentacles with a pair of scissors, slopping red pepper sauce on my shirt in the process, and then left the whole sorry slimy array to cook, right there on the table. This left me irritably to demand of my fellow diners the following two questions:

a) why in the name of all that is Western couldn't the process of cooking the main course be completed in the kitchen, rather than leaving a tray of what looked like abortion clinic refuse and greying peat bubbling and spitting in the middle of the table?

b) was any part of this revolting, earthen ensemble was meant to be tantilising our senses and whetting our appetites in any way whatsoever?

It was just as well that both lines of inquiry were intended as rhetorical as none of my Korean co-diners were forthcoming with an answer for either. They just laughed off my tetchy bellyaching as the quirky comments of a silly Brit whose sense of humour they didn't fully understand. However, although I wasn't expecting any answers, I was serious in my criticism. I genuinely want to know: Why does Korean food have to be so unrelentingly, grotesquely Middle Earth?

If you think its harsh for me to refer to Korean cuisine as goblin food, let's look at their national dish: kimchi. To make cabbage kimchi, you begin with several cabbages. You salt these heavily and leave them to wilt, then wash them and chop them. You then rub in a mixture of red pepper paste, dried shrimp, ginger, radish and whole lots else besides, pack it into a terracotta pot and bury it for six months. Once it comes out, it's ready to eat as it has 'fermented', meaning that instead of rotting in the generally accepted sense of the term, the cabbage has acquired the characteristics of dead skin and the flavour of old fishy shrimp and red peppers but remains edible. It's not as gross as it sounds, and it's quite pleasant to have on the side of a plate of fried rice once in a while, but when its deified as some sort of comestible Korean messiah, someone really should say something, especially seeing as it sets the tone for nearly every other dish in the narrow Korean food spectrum.

Koreans, it would seem, are not happy to let ingredients make the most of themselves. It's all or nothing - if it's not been buried for half a year, then it's raw. The same ruinous edict applies when they attempt Western food. You're not allowed a salad unless its been shredded beyond recognition and then criss-crossed with half-a-dozen lurid-coloured dressings. Pizzas can't be simple - it has to have a different topping for every letter of the alphabet and then undergo a sauce torture similar to the salads. Pasta can only be in the form of spaghetti and even then, the accompanying sauce has to have half of its weight made up in garlic and be topped with a vulcanized coating of flavour-free cheese. And only the Koreans could manage to run a Mexican restaurant with inedible nachos and nary a bean in sight. It deserves both a respectful salute and a wearied fingertip massage of the brow.

Before I move on from the topic of comestibles, special attention is duly warranted by the alcohol group of products, for here do we find, etherized and pinned, the perfect specimen to illustrate the distance between Korean perception and cold reality when it comes to 'traditional' consumable Koreana: the aforementioned soju. Ubiquitous wherever males gather on this peninsula, the little green bottles of clear liquor are considered more sacred than Jesus's pre-cum - an essential accompaniment to Korean food and a vital ingredient of any social occasion. Ask around and you'll be told that its recipe dates back centuries and consists of a special mixture of distilled rice, grains and traditional vegetables combined in just the right way to give soju its 'very delicious' taste. It's the Korean version of vodka, you'll be informed, but better and more delicious. It's traditional, you'll be told. And Korean. Drink some.

You'll drink some. You'll either flinch, cringe or somehow tighten up and then quickly try to move on. Then your shot glass will be refilled and you'll be made to down another. Refusal is seen as either an admission of a gender identity disorder or further evidence of the inherent milksop nature of the West. Fair dos, you might think if the Koreans can put it away without putting up a struggle, then so should we. But here's the thing - soju is a charmless chemical moonshine and that it would ever be thought anything else shows the brainwashing power of Korean nationalism.

See, whilst traditionally soju was made with rice and grains and was the toast of the Korean royal court through various glittering dynasties, since the 1970's, it has been made by diluting pure ethanol with water and then adding flavourings, meaning that it can be knocked out for around 45p a bottle. This was good news for Mr Kim coming off a 16-hour shift at the Hyundai factory back in 1974, but not such a great thing today, where conditions are a little less 'military dictatorship'. However, try telling a Korean that their national drink might better be used for cleaning army barbers' combs and ageing engine parts and you'll quickly find yourself in over your head - the idea that something 'traditional' is anything other than 'delicious' is a seed that will find no purchase.

Also benefiting from unscrupulousness in the brewer's art is the Korean beer industry. There are three big names here: Cass, Hite and OB. Three names, three minute variations on noxious, chemically piss. In a blind taste test, it's doubtful that you could tell one from the other, though if you knew what you were testing, it's doubtful you'd want to try. All three beers make Carling taste good, which is as damning an indictment as can be drawn. Imported lagers are available, but usually at twice the cost, meaning that frugality often forces my hand toward wise economy, from where a Geiger counter hangover invariably follows...

Sorry to moan so much but after the passage of double-figure months, a certain weariness was bound to settle. It's not that I'm in a state of misery - far from it - but I've really needed to get some frustrations from off of my chest. The above has been helpful but really just the tip of the glacier. Fortunately for you, though, Michelle gets to hear the most part. Honestly, you're getting off lightly. Thank her. She's providing a great service.

You will excuse me though if I don't take part in the unfettered giving of gratitude, won't you? Why? I'll tell you for why - because her continued part-time presence in my apartment has put strains on my resources to the point where I will run out of a year's worth of toilet roll two months ahead of schedule.

Despite careful twelve-month planning and projecting back in June of 2006, I am now onto my last roll. I forecast that this roll will cease to issue forth bumwad on Saturday 7th April (or possibly Sunday, depending on whether or not Thursday's movement is taken at work), leaving me in the unacceptable position of having to purchase more rolls next week. Let this be a lesson to all of you: One cannot over-speculate when it comes to the exigencies of what life can throw at you when you're planning how best to wipe your arse.

Right, that's me out of here. Sorry it's been so long since the last update, but I figure no-one's really that interested any more, right? Also, I've been playing 'Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas'.
More next time, when I shall present for your delectation and irritation some sound clips recorded as evidence of the aural torture that is part of my daily life. Highlights will include: 'The Dry Cleaning Man', 'Men Shouting About Meat in the Supermarket', and the unforgettable classic 'Gymnasium Noise Armageddon'. It'll be out soon.

For now. I shall bid you anyonghi kasseyo,

S