A Guy Called Harold

A cleaning lady that doesn't like to clean up after other people: one of life's great contradictions.

Anyway I'm not here to write about her, she clearly has issues that needs solving, and I'm not the person to help. Mainly because I am a foreigner in his mid-twenties who can't speak Korean, and she is a middle aged Korean housewife who can't speak English. Ha! Look at me, writing about her and everything. One would suspect me of harbouring some Harold and Maude-ish love for her. I think about it sometimes, but she has a high pitched whining voice, a piggish nose suiting her flat face, and a stoop accentuating her humpback. It just wouldn't work out, we're too different, from backgrounds too far apart. We would walk down the street hand in hand, and people would stare back at us, horrified by how far modern times has come, society would just laugh at us, throw our love back in our faces, turning something of joy into pain and misery. And if our personal trials of cultural disparity would not be our undoing, then the pressures of social conformity would surely break our backs. Pioneers we will not be, doomed to spend our days apart, bowed by the weakness of our wills, the strength of social appeasement forever haunting our mourning thoughts, as we watch others hand in hand, walk past, free from such torments. And we will say to ourselves, "why us?"

And you will say to yourselves, "what's this?"

And then next week will be the G20 in Seoul. "The first summit to be held in Asia", so the slogan reads. It will be quite exciting to see what happens. I'll try and head to the centre of town when it's on. A very clever place to hold the summit though, the level of political naivety here reducing the risk of large protests. Such things if they ever did happen would happen in countries where there's a sizable population of liberal youth with time on there hands to consider global injustices, and less of a money-orientated career drive. And if such out of control protesting never does happen, much to the chagrine of the media, they will no doubt find a way to make a bloody riot out of a peaceful march. Police waiting at the lines, ready to follow suit. Then the grand act it filmed, photographed, written about for the whole world to see. The images that will fall on the eyes of all will be spoken about from the mouths of few. And to these people we listen? One can only hope that the cycle is regurgitated with a touch of derision.

And we will say to ourselves, "it's all shit!"

There's too much fun to be had I suppose. Last weekend was a face-fuck in good times, a little too in your face. I mean I enjoyed myself, but no matter how much you enjoy yourself, when you're surrounded by drunk North Americans dressed in costumes ranging from Lego men to more topical bloodied-up Mexican Cartel gangsters and Federales (it seems that no social or national tragedy is out of bounds during Halloween), no matter how much you enjoy yourself there is always a relative diminishment when bombarded with such debauched revelry. By the way, since when was it acceptable to dress as the KKK now? One shouldn't have double standards, as people can dress up as Nazi officers, serial killers, terrorists and other such orchestrators of horror, but there is something still not quite right about the KKK (not "right" in the obvious sense, there was never much "right" about them to begin with), something still not quite safe about the comedy the KKK uniform can quite emit.

There's a great level of fulfilment a gaming geek can sometimes get from Halloween. Occasionally I found myself exclaiming, "you're Ling Xiaoyu!" (Tekken), "hey, you're Squall Leonhart!" (Final Fantasy VIII). Whether it was the fact that I stated the characters first names, the titles of the games, and their release dates, but the people never stuck around for too long. Still I was smiling, "I'm off home to listen to the Final Fantasy VI soundtrack now." So I got to thinking how I would dress up next year, how esoteric or mundane you can be? "Fuck Nico Bellic, I'll be his cousin Roman", or eschewing the distinctive shaggy-haired, bearded features of Peter Sutcliffe I'd adopt the inconspicious facade of a friendly country doctor. Harold Shipman certainly didn't look the part. I suppose that's what helped him be so successful.

And then I'll say to myself "can I say that?"

And then when all the protesting and partying is over we can go back to our routine again, whether that routine is part of the big machine or a wholly independent cog, we're all good. That is to say, if you believe it... and you're not Harold Shipman.

Falling Rocks and Mountain Tops

In Korea there is little sense of personal space. Your bubble of security, zone of safety is a construct of inconvenience, a crock of shit. It has no space here, being too packed for you to be feeling annoyed if a person walks right next to you, leering upon your person, maintaining the same walking pace as you, never leaving, always there, a Korean shadow that masks your own. When I was first here I was frustrated at this, always complaining that it was I that always had to move out of the way, but then I realised I was the only one that moved out of the way because I was the only one that gave a shit. Now I mind less having an elbow thrust right in front of my face or a lady knock my arms about like limp strands of spaghetti.

Even in Seoraksan National Park, a place of such natural beauty, like Yosemite or the Lake District, that when you reach the summit you dont want to leave, and when you do pull yourself away, you regret the decision a bit, because you know that you may never be there again - even here there was no chance of solitude or serenity, as the trails were full of people. Old people keeping fit and familys dragging their small children along, yanking them up steep mountain staircases, instilling into them from an early age the popular Korean tradition of hiking.

When you enter the park you are presented with the child friendly images of a cartoon papa and baby bear, exited with the adventurous prospect of ascending the mountains. I am assuming they left the country to seek fortune in the city, then missing their roots decided to make the trip back. See once again the steep granite rock faces, burning faint gold in the evening twilight, or a straight grey in the flat morning light. The forests deep with impenetrable mystery, when flashes of light shine off the glittering streams flowing down the centuries old carved waterways. I can see why they returned.

Things take a turn for the worse though. The papa and baby bears smiles soon fade as warning signs show impressionable Korean kids the disasters of such hikes. One image portrays rocks falling on top of papa bear as he desperately attempts to protect his child from crushing. The large rock is moments above papa bears head, just before it is caved into oblivion. One can only surmise that papa bear falls back on baby bear, smothering him with a slower more traumatising death.

Another image shows baby bear perilously close to a cliff edge losing his balance. You can see the terror in his eyes as he realises that he has reached past that point in counterbalance where there is nothing for it but submission to the fates. I assume that he fell to his death. Maybe he landed on other hiking bears, who knows. However I cant help but thinking where papa bear was, leaving his baby to roam free around the mountain tops. Negligent parenting, that's what I call it. He only has himself to blame. Live with that papa bear, live with THAT! There should be another warning sign later showing papa bear drinking himself into an alcoholic stupor years later in a gas filled room back at home. Bear that in mind. Hikes can be dangerous, you see.

A Brief History of Happiness

"Hello! How are you?"
"Happy!"
Happy? Are you really? I look at the kids. Are you genuinely content with the world, because I dont believe you actually are. I think you're just saying it. It's alright if you aren't. You can tell me if your mum packed you a shit carton of milk, the standard range, and not a flavoured one, because I know that can fuck up your day. Maybe your best friend is spending too much time with another person, not fulfilling the duties of a BFF. Is it a girlfriend/boyfriend that you want? There is a couple in one of my classes, 7 year olds. I found out in class when the girl sat next to her boyfriend and said to me:
"Ameen teacher! Eric, I, together." I was shocked at first but then I realised it was normal. Kids are not idiots, they do know what more there is than friendship. I think the surprise came primarily from my distance from that age, but coming to think of it, I remembered that I had girlfriends at that age. Kisses on the cheek, holding hands, pointless walks around the school field. Then I began to remember a few girlfriends, oh my! I think I was a bit of a player when I was eight.

I remembered giving away my Stuart Pearce football coin to a girl because I liked her. What a fool. Never saw that again. And she never gave me a kiss! I've been a lot more guarded since.

What else is supposed to be ideals of happiness?
That magnificent career,
Educations purpose or consequence?
Maybe it's a partner,
As two may do what one cannot.
How about benefits,
Dependence can be comforting.
Anonymity,
No face, no place, some bliss?
What about friendship,
It seems to provide all the fun.
Some think the thought and search,
Eliots ennobling intellectual purpose.
Failing that, getting fucked,
A problem that solves a lot, given money.
Do you like recognition,
Fames fortunes finds no fault, yeah?

Happiness was invented in the early 18th Century in England. As the growth of coffee houses, prostitution, drinking and opium dens, reached an all new height, scientists at the time realised that a new emotion had to be manufactured to fit in with the hedonism of the time. A prototype was first created and tested on the willing participant, poet Alexander Pope. It failed miserably; after a half hour burst of ecstasy where he ran down Fleet Street proclaiming "I see the light!" he fell into a deep coma. Upon awakening he developed a humpback and shortened in height, and generally got a little bit more ugly. Doctors also recorded another side-effect - witty satire. It was the last thing they wanted to happen. It is believed today that Ian Hislop, the editor of Private Eye, has contracted a similar strain. This strain is commonly referred to as The Pope (aka Dunciad, Lockrape and Cock-Curll). The Pope is highly dangerous and is a big priority in modern policing.

After the Popotype Affair, scientists re-assessed the compound structure of Happiness, adding more Joy (a French invention) and a reduction of Erratic Behaviour (a disputed invention between Latvia and Estonia). The result was an overnight sensation. Revellers could now feel the correct feelings for their times. It was such a huge success that the initial pill form of Happiness had to be changed. It was pumped into all the country's water supplies, feeding the nation with an emotion that has been going strong to this day. So strong was its success that the French modified their Joy, and the rest of the world followed suit with their own version of Happiness. The German version, Glaubiestenfranggebotstung, is a particularly potent form of Happiness, one where the effects are not externally visible on the face, but doubly powerful inside.

Today with a recorded decline of fun and hedonism since the 18th century, due to growing trends of health consciousness and the invention of Reservation in 1813 and Prudishness in 1821, the strain of Happiness has been diluted to accommodate our more considerate times. However there have been anomalous peaks of Happiness, via illegal sources, in the late 19th Century symbolised by the Aesthetes, and the late 20th century represented by the Madchester scene, pioneered by New Order's seminal album Technique.

Human Aquarium

I think it's called a Fish-eye camera lens because it looks like a fish-eye. I'm not sure whether the picture of the world you get when you look through it is an actual representation of a fish's vision. If so, then fish should rule the earth. They would pretty much see everything, as the the image is a hemispherical one that warps the view/image into a circular one that draws eveything in, capturing everything on the horizon. Of course these super fish, should they exist, would be a vengeful power, enslaving the human race, using them to build the new empires of the future. These empires would consist of large domes filled with water I'm guessing. Inside these domes would be airtight human aquariums where humans are free to dance, roller-skate and eat twix bars. Human markets there will be too, with people left flapping about (yes, they will still be flapping like fish) with nothing to do but being stared at by newly evolved human-flesh hungry fish.

I speak like this because lately I have been eating a lot of freshly executed fish. I point at an eel, and minutes later it is thwoked on the head with a knife. With half its head hanging off and its body writhing in what must surely be a mixture of terror and pain, its head is imapaled on a spike, where the fish-monger proceeds to slice it open, gut it, and chop it into chunks for my culinary pleasure. The sea-life sometimes strikes back though. One day when in the sea with Joe, Luigi and Murphy, a crab pinched at Murphy's big toe.
"Aaah!" he screamed out. Turning around expecting to see a drowning girl with a speech impediment making her voice abnormally high-pitched, we were instead confronted with his shocked face, "a crab just bit me!" Immediately we were all scared, and for the next half an hour in the sea, we four grown Englishmen were panicing and hopping around like terrified children daring not to put our feet on the sea-bed, whilst metres away four Korean children were busy having too much fun to care about such problems. Murphy later claimed that the crab was "as big as a cup", but the tiny red dot on his toe proved otherwise.

Sometimes I think Seoul is like being in a huge human fish tank, a strange example of how far humans can go, whilst being observed by something much bigger or important than us. Whether that be giant fish or some God like entity, is for the reader to ponder. Seoul and its surrounding area is the second largest populous in the world and such heights cannot to reached without its strange side-effects. Despite being nothing but another bobbing head packed like humans in a steel tube, with nothing much to show for yourself but that incurable and infuriating sense of self-consciousness and a new set of mosquito bites, one still feels a part of something. The more packed in I am the less I am known, but the more defined I actually feel, as one who is fighting a losing battle between recognition and reduction to oblivion. Still we carry on to be recognised, because it is the effort that provides that important sense of fulfillment, not the target. And like a fish in that big blue, one way to be made felt is to be part of that school so large that it scares off the biggest shark.

In this case I am part of that big school, not the school I teach in, but the metaphorical group-of-fish one, however this is a human version of it. The external threat is still a giant fish however, which you could wish to use as a symbol of the threat of non-recognition, but I choose to regard it as an actual giant fish. And if you are still following me and have any idea what I am going on about, please let me know.

Photo by Luigi Marinelli

An Aside to Sir Henry Wotton

How happy he in freedom's fall
Falls flat, unchecked with common chains
Of desire's unrelenting call
Thought harmless in its restless claims.

Maybe work's so timetabled bores
Unfolds those two unpracticed wings,
Denied, now tried it gladly soars
With freedom's flight, it sadly sings.

The Fashion and The Expense

Sleep can be an inconvenient necessity sometimes, like monitoring dietary habits or looking before you cross the road. Generally things that assist in self-preservation, I find a nuisance. Could it be that I am not long for this world? If so, that only increases my desire to by-pass sleep to make the most of everything. Certainly this feeling had no more arresting quality than it did in Japan. Both nights there involved a club so small and frequented by ex-pats that by the second night I felt I was already a seasoned attendee there, downing cup after cup of rum and coke whilst mesmerised by a middle aged Japanese mans dancing, akin to the writhing motion of a snake suffering from irritable bowl syndrome.

We got to Fukuoka by high speed ferry, a "hovercraft" like machine resting on three pin like poles penetrating the sea, cutting three fine lines, directing an inevitable course to the clean streets of Japan. The city was ordered and tidy, full of hidden codes and rules ordinary to the natives, alien to us, so eager to break thorugh to it. The city-scape from afar possessed the same order as street level views. Buildings were lego blocks in construction and placement, but lego blocks with unique modern character. Yellow, beige, pink, peach paintwork. Large panels of squares seemed to be a design of appreciation here; one curved building, a yellow edifice of pale yellow panels, outlined with black lines, something straight out of Blade Runner. All very cool. Then there are the people.

It is Japan, and with Japan came this sense of confidence and pride, a notion of being able to do what it wants, and no where does this make itself felt more than in the easily visbile form of fashion. Everything is extremely individualistic here. Yes, there are always fashion trends, but here trends are also viewed with a pinch of derision. They will wear jeans sown together from different materials, with one leg rolled up and the other down, clothes appearing where you think no cloth has the right to appear. Hair too has as large amount of stage space for their experimentaion to play with. It's hard not to keep on staring at the unique combinations of otherwise incongruous fashion elements. You can understand why so many art shops around the world have books on Japanese fashion. It's all so fresh and inventive.

There was this shop, a veritable forbidden planet of Japanese oddities, a shop selling games, comics, manga, models, anything that can host the label of some animation or film, from steam-punk to japanese animation porn (hentai). It's five story maze of cramped aisles and silver stairs, smacked of the universal law of these kind of shops all over the world; a cheap attempt at sci-fi futurism, or retro-futurism, I'm not sure entirely, read Rob's blog. However here there were things you may not necessarily see all over the world. One floor was dedicated entirely to hentai, suitably pink with men either anxious for anonimity or confidently browsing, head held high. One traditional style of Japanese porn involves monster like tentacles penetrating every orifice of a girl who, of course, is having a whale of a time. I mean who wouldn't if they were being molested by a tentacled beast.

Of course the next day was hard to get going, having just got a couple of hours sleep, waking up in time for the hotel breakfast. It was so expensive that such an opportunity for food must not be overlooked. When discussing it the night before - watching insane Japanese TV with overly enthusiastic presenters, cut by adverts where everything is sung (I mean why say things when you can sing it?) - as I was saying, as we were talking the night before it at all never occured to us that we could sleep through the breakfast period, it was given that we would have to wake up at 9am. I mean Japan is so fucking expensive! One day, before I realised fully the value of the Yen and the exchange rate, I was just about to buy a wicked hat, feather in brim and all, when just before I got to the counter my friend felt obliged to point out my folly.
"Do you realise how much 7000 yen is?"
"Yeah, that's alright. Its a nice hat." I casually responded.
"It converts to about 100 dollars."
I looked at my friend, a newly introduced tilt to my head, acknowledged the sales assistant politely, nodded softly, "mmmm, right, OK", u-turned as casually as possible with the air of someone who just realised that the hat was not quite to his liking (too much feather) and gently placed it back. Nodded again in grave appreciation and slowly backed out of the shop.
"What the fuck! 55 pounds!" At that point I realised I had to be very careful. Nowhere outside of England have I encountered a place as expensive as Japan. We were getting nailed.

A Godzilla model in the shop cost over 600 pounds. It would appear that the only thing Godzilla destroys now is your bank balance. The post-war nuclear fallout has now metamorphised into a commercial goldmine. Never did get to see the beast. I think he lives off the coast of Tokyo.

Something Like a Work-out

This city finds new ways to fascinate, not each passing day, for that would be an exaggeration, seeing as some days, especially during my two week holiday I have only left my room to get some bread and ice-cream. But each passing week shall we say. A couple of days ago I went on a hike through some glorious mountainous country, a place where after a few minutes walk you feel truly in the middle of nowhere, but know that the moment you descend and exit the park perimeter you are immediately struck by the massive apartment blocks, white and delightfully dystopian. The utilisation of space is staggering, nothing is spared when housing is in consideration. There is no need to gradually grade the change from country to city, the city is far too important to bother with that. Don't worry there are plenty of parks, nice ones too, for they also value the need for green open spaces, but there is no sense of needing to pander to aesthetic tastes. You will note that if you see the apartment blocks. They all look the same and have large numbers painted on the white painted sides. "I live in room 3, floor 16, block 104" would, I imagine, be a very reasonable response to the question "Where do you live?"

The hiking trail took us under temerous canopies of evergreen trees, past solitary temples, over smooth plateaus of rock where you can catch a hazy view of south Seoul, and past Korean war bunkers sharing the same hazy view, although with markedly destructive leanings, as their barbed-wired entrances embody an historic dispute with current repercussions. The war is ongoing. At certain idyllic points there are watering holes where ladels are laid all over the place for resters dousing themselves with water. All sense of civilised decorum are atavistically eschewed as everyone guzzles water and tips it over themselves. We were particularly careless with the water, paying no heed to the need for dry clothing, cynically mocking colds' armies, as we chucked water all over our already sweat-soaked t-shirts. As we walked on we came to realise that the line between where the water ended and the sweat began was as diffused as the moisture on our clothes.

At the top of mountains, hills or parks in Korea there is always what you would call an outside gym, a very Korean thing seen in all parks. An array of weights, bars, walking devices (why would you need them after an epic hike? It shares a similar logic to Jack Bauer feeling the need to have a go at Metal Gear Solid) and stretching devices. You also have big wooden poles stuck in the ground which serves the specific purpose of hitting yourself against it. Yeah, I've seen it, it's the done thing, no fuss, men boldly striking their arms out at the poles, thumping their backs against it, generally bruising themselves all in the name of fitness. I think it's the idea of resilience and toughening up your frame that is the underlying purpose behind it. It also explains another painful exercise in these gyms; that of hoola-hoops with studs running on the inside. I've tried it and for a brief moment as the pain made me yell out in comic bewilderment, I tried to think "why?" Why would someone do this to themselves? The idea that it is good for you in the long run, possibly making you live even longer, is no way near a good enough reason for doing it. It helps circulation apparently, that and bruising. It also helps you feel a little bit wrong.

Another aspect of this typical Korean workout, that I try and do every once in a while, is the humiliation I feel when a seventy year old man is pushing 40kg weights while I struggle with 10kg. I try and act nonplussed by it, but it troubles me as I am sure it would you too. Such a reversal of strength serves only to remind me of my greatly limited mortality in comparison, and when I finish my set of exercises I don't get that sense of self-satisfaction that should accompany physical exertion, instead I just get a sense of personal shame and embarrassment. Maybe I should just stick to the star-jumps in my bedroom.

Workings of a Holiday - Daegu/Busan

"The 16th most desirable place to live in the world." Not 17th not 15th, but 16th. Interesting I thought when I was checking up on my holiday destination, Fukuoka, in Daegu, a large city in central Korea where my friend Sebastian works. What criteria must be in the ranking process for such specific numbers to be issued out to places in the world; life-span, education system, refuse collection, whether officials doff their caps for you, how few drunks there are per square meter, how ridiculous you can dress, how expensive it is for an apple, beer, noodles, or whatever takes your fancy. The place is Fukuoka, and it's in Japan. I finally made it there, a desire I have had for the greater part of my life, I think. The land of the rising sun and Godzilla, and all that. But first before we get to the final destination we must build up in classic literary fashion what happened before, and how I found myself in Japan.

It was wednesday when I got the KTX train to Daegu to see my friend for an end of week/weekend holiday. I will not describe the train now, for you will see at a later point why I have chosen to leave it for a later time. I had the classic misfortune of waiting in the queue to realise that my card would not work, and I'd have to take out some cash and queue all over again, but embarking on a break from Seoul I decided to weather such inconvenciences with an unnatural smile on my face. The night in Daegu consisted of visiting the local ex-pat hang-outs, rock bars where you could choose your music, pool bars where every wall is covered with a Pink Floyd album cover, and the Korean girl who keeps looking at me who has "fucked nearly every westerner in town." Best steer clear I thought to myself. The final club we attended had an open mic night going on, refreshingly different at the end when a Hip-Hop act did some Roots covers. The rapper, a man so fat that you applaud when you see him perform the most basic of functions, like walking or drinking. "How does he do it?" I think to myself. More circle than man basically. It was exciting as Sebastian and I were talking about what plans we should make for the weekend, a real sense that we were sailors in a grimy bar, making plans for the revelry ahead whilst on shore leave. Maybe I've read too many nautical novels. I sat, necking more beer, when he went off to follow a friend. He sat back down again with a smile on his face.
"Do you want to go to Japan on Friday?"
Such statements must surely be met with the word "yes", and I was not going to differ. It turned out that the friend he followed was on a visa run, and knew of a good deal for two nights in a hotel and hovercraft there and back.

But before Japan, there is always another step, that stepping stone, a gradual immersion into a hedonism that softly prepares you for what is to come, or what ones expectations of what is to come. How can I explain my expectations of Japan? It has always been of fascination and exoticism, but not one influenced by the abundance of bizarre popular culture and rich history (although these are undeniably points of great attraction) but more an idea that despite all this, it is also just another place, another place to live in at the end of the day, much like my fascination of the north of England, Manchester and Leeds in particular. The idea of what you imagine a place to be like, the fantasies, and the idea of it being an actual currently existing place where people work and live, are two ideas usually kept separate. Ones wonder and awe does not wish to be pragmatised with notions of infrastructure, working hours, and the behind the scenes functionings of a city. On the other hand, ones basic day-in day-out living does not wish to be distracted by the beauty you may find yourself living in. This is how people manage to walk past The National Gallery without looking up. However it is this marriage between the two that I find most fascinating, for it is here that you can transgress any preconceived notion of "place". You can feel on holiday when you are at work, something I felt a lot when working in the shop in the West End, and when you are on holiday you can also feel strangely at home, that this here place is as much your home, a place to live in, as the natives. Its quite a liberating feeling.

Liberation can also come in much simpler forms, like stepping outside of a train station when you arrive at a coastal town for a holiday, and Korea's second biggest city, Busan, lying on the south east coast, is a massive holiday destination. First things first though, we must book the tickets for Japan, so away from the sunny square with a drunk man lying on the floor with his bum literally hanging out, and the children standing over fountain jets, waiting for water to spray them. All very fun looking, but we had to get the tickets. It took a while and with each passing second as we were being told by the travel agent man in broken English what our beds would be like, I got more and more impatient to go to the beach and into the water.
"If room change on second night bed not 120 but 105, OK?" He looked up at me imploringly and kind. I was not quite sure what he meant, and when he took out a measuring tape I realised he was informing me of the width of my bed. THE WIDTH OF MY BED! Like I could give a fuck how wide my bed was, whether it was a grand king size bed, fit for what can only be used for Roman orgies, or a slim bench like bed fit for skinny unfussy people like myself. Now I could not exactly say this to the guy, so I just dismissively waved my hand, saying "its OK."

The beach was short lived, as we got there near the end of the day. I managed to get in a few dips before the lifeguard told me "no more swimming", then when he looked the other way I quickly ran in again. I think he soon cottoned on to what I was up to when I was always dripping wet when he walked past. What was most fun was that night and meeting the guy, Shawn, who planned to go to Japan in the first night, and the laddish exploits we got up to. Lots of beer drunk, we walked up and down the main boardwalk. Now this boardwalk is a catwalk for horny men and sexy girls, it's a marketplace in the true sense of the word, no matter how vulagr it sounds. The girls dress up to the max and walk up and down the boardwalk showing off their legs to the hungry men on the lookout. They walk with their friends maintaining reserve, pretending to enjoy the scenery, but all the while keeping a sly eye open to see if they are being watched, waiting to be approached. Very 1950's ish, impeccably made up, waiting for a man to chat them up, with all the power seemingly at their hands.
"Its like a sushi conveyer belt." said Sebastian, as my head was turned in another direction. That happened a lot on the boardwalk; conversation between the three of us, but eyes always averted to someone else, usually a girl who gave us a smile in return.

The night ended with fireworks, gin and fried chicken. We fell asleep in a Korean box room; just a floor with mattresses and pillows, a TV and sink also. Worthit though as it is very cheap and is the perfect kind of budget room for people like us. Very little sleep. Hard floor. Plenty of water. Even more snoring. Japan tomorrow.

Eating by the Riverside

I wish monsters existed. It would make life a lot more exciting. Yes, we have mosquitoes and dishonest bus drivers, but I mean beasts with many legs, long tails that can flick you in the face, sharp teeth, angry faces, a taste for flesh, ambitions of self-propogation, and a general disregard to road traffic laws. OK, there'll be a lot of blood, tears, familial distress, and the customary increase of body parts, but if all humans exert their efforts into a war on the monsters, then there will probably be a general reduction of death, as we would not be fighting each other. Maybe scientists should focus on creating a breed of monsters, or many breeds.

The Han, a massive river snaking its way though the middle of Seoul, traversed by many bridges. The banks lining this river are fascinating locations of public parks, 7-11s, toilets, exercise machines, greenery and foot and cycle paths. They are raised a little higher than river level, but if you so wish you can wander to the riverside and picnic by the polluted filth that you so choose as your setting, something that I have been doing of late with friends. The huge bridges that you frequently encounter along the riverside parks can provide shelter in the rain, large white pillars thrusting high into the air, cradling the weight of concrete, directing the course of the city's vehicles. Its a novel industrial setting for a picnic.

Teenagers "shoot the hoops", is that right, shoot the hoops? And if so, did I convincingly pull it off? Anyway, there they are playing basketball (thats better), friends and families lounge on blankets, drinking Soju and having fun. People mill around the 7-11s, eating noodles. You can do that, for here each 7-11 has a little counter with a microwave and hot water dispenser, where you can choose to eat your noodles, should your laziness and desire to be stared at, allow you to. The separate cycle, foot and motorcycle paths are not adhered to as I cycle with laid back ease, overtaken by cyclists, hardcore and fast. They have all in one body suits, goggles and masks over their nose and mouth. They try to focus on the burn, but need to negotiate with the mirth-makers, zigzagging with bold dominance across the cycle path. Speeding black phantoms that paint dark lines across a landscape dotted with people content to remain where they are. I am somewhere in between, as I make my way to a 7-11 to stock up on more beer and crisps.

There's a screaming in the distance, and everyone turns to its direction. Bounding along the path right next to the water is a river dwelling monster, usually well fed by the authorites to warrant infrequent land visits, but today the Han river monster is rapacious in its quest for human flesh. It's quite large, the size of a bus, with shiny amphibious skin, glistening from the moisture of a river sparkling with gentle irridescene in a setting sun. It is also fast, and many people unfortunately cannot outrun it, and the sorry individuals in its direct path are ruthlessy snapped up. Terror stricken faces, as their lives cut horrificly short, scar the souls of their loved ones whose hands they were holding but moments ago. The crunch can still be heard over the screams, and now blood adds new dimensions to a previously idyllic scene. Some people are caught by the fast flailing tail, one person sent arcing poetically into the river, soundtracked by a piercing scream that seems to be calling from an afterlife that has not yet been reached.

The beast has a large mouth, pouches in the side, large enough to store many human bodies, for later feasting. Its not yet full, so theres more food to get. People instinctivley run for cover in buildings, some clamber up stairways leading up to the bridge, but there's too much pushing and shoving, as the weak fall meekly to their crumpled death. Many find refuge in the outdoor toilets, large RV-like outbuildings, but they are only serving themselves as a convenient dish. The beast shrewdly sees this easy collection of people. He swerves catching a schoolgirl under foot, extinguishing a life worth chronicling; all she wanted was an ice-cream after her English classes. The beasts broad battering ram forehead slams into the side of the toilet, caving the flimsy wall in. Luckily I have found cover behind a large bridge pillar, hugging the white edifice with a fervour of hope that I will not be seen, the large spiders crawling over my hands with curiosity over this newly added landscape. I peek out and see the beasts head buried in the toilet building, body writhing in violent ecstasy as he chooses to take time and eat there. The wailing and high pitched screams seem like cries from hell's minions as the scene descends into a Dante-esque portrait of misery.

Soon military vehicles arrive with bullets that slam into the monsters back. Immediately it bounds away, and with a second glance all you see in the final splash of water as it makes its escape, leaving only a messy scene of broken lives. A scene that the army personnel begins to bring back to order.

In the next installment:
As the country mourns the dead of that fateful day, it is discovered that the little girl was the daughter of the Agricultural Minister. An unlikely love blossoms in the unlikeliest of places. And scientists work around the clock to create a chemical that poured into the river can kill the beast.

Anyway, if you like that you should watch a great monster film called The Host, a quintessentially Korean film, taking the monster film template and adding it own unique twist on things, where mobile phone companies and Soju saves the day.

The Washing Cycle

The heat was stifling, sticky and persistant in its clamour to make discomfort out of everything. No amount of layers removed could alleviate this. And it was still the time when I had not ventured to use the air conditioning, hoping I could hold out as long as possible, see if I could manage things the old fashioned way. Plus I thought if I use it, a new standard would be set, one of easy luxury where even if it was just a little bit warm, I would whack on the air conditioning and still leave the window open, a kind of "fuck you" to the earth, "look at me, I'm still cool even with the window open. Do your worst!" Such a negligent attitude towards conservationism is still far off for me. However, feel free to judge, things are done a bit differently here with regard to waste disposal. Recycling is still done here and making sure to separate the rubbish, I feel like I'm doing my part, however due to the mass of waste produced here there is more rubbish to put out than is actually accomodated for in the rubbish areas. So inevitably rubbish is frequently put on the floor around the bins, or sometimes on the corner of a road. It feels refreshingly naughty, putting your rubbish out like that, like smoking indoors, things accepted here as the norm, but at home is viewed on a naughty scale just below murder but still higher than beating up old people. However I would like to maintain, to assuage the concsiences of fellow ex-pats, that gently placing your filthy rubbish on the road is infinitely better than throwing it aside. Substitute cavalier nonchalence with meticulous concern and your mind can conquer any doubts of wrong-doing that may assail it, and you can continue counting the pizza boxes piled on high in the street with a safe smile and a clean conscience. One may say that it doesn't matter how you do it, the result is still the same, and I would reply "leave me alone, I want to be on my own. I dont want to fight you." Then after a bit of a lie down I would highlight that the waste disposal business here is very good. With the more waste created and left out, it stands to reason the better the refuse collection service is. Very regular and expansive, seeking out all the side-streets and alleyways in the city, dirty men shoving dirtier bags into the shitty back-sides of rubbish trucks.

The heat is stifling, sticky and persistant in the way it never makes you feel completely clean. My aggressor would claim that it's just my karma catching up with me for littering the planet. At this point I would feel slightly nervous that the person clearly can't see that I just cannot be bothered to argue after my lie down following the person's first exclamation of displeasure. "Its too hot to fight, lets just be friends" I would suggest. Then I would have another shower. I'm having a lot of them lately, another point for my aggressor to find contention with. However to my credit they are cold showers, so with a triumphant grin I can boast conservationism on my side, and hopefully if the twat that just wont leave me alone is still around, I'd spray the fool with cold water. Maybe that would dampen their antagonism. As is expected with regular self-cleansing, my clothes thus must follow suit, and since I've been here in the intense Korean summer, my washing machine has seen as much action as Don Giovanni on one of those sleazy sex holidays. My shirts rarely see it past a day, so I have to regularly rotate my clothing system. Maybe this is something that's not so interesting, I'll admit, but it does lead me on to an odd curiosity here. The washing machines, the air conditioners, the school water dispenser, hell, pretty much any electronic device has a peculiar habit of beeping the shit out of you. Now there is a certain amount of beeps a human can withstand on a daily basis, and here in Korea the threshold is pretty fucking high. No electronic device turns on or off without declaring to you and your immediate surroundings that "hey you have turned me on! Now I am working!" or "you have just turned me off! You no longer require my services, but just to let you know this I'll beep like a crazy man!" Its mental! And its not just a single monotone beep, no dear friends, what foolish assumptions though hast made if you believe such folly. The on/off beeps are usually a five note minimum medley that attempts to span as much of the musical scale as possibly, and in the certain case of my washing machine its......yeah, its got to be at least thirty seconds long, a song I'll claim, I've heard shorter songs, so yes, this is song length material that is blasting out of my Hauzen (Korean brand) washing machine. It's enough for me to give it up and just wear dirty clothes.

The heat will be stifling, sticky and persistant in a way that'll be new to me. I've never drank as much water as I have now, and it certainly doesn't feel like it's helping. I'll go to bed now and sweat loads, soak my sheets, wash them, listen to more washing machine beeps, go to work and drink more water, cold and treated. I'll sweat more whilst increasing the air conditioning to soften the swell of relentless heat that will only make me consume more fluids and solids, and all I'll do is create more waste, washing more and throwing out the rubbish. The cycle will continue, as it always does, regardless of the accumulation of waste, this is a side product that will be dealt with in time, and when it does the end will come with necessary conclusion. We will want those beeps then, but they will have no consequence. We will be too long gone to care.

Only Connect

What a world we live in, where only now do I feel at one with the planet, truly connected, spiritually and technologically, for I write this now not in a PC-Bang, but the comfort of my own air-conditioned room. No one should feel this much joy and completion when they see those multicoloured letter of Google. These are surely the emotions reserved for such lofty situations of having met your soulmate, the person you are gladly going to spend the rest of your life with. Well I claim that this too is a situation of lofty bearings. The internet is someone you are going to spend the rest of your life with, yes you heard me, I'm personifying the internet. It's a relationship that requires mutual respect and understanding. I accept the power she has in providing me with knowledge and entertainment and she too accepts the complete domination I have in looking up whatever I want, following my every whim, however sick or wholesome it may be. Mostly sick.... mostly.

Its a kind of one-way relationship, but sometimes the most effective and long-standing relationships possess this uneven dynamic. I once learnt from South Park that you should "treat the internet with the respect it deserves" (Randy 12:6). And, yes, although he speaks words of truth, the internet can also be something to be abused and taken advantage of. I suppose this is where my analogous human relationship commentary comes to an abrupt end, for I in no way condone abusive relationships. The internet is so hard to treat with respect when you have it. You flirt with so many pages at once, racing through them with libertine-like abandon, a funny you-tube clip, streaming a new Family Guy, checking the ratings of your favourite album (the white one), downloading a film, emailing friends, sorting out your finances with on-line banking. There's so fucking much that we cannot possibly have time to fully appreciate it all! It just is. We have blinkers on that makes this wonder of technology seem normal, even mundane.

But when it leaves us, oh, how we crumble! We look forward to work, so you can check your emails or see if your favourite album rating has changed. We look upon the people walking and sitting with portable computer machines (laptops) with envy and longing. We even start thinking about heading west to California where there must be internet in that golden land. Or I do anyway. The lamentations are all consuming as you reminisce about the fun you had together. That time when you went to the cinema and shared a fondle in the darkness. That lazy sunshining Sunday afternoon, sitting in the park, frolicing in the grass. Caressing the screen and kissing the keypad, knowing that through these gestures of affection, you are only tickling the ego of the laptop, not the internet, but you do it anyway. For the internet is not a thing we can make love to, however much we want to. It's intangible, untouchable, an idea in the ether, and all fantasies of physical intimacy lies in the imagination only.

But now it's with me again! It's returned and more shall we share precious moments of sweet nothings that I shan't go into now, but lets just say I'm making a list now of all the albums I'm going to listen to, films to watch, and new television series to get into. It's gonna be sweeeeeet! And I have the godsend internet installer to thank for. I think they hold the same level of respect and gratitude, in the world, as doctors do. They bring life into the world, remedy faulty connections, and generally make happy the lives of others by maintaining their beloved lines. I was so glad, shaking the guys hand constantly and incessantly plying him with loads of orange juice, that he probably thought it was an important English custom. "Always offer internet installers orange juice", goddamn it, they need the strength, bearing joy to the world and all. Forgive the excess, I'm still reeling from those letters - G, O, O, G, L, E.

The Classification of Koreans (Part I)

So I've been reading about whales and their classifications lately. I first came upon it reading Moby Dick. Then there was quite a relevant BBC news article about whaling, which included a classification of whales. Then I realised that something was wanting me to know about whales. Then did some more reading online. Then I got-a-thinking I should try my own piece of half-assed classification. This one will not be about whales, despite my new found knowledge of them, no, instead it will be about the different groups of people I have found here. This will not take into account individualism, for the purpose of classification seeks to cut out such niggling inconsistencies in favour of broad sweeping generalisations that makes the reader happy with easy managable knowledge when it comes to animals, but maybe a little suspect when you transfer this upon social human groups. You will not read a fair account of how people can be different, reflecting subtle deviances from social types, no, this will be a shameless and ill researched piece on the stereotypes, that I will help perpetrate in classic fashion. Everyone does it. So here we go:

There are the Hajimas, the middle aged housewives where, when you get a chance to see underneath their sun visors, large enough to eclipse anything the sun may have to offer, you will see a shrewd face, eyes narrowed, a puckered mouth, and a general scowl that will make you think twice to ask them for help, even if you were run down by a truck with you gathering your exposed guts into a managagable pile, in order to be sown up by a doctor later. Best wait for another passer-by. They are always about, either buying onions and cabbages from street stalls or power walking with extra weights added to their wrists and ankles, bum forced to swing left and right in a shockingly hypnotic vision. I suppose they like to be outside rather than couped up inside. They're like little Carmella Soprano's I suppose, bored at home, intent on activity, and with an irrational fear of death, which explains the vegetables and exercise I suppose, oh, and their unreasonable look of suspicion at everything they see. Usually solitary creatures of habit, but when meeting a friend they can be seen in pairs talking for hours. They feed on cabbages and fear from children.

The person you would want to call for help when you are coming to terms with your own mortality, trying not to let your intestines slip out of your fingers, are the schoolkids. Mainly because they are so helpful. They'd just enjoy the opportunity to converse in English to this dying foreigner. About 80% of them wear thick black rimmed glasses, often tiltled uncomfortably on their noses, something that personally I have serious issues with. I feel like asking them why they don't just get them fixed, levelled so its not assymmetrical. There are plenty of opticians. Anyway I digress. They wear fitted white shirts that end at the waist, too short to tuck in, with blue bands on the collar, usually, depending on the school, with obligatory grey skirts/trousers. They pay no heed to their open fascination of a westerner and honestly look at me and giggle with their friends. I don't mind, whatever makes them laugh. Once I went in a traditional Korean cafe and having difficulty in explaining what I wanted to eat to the waitress, a group of four Korean schoolboys of English, dove in like the trigger-happy white boys of the American midwest, only their bullets were words of rapid assistance as they eagerly translated what I wanted. "Excellent", I thought, "now that I know the word I can come back again and request it." Yeah, you would think that. Only the next time I went in and asked the lady slowly and clearly what I wanted to eat, she just stared at me. An infuriating stare that had the audacity to imply that I was the idiot, even though her open mouth and vacant eyes claimed otherwise. Anyway you can find schoolkids in groups of three to five. Sometimes they are seen solitary, but rarely do they remain so for long, for fear of social ostricisation. Groups of six or more are also rare, as it is physically impractical to keep together in such a highly populated city. Depending upon the season they feed on fried stall snacks and ice lollies.

Another group large in numbers are the trendy types, usually teenagers and young adults. You'll find none of your disgraced fifty-year olds dressing in teen clothing that you sometimes see back in England. You'll find the usual suspects of tight trousers for girls and boys alike, the white t-shirts with a black and white print of some other fashionably dressed person, possibly an ironic comment on fashion, but I don't think so, and the necessary display of converses. Girls also wear extremely short hotpants, but not so revealing tops. Its more customary here to cover up shoulders and chest and reveal legs and bums. A different take on fashion, which I would not call modesty, for modesty never really had a home in fashion, more a reflection on the need to maintain whiter skin here. Boys can be seen with plain coloured t-shirts or ones sporting some obscure reference to a British or American.... thing, I think. On special occasions when attempts are made to court a female, they can sometimes wear a smart black vest jacket. A fashion accessory, usually seen with girls, are little white dogs. The ones that are seen in many fashionable areas of cities all over the world, in an ever increasing phenomenon. These "accessory-dogs" also have accessories of their own. Little dogs with little fucking shoes on! Red with white stripes on the side, K-Swiss probably, bought from K-Swiss Dogs, and jackets that match the colour code of the high-legged, high-heeled, high-maintenenced style of the Korean beauty that haughtily walks past you, under her fancy parasol, whimpering in the heat, like the tired sighs of neglected Sirens. It can't be easy to keep all that up. They are usually seen in pairs, due to more developed friendship connections from their school days, however their eating habits are less developed, usually seen with frappucinos or ice-creams, brand names preferable. In a world of mutual disinterestedness from others in their social group, they feed on the stares of strangers and procurement of new fashions from New York. They are creatures of both day and night.

There are more, but for now I will leave the classification of Koreans lazily half completed.

Green Fields

I was in Seosan when the South Korea - Greece game was on. I was there visiting a friend from back home, Joe, along with a new bunch of friends I have made through him since I arrived. Saturday, the match day, was again initially fogged over by the Soju hangover from the night before. Already I feel like this drink could be a new habit that will only do bad things to me for a long time, after a brief spell of hilarious intoxication. It wasn't long till the buzz of the game ignited the senses to a new purpose. During the day we saw workers erecting the huge canvas, where the game would be projected, in the main square outside the cultural and health centre, where on a banner across the grey block of building the words "Healthy and Fitness Happy Seosan" was sprawled. It seemed to sum up the mood at the time.

We returned to the square at the appointed time. People in red shirts everywhere, weaved through the small streets, gathering strength in larger thoroughfares, building in mass on the main road leading to the square. Tributaries, bled red with the passion for football that flowed free towards the main reserve, collecting in a mass container frought with a desire for victory, chopping and swirling about, anxious for the excitement, that would release itself with the kick-off whistle. The noise was relentless, with cheers of "Daehamingu" (Korea) and the ceaseless banging of inflatable tubes. Red horns flickered in the dark, spots of firey contact for the eyes already strained by the barage of movement. When the first goal came, the noise was immense. The scream of victory was heard in every voice, including mine, and felt in every stomach. Fireworks kicked up, with greater flashes of red brilliance piercing the clear black night. My eyes were tranfixed upon the game, the first proper taste of the world cup I have had, the sweet drug that medicates the world with euphoria once every four years. Even the people that don't usually enjoy football were swept up with the communal joy that the games invoke.

The second goal sealed the expectation that every fan shared with more noise and lights.

Coming into Season gave me the chance to see a bit of the countryside, and even though it consisted of countless rice fields, it afforded me that glimpse of an agricultural culture foreign to me. The roads cut grand paths through stunning scenery consisting of forest mountains in the distance. Off the main roads were the fields, that took the form of steps, rising higher for irrigation purposes, aided my the rivulets and aquaducts, manmade, yet still possessing an enchanting magic of layered intrigue, green and folded with quilt like delicacy. God's steps almost, rising towards a mysterious terrain, dotted with majestic pylons holding high hung wires of pulsating communication, nestled within a blur of fiercer shades of green. Ragged lines of soft foliage revealed forests, rising higher with the greater altitude, hinting at mountainous territory that teased you with adventure. Theres nothing more inspiring than the thrust of concrete creation, forced to live with the wild nature of where you are travelling through. For the novice explorer the chance to observe the country from the confines of modern, polluting vehicles, allows a guilty pleasure, unknown to those that secretly wish for an untouched earth. I on the other hand appreciate this messy juxtaposition of man and nature. Coupled with the lulling motion of the coach, whispering to you of long lost days of sleepy school trips, an injection of comforting nostalgia made me happily displaced in this new land, where imaginations of foreign fields could realise the potential that you never thought could be matched.

World Cup fever was not dampened by the loss to Argentina, an outcome that was not received with too much shock. Hope is held in store for the later game with Nigeria, a match that will test the collective national desire to the point where breath can only be exhaled after those ninety minutes. Personally I think Korea can beat them.

I am thankful for the World Cup also for its ability to make a lonely Seoulite, with not much to do on some week nights, confident enough to enter any bar on their own just to watch the football. That's what people want to do, and that's what they should get. One doesn't feel lonely any more sitting at the bar watching the games, for through that fancy Samsung screen, where within are those perspiring players passing on a perfectly green field, the ball, the crowds, the loud commentary, you are connected with every other person watching the game, safe in the thought that your loved ones back at home, the people you've met, and the people you havent met, are all doing the same thing, banishing all notion of solitude as your imagination provides all the companionship you could want.

Staying inside the lines

I'm so much better than the kindegarten kids at drawing and colouring in. They have no concept of perspective, they don't shade and they always go outside of the lines when they're colouring in. Every time we do arts and crafts and I'm drawing along with them, they look at my work with envy. HA! And so they should. They've got nothing on me. They're shit at drawing. And every time they look at me with wonder I think to myself "Yeah, have some of that!" You're going to have to let me have this small, pathetic, ridiculous joy. It's what helps me get through the day sometimes, when I'm completely worn down and exasperated by my efforts to make them sit still and listen to me. And if that joy comes from my artistic comparison to that of a five year old, then so be it. Don't tell me you've never felt pride out of being able to do something better than a five year old. It's only natural. Age should not come into it. Should it? Let me have it please. I don't even get a break when I am with my colleagues in the teachers room. One teacher can't even say words correctly, everything she says is a formless mass of vowels that aren't directed at all by any consanant sounds. And every time she trys to talk to me it seems like it hurts her, not emotionally, but physically, as though speaking English causes her discomfort. I should be teaching English to her, but whenever she speaks she coughs; a sharp explosive that is probably induced by a sound she can't get her mouth around. It does get frustrating.

And this heat man. It's almost unbearable. We must surely be in our 30's, but all I see are middle aged ladies covering up every surface of their skin with long white arm covers, sun-visors, and even masks. This is how it is though, as it's not cool to get a tan here. It's best to stay hot and bothered with milky white skin. I'm not complaining, please don't misconstrue me. I find it fascinating and totally accept how its done here, but don't you feel a little hotter yourself when you see someone layered up in intense heat? And when children run into you as though you were a pin in a pinball machine, grab and pull your t-shirt to shit and make fun of the way you talk, then it does take a bit of effort to maintain your composure.

I once watched a film, a very astute and insightful film, dealing with the pressures of a new job, a new home, a new life, all in a new place. How you come to terms with making new connections, putting one foot in front of another, in a Steinbeckian effort to keep going and take things little by little, as they come, regardless of they gravity of the situation at hand. Yes, Kindegarten Cop, was not the philosophical tract of a film that you hear now, but it does open up with repeated viewings and a new job as a kindegarten teacher maybe. No? Talking bollocks? Well yes of course, but when you've had the week I've had in this heat, then anything can start to have meaning. Every facial twitch of Scwarzenneger's reveals the pressures of social demands, every badly pronounced word he utters hints at the need for human contact, and every child he throws of his back underlines the basic condition of survival. "YAAARRAAAGHHH!"

Happy Ever After in the Marketplace

As I write this a huge swell of relief is making me want to hug the next random Korean I see, although the guy next to me is far too busy killing wild boars in World of Warcraft. He would not appreciate me disrupting his stat building. I just received news that I have passed my medical test, so I will thus not be deported out of the country. Although a little part of me.... well quite a large part of me was rather interested in how I would be deported. Would I be accompanied by a government official all the way to the airport, whilst I attempted at small talk? "Your country is very nice", "I like your uniform. Is it hot to wear?" "Why aren't you smiling? I'm a nice guy really", "Do you accept bribes?"

Anyway, I had my first big weekend out, involving the usual suspects of drinking, dancing and general dumbness. Something I have been looking forward too, but had to wait until some friends came to town on Friday and Saturday. One arrived at 1am at Seoul Station on the KTX, Korea's bullet train that can span the whole country in about two hours. Needless to say, a full and detailed write-up on said train will arrive when I have rode it. That Friday night ended with a peculiarity that can work here but would not function back at home. Around Seoul and other cities there are usually 24/7 convenience stores that has a brilliant twist to the usual "buy and leave" format of corner shop experiences. Here you can buy your beer and sit down outside on the many tables that adorn the exterior. So you can just drink the night away at your local Family Mart, which we did in the extremely warm night. It's a novelty that would clearly be abused by the drinking culture back at home, but works to an endearing degree here.

Saturday usually follows, and along with it another friend, with his girlfriend. We then shared a Korean meal that day, of which not only was it tasty, but bloody cheap. About six pounds between us. Such pricing can get to your head, and so it did with mine. We all finished, and because I have always wanted to say it, I began:
"Put your money away! This one's one me."
"Really? No." Sebastian returned.
"Because I can." However reaching the paying desk, my confidence was completly jacked when we found out that such cheap prices cannot possibly exist. The meal actually cost about twenty pounds. So eating my stupid words in demure fashion, I had to back-track like the fool I ultimately set myself up to become.
"Ah..... Actually guys, could you give me some money?"

Then the night gradually does its job and led us on to stock up on booze and drink in the park, which is not the vulgar pastime you may think it is. It was in the vibrant student district of Hongdae, where the park is full of revellers, fire-poi, food stalls, clubs, restaurants, and plenty of foreigners. One happy chap was pushing around a cart full of alcohol, with a countenance of sheer and manic joy, unnatural really, yet still quite infectious. I suppose he has a reason to be happy, as his business selling drinks to wasted party-goers probably keeps his kids in college. One Korean drink of choice is something called Soju, one of those deceptive drinks that has an alcohol percentage resting in that no-mans land between wine and spirits. So one usually takes a sip of it, then a sip of orange fanta, or some other mixer. It does have a powerful effect on the senses in time, for at one point I recall telling a large American friend, who was with us, that he had "stupid fat American fingers." Not a particularly wise thing to say when you are in a new country trying to make friends. Still I hope he realises that I was in jest. As we walked about the crowds swelled and soon refuge had to be found in one of the clubs. One such club had an incomprehensible flooring system of stepping stones, designed for the specific purpose of making you trip up at every step, an inconvenient addition to my already disorientated efforts at walking. It was not the nicest clubs I've been into, however the next one was a considerable improvement, for the fact that at the height of my dissipation on came Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da and Bizarre Love Triangle. I became very aware that I was having one of those rare clubbing experiences where they played some songs that I actually liked and wanted to dance to. Later on at five in the morning when the growing dawn arrests the eyes with unexpected vigour, and all you want to do is sleep, we still made time for a kebab.

Now at the risk of sounding like an ailing man with too many health concerns; all the eating out, lack of sleep and constant spicy food is playing havoc with my IBS. So I had an uncontrollable desire last night to balance it out with exercise. But where is a man to go and do this? The answer is nowhere. The age of star-jumps to keep fit is still with us my friend, and as I wittled away the night with repeated jumps in my flat, I came-a-thinking that surely this is the way banish away thoughts of unhealthiness and delude yourself with leaps of vain activity.

The Dance of the Doomed

Wednesday was a day off from work, a national holiday, because it was South Korea's day of local government elections. I'm glad I was here to see it, for in the run up, the chance to witness the election campaigns was rather special. Each party and their members took to the streets in open top trailers, emblazened in brightly coloured shell-suits, depending on their party. There were bright greens, yellows, blues and other colours which I won't get into. I'd love to see David Cameron sporting a pink shell-suit (in public that is, not in the private confines of a conservative sex party). They blasted their policies through megaphones from the early hours of the morning, shamelessly waking up all in the land with fantastical promises of better lives under their management, or so I imagine. I hardly think they were criticising the people for how shit their boroughs became, or recanted on how the current party was actually doing quite well and there would be no need to vote for them. One such rally I happened upon outside a super shiny shopping mall involved crowds of people chanting the party's name with small candles in their hands, like a vigil gone horribly wrong, where everyone was happy and dancing. Men in suits, just off work and clearly boozed up to the eyeballs, were dancing like epileptic turtles; rigid bodies and unrhythmically flayling arms, attempting a beat that constantly eluded them.

Talking of dancing, I have recently discovered that part of my job role is to dance. Yes, to dance. I have to teach these kindegarten children through a CD-ROM based English textbook that is projected upon a white screen that you can press with a magical pen, and one of the lessons is to sing a song and dance in time to it. Watching CBeebies on a regular basis I have come to despise these grown adults talking like spazoids and prancing like fairies. And now I have become one of them. "Dance for me! Dance for me!" the children mentally cry at me, amusing themselves at the downfall of what was once a proud man from England. I will get used to it though. I don't know why I didn't think I'd have to do things like crawl around on the floor and cut out picture of cats and dogs; it's a kindegarten school! The worst thing about it is having to wipe away the snot that just streams out the noses of some of the kids. I've never been a big fan of snot (who is?), so when I realised that another part of my job is to clean child goo with a ready roll of toilet tissue, I started to lament my condition. But that's just one side. I actually do enjoy it though on the whole.

The school is big, clean and colourful, and the staff are very welcoming and friendly, asking how I am and so forth. I haven't got any words out of the young female teachers though, only hysterical giggles and screened faces to disguise their blushes, as they step back into the sanctuary of their office. The children are all very sweet and shout things like "Hello!" and "Ameen teacher!" and keep on touching me as though I was famous, generally taking to me like a hippy takes to judgement. How can one not be affectionate back? I hear that back home, you can't touch children in return for fear of paedophile charges. Luckily, unlike Britain, there are no paedophiles in Korea.

One child is the exact replicant of the little boy in The Grudge. He rarely smiles, just stares, that vacant all knowing stare, penetrable and unnerving, and those of you who have seen the original film, it's just fucking scary. I sometimes expect him to open his mouth wide and crackle that inhuman groan. If he knew about it he could have so much fun with me, disrupting lessons by sending me running away in fear. It could backfire. I may decide to fight back and slay the possessed soul of a child forever doomed to live a life, in-limbo, locked in the real world of intangible reality because of his unfulfilled destiny. But you and I both know such a being cannot be killed.

Bollocks to the tube! I'm walking.

Still without the internet, but I don't mind. I rather like these PC-Bangs. They stay open till really late, no one bothers you as you listen to Aphex Twin really loud, smoking away like your life depended on it, and you can sustain your energy with pots of noodles (not to be confused with pot noodles). I've been eating out most nights, mainly because it's easy, and also because my kitchen consists of a washing machine with a stove on top and a sink to the side. It's pretty basic, as is the rest of my flat, but I like it that way. The bathroom has a toilet, as you'd expect. A basin - again another reasonable expectation, but the novelty is the shower-head thats attached to the tap; for you see, there is no shower cubicle. What we have is a sloped floor that leads to a drain, so you can shower away willy-nilly (literally) walking about in a self contained shower-bathroom. The economy of space is all very well, but when the first four showers of my stay consisted of cold water and me shivering like a complete twat in front of the large mirror, the sight does get quite humiliating. But all is quite well now. The landlady, "Grandma" as she is reverently referred too, busted into my flat last night at 12 midnight with the building manager, eager to please me, but forgoing the fact that she completely fucked up my desperate attempt to get over my jetlag. I got up to assist, but she shook her head and pointed to my bed, then pushed me down on the bed, to make more emphatic that I should go back to sleep. How the fuck I was supposed to simply go back to sleep as two loud Koreans kept chatting away then turning on the water, stopping it, then chatting again, then starting the water again, I have no idea! But she's a robust lady, thick everywhere, and rather formidable, so I decided to remain seated, forcing a smile that felt as fake as the wooden finish in my flat. But like I said, all is well now.

I finally went on one of those city explorations where you are determined to do everything on foot. I used to get so frustrated when I worked in the shop and some tourist asked me how to get from Trafalgar Square (where I was based) to Camden, and when I directed them to the nearest tube they'd say:
"No no, I walk. How I walk to Camden?"
"You can't walk, it's too far!"
"No no, is OK to walk." And at that point I'd just shrug my shoulders and point in a general northerly direction. Utterly hopeless. But now I understand! Sometimes a tourist just wants to walk. And walk I did. It nearly killed me, and I ended up eating a god-awful hotdog on a stick, surrounded by chips all enmeshed together by batter and ketchup, but it was worth it. On my journey I walked all the way up this huge boulevard with a pretty aquaduct kinda ditchy thing in the middle, with bushes and fountains and the like. But the interesting thing was that all along this road, or a great part of it anyway, was an unimaginable amount of shops dedicated to hats. It was ridiculous! Far too many hat shops, all selling the same kind of hats, one shop after another, the same hats, endless, ongoing, a barrage of caps and sun visors. Is it a seasonal thing? I'm not sure. I don't think so, but still it was like the cocaine excess seen at the end of Scarface, but in hat form. There weren't any hat junkies shoving hats on their head and sighing in ecstasy, but you get the picture.

The side streets were all neon lights and flashing side boards, millions of wires on large poles leading off in all directions into run down exteriors, only to provide world leading technology on the inside. It's an odd combination; rickety market stands and side stalls, all manned by anciently old people with their heads bent forward and their eyes squinting at some kind of screen. No wonder so many Koreans wear glasses, fashionable ones, black rimmed most of the time. The stale smell of pickled vegetables left to linger in the humid heat and dense pollution strikes the nose as dried piss, but it's somehow a nice smell due its culinary association. Then you get the proper aroma of delicous Korean cuisine. I look in and want to eat, but everyone is with someone, and I'd feel too self-concsious to be on my own. "Look at that man", they'll say, "eating with chopsticks like a fat-handed twat", or the nearest Korean equivalent.

I am already quite confident on the tube. Check me out rushing around the underground labyrinths, doing interchanges like its a thing of no importance. Although this is only along the lines from my borough to the centre of town. A slight route change on a new line and I'll be back to an ant-like pace, deciphering the meaning of a new colour-coded system that's supposed to help, though only makes me think "but that blue is only a shade lighter than the other blue." I do stand out though when I bring out my book on the tube, looking like a right wally of a westerner. Nearly everyone is watching TV on their sleek smart phones, negligent of the joyfull fact that they are speeding incredibly fast along an amazing network of underground tracks, transporting people from one destination to another. Sometimes people just don't get tubes. It bothers me.

"I wanna PC-Bang with you"

I am currently writing this in a PC Bang, meaning "room", but I prefer Bang. There's loads of them, usually at the top floors of buildings, fittingly distanced from the social hubbub of the streets below. It's the first thing I have done since I got into central Seoul. Not look for restaurants, shop for Deoderants, or meet people. I need none of those social conveniences where I am; in the corner of a silvery mirrored room of the future in a huge metropolis that I have yet to explore. No need to. This here screen is my friend, and only it can give me the answers.

However I will probably socialise in a bit,....I suppose. But I think this is what Seoul wants of me right now. I'm doing what all the kids are up to! Playing games, going on facebook, and other shit. Although I don't have a super fantastic phone yet, that has a pointless keychain hanging off it and blasts ridiculous Korean pop songs. Not too far from back home then, only its stupid Hip-Hop songs (Hip-Pop I like to call its, coz its not really Hip-Hop, it's crap).

Getting into town was a bit of a mission. I had to get to my nearest tube, not far from my flat, and standing in front of the tube map for quite some time I realised I ought to procure one for myself. So searching for ages in my Korean guide for the word "map" I discovered to my annoyance that the Korean word for "map" was.... "map". Unnecessary. Then I had to actually buy a bloody ticket, another trip to the unknown. Standing in front of the ticket machine I stood gormlessly around, pissing off other commuters, until someone kindly helped me with getting a return ticket. Very kind of them. Didn't need to though. There was an English option.

The train is very wide, wide enough for you too have a stroll about, which I did. Then I realised that sitting down and not drawing attention to yourself was the best bet. The relentlessness of advertising here is interesting. Even going through the tunnels at high speed, you are shown adverts. Somehow there is a consequential system of screens that flickers at such a rate that as you are passing you are still just being shown the same advertisement poster, and not just that! It fucking MOVES! I don't know. I just don't. And I suppose there's gonna be a lot more things that will hurt my head, nonstop, like a sexually aggressive dog that just won't let go.