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.

FAT LADY

Holding court to listless eyes
That widens with her girth

“The duck was cooked slowly, sir”

Rejecting words that still finds voice.
Mirth, it shrinks.

“As good as Nilsson’s Salome?”

Flustered suits try the chair
It will not move

“Don’t tear the seam of a seamless performance!”

And so she laughs,
As only her form finds

“It will be alright”

That her wasted ways, still reveals
A connection.

STRONG MAN

Happy to help. Loving the meal.
Only to know it’s past

“It was better back in the days”

Reflecting upon such easy
Ways to eat, fill up.

“The orange jelly lacks zest”

Take time rich man
Fatted wallet man.

“Recession is always exacerbated by memory”

Purge the ideal, to make more
And store love;

“It’s always a good time to save”

Giving it socially, to expand
A braided band of workers.

TIRED EMPLOYEE

Who hears the story of
The fat soprano singer

“Why did I mention cheese and carrot sandwiches?”

Looking away at the passing train
Fuelling ways to move

“The economy, perhaps?”

Obedience fixes him to
The chair this time

“Move back slightly, please”

Grinning effortlessly at story
That the boss retells

“The train tells me something”

Sadly of the soprano singer
Stuck to the seat

Of Any Consequence?

If that’s not the case, then she should be more honest.
But to say she would quit!
Not to understand her apprehension of continuance
This is what she wants people to know.

But my cynicism grew, I knew not where from
Possibly growing.
An adult reaction to my youthful optimism.
Entirely self-aware though.
This is not the gradual change that is missed,
By the untrained eye of a worker.
This is the gradual change of a listless figure
Knowing all that needs to be known, but forcing it down.
To understand the recession.
To figure out the taxes.
To rely on the love of the cared for girl,
That wearies of the uncaring tone.

It is not my fault that I am inconsiderate for
This part of childhood drags on my hand.
“Be carefull, you’ll make me trip!”
Is it not enough that I tire of Christmas.
Do I not try of carry you occasionally?
I make a damned effort in accommodating
The responsibilities.

Most of all the optimism’s gone.
Belief in the good of all that is bad
The pure in the pitiful, the desire to smile.
And when the smile grows thin and used,
By the reinforcement of the choice to choose,
When in truth it’s the happiness of an ignorant bliss
Of a carefree life, still happy and oppressed.

No Skimpole syndrome, this is not the way
But to still rely.
On a time when knowing that you need not know
But rest sleepily on the state’s bosom;
Soft, warm, comforting.
Gives you life. It takes it too.
No choice for me. It clouds the judgement,
Re-aligns your purpose, adding consequential consideration.
All that should remain is a thought of oneself
Let the higher power guide others.

Still today we are free, alas.
To be ourselves?
An individual in the mass. Dress your way,
For I believe someone of similar style approaches
He appears in flat-cap, but goes up
As you go down.
And where has this freedom got me?
I have compromised my life, I fear.
For when I say that a beautiful actress decides to quit,
I say it is because she is ignorant.

When I have to pick from the endless list
I am reduced to an angry adult mess.

An independent mind? For what will that give?
To confuse oneself in a growing throng
Of lies,
Attempts
To make
A truth. The Pravda of a world that knows just false.
So as you live sweet blissful love
With a lover in love, to bleed and give
With the cracked knuckles of a wintry hand,
And the fiery burn of an irritable bowel,
Please know that it will cost you
The essence of that young sweetness
That falters not at bad
But crumbles under growth.

New Year in South London

A wasp’s circular movement on the leather.
Rotating with the clicks and clacks of gambling,
Only to swing with doubt into the New Year.

A look of anger and frustration,
Then the camera is turned off.
A sour mood is left lingering in Woolworths.

“If I catch you filming again, I’ll kick you out!”

I laugh, “But why?”

“Because that’s the rules” says a scarred black face,
Retiring into the mass of jobless shop workers.