Annoying Facebook friends, part two...

Following on from the huge (ahem) success of the first installment, here follows the second part in my blogging magnum opus. Featuring some suggestions from some (less) annoying facebookers, here follows my annoying Facebook friends, part two...

6. The over excited exclaimer!!!!!

Something amazing just happened. Something for which the single exclamation mark, a tool which has suited writers for nearly 600 years, will not suffice. Even a doubling up won't cut it - this is news for which only 6 or 7 expressions of excitement will do - the eyebrows raise as the news is being typed, a trickle of urine rolling down the leg. Oh....you just had KFC.
We all do it, it's become a hall mark of the internet, but be judicious about it; if you're that excited about a cup of tea in the morning, how will you ever have anything in reserve for when you finally win that £10 on the lottery?

7. The excessive CAPS LOCKS user

Please, just stop. See above, replace 'excitement' with 'anger'. You read like a slack jawed, mouth breathing buffoon.

8. The Facebook gamer

Ok, I have no problem with people playing games on Facebook (everyone loves a bit of Scrabble, right?) but what I can't understand is what is so difficult about checking the box which stops the constant and incessantly irritating updates being posted on everyone's newsfeeds? I really don't care if you're 3,867,302 place in the daily 'can you name an animal you fucking moron' competition and nor do I care if you've won a new trophy, proving your capability to push the right buttons in order to 'pick up' the pixellated shit of your little ugly piece of coding you use to fill that gap in your lonely little loveless life. And don't even get me started on those bloody farmville requests...

9. The why-am-I-friends-with-a-baby?

Do you remember that flurry of cartoon profile pics that appeared a year or so back? The idea was that we all changed our picture to our favourite kids' TV character for some reason or other - this was swiftly followed by the breaking story that it was a ploy by paedophiles to get children to add them unknowingly as they posed under the guise of Liono or something. All complete bullshit of course.
Naturally though, the idiots got angry. The speed at which people started advertising the 'stop using kids' TV characters' message was stunning - the self rightousness of people as they made it their duty to accuse friends of assisting the kiddy fiddlers in their nefarious aims, the uproar that Facebook would allow such a thing slide. As you'd expect, it was the parents that got really angry - the young parents especially - exactly the same people who were sporting a profile picture of their young spawn gormlessly smiling at the camera just a week before.
I completely understand new parents wanting to display their ability to undertake the arduous task of fucking, and proudly displaying the by product of their sweaty, fumbled 30 seconds of fun; in fact I don't doubt I will when I eventually figure out how it all works. But do you really need to keep going on about it? I really couldn't give a shit if your little angel just farted at the dinner table, I'm not interested what they have shoved in their mouths today, and please stop telling the world about the successes - or failures - of potty training.
If you have a young child - well done. I'm happy for you, I really am, and I hope to join the club one day myself. But for the love of whatever deity you choose to thank for your bundle of joy, remember that I added you, not that shivelled little prune you call a child.

10. The airer of dirty laundry

Ok, a lot of the entries on this list have been a little tongue in cheek and I'm sure I'm guilty of a few of them, but this one really does get my goat. An open, uncensored forum is not the place to complain about your failed relationships, your arguments with friends or (and this one especially) the fight for your children. Show some fucking decorum.
The first problem is this; no-one really cares. Not for the reasons you want them to, anyway. The reason people like (like?!) or comment on these updates is because everyone loves some gossip, and especially the type that feeds people's need to feel better than someone else. The few people who genuinely do care, and want to offer their support? You already told them - by phone or in person - and they have already offered their support. All they're doing now is reaffirming this publicly, digitally pissing all over your status to prove to everyone else how much closer they are to the pathetically carved pierrot than the gawping audience, looking on from the stalls.
The second problem? It's easy to forget who is actually reading your Facebook updates. When you have 500+ friends, there is no way you can count on who you have added over the years - the family, friends and mutual acquantances of the object of your vehemence may be reading on. You don't care? What about your young neice, your cousin, ex colleagues? The people who used to see you as a respectable, friendly or even at the least, emotionally balanced....not any more.

So there it is, there's my ten. Feel free to add your own below....

Insurgo Insurgi Insurrectum (or why write about the right hating the right to strike?)

First of all, let's clear one thing up; I hate striking. I hate striking because I hate to miss a day at work (in a job which I love), I hate to lose a day's pay and I hate to wrestle with my conscience at the people being affected on a personal level because of actions that I am undertaking in order to send a message in a national medium. So far the strikes undertaken in FE have cost union members more than half a week's salary, students more than half a week's education (though the first two were purposely taken out during a period which would have minimal effect on students) and have had minimal apparent effect on policy making (though I hope I speak a little too early on that one).

In fact, in education at least, striking is a little like cutting off your nose in order to spite your face. In FE the prospect of an educational strike must have principles and governers laughing; they save a huge amount of money for the day and know that ultimately, all staff will have to catch up. Deadlines won't go away, exams will still take place and students must still be prepared; we can hardly send someone into an exam saying 'let's hope xxx doesn't come up because we were on strike the day I was supposed to teach you that'. The fact that I'm still catching up on work missed for recovering from an operation about two months ago just shows that if we don't do it, it doesn't get done. If you want to keep your job, it must get done. When the miners walked out the equation was simple; you want coal, then meet our demands. When we walk out the message is different; you want education, then....well you'll still get it but maybe a little bit later and ok then we'll put on some extra classes over the holidays because we don't quite have the time to fit it all in now what with all the striking and that.

This is why the attack on public sector action has infuriated me so much recently. The fact is that no-one is walking out because they want to. No-one wants to cause damage to those whom we are here to serve. By their very nature our jobs require us to be caring, compassionate and empathetic; you cannot be an effective teacher, health worker or librarian without these qualities.

Which is why it's so frustrating to see the argument being fought out on this level. A few months back I was having a discussion with someone who was saying that it was selfish and greedy for teachers to walk out when everyone has to sacrifice. I countered with the reasoning that the public sector shouldn't have to pay for private sector's mistakes, and she with the suggestion that it wasn't the entire private sector that is to blame. What struck me at this point was how ridiculous it was for us to be arguing; we were both suffering frozen wages, unstable pensions and minimal job security as a result of a financial instability created by people who were continuing to enjoy extensive tax breaks, grossly unfair benefit packages and a salary so disproportionate to the mean that is almost comical.

And to the irony of it all; while scorn is poured on those who try to fight shouldering the burdon of the mistakes made, those who made them enjoy the relief of having the focus well and truly taken away from them. The longer we decry the public sector strikes, the rioters, the politicians' duck ponds and whatever the fuck Kim Kardashian or *insert vacuous celebrity here* has done this week, the longer we ignore the essence, cause and primum mobile of our current global crisis. To argue with each other is to be two hobos slugging it out in a dirty ring while our shady fight organisers watch on, counting the greasy notes in their hands.

The strikes today are essentially over a broken promise; the promise of a solvent, government run bank to honour the terms of our contract and not ask us to pay them more in order to receive less than we agreed. We have broken our contract for a day, in order to show our distaste at them having broken their contract for a lifetime. But beyond that the strikes are about the increasing disgust at having to hold afloat an economy that was destroyed by the government's inability to control the few who are standing on dry land. We don't discriminate between public and private, only them and us. So why not honour your right to strike and join us, instead of trying to attack us for fighting the problem that is affecting everyone not lucky enough to be paid in six figures. We don't like it, but it's a damn sight better than rolling over and taking it.

Lazy Sunday

Last night I went out, to town no less. Now given that I am lately less and less able to handle big nights out I have had a pretty useless Sunday...here's how it's gone down so far...

1. Woke up at 11.30. Flirted with the idea of staying awake until I realised that this was a frankly silly idea and that Subway had stopped serving breakfast subs 30 mins ago and so really there's no good reason to not go back to sleep. Went back to sleep.
2. Was woken up again at 1pm by Hayley, asking how my night was. Offered a few grunts and was admonished, told to stop being so lazy and get out of bed. Hung up and went back to sleep.
3. Had my final wake up call by my housemate and best friend in the world at 2.30, asking if I had my keys with me (being convinced that I must have gone out). Realised that I'd managed to sleep through Ad's morning routine, something which is pretty much guaranteed to wake me up even at 6am. Plus, I realised that the shops close soon and I really needed some food.
4. Went to shop, bought buckets of orange juice and some veg to go with the pork joint I had defrosted yesterday. Left shop feeling good. Until I remembered about Subway.
5. Had masculinity challenged by girl in Subway when I only ordered a 6 inch. Came away with a footlong and some cookies. Goodbye Sunday roast.
6. Ate Sub, thought about turning on TV but didn't have the energy to walk the requisite five feet. Time for a nap. On the couch.
7. Opened eyes, feeling guilty about not having done any of the marking I was supposed to be spending my Sunday working on. Luckily it was within arm's reach of the sofa. Spread marking on the table in front of me, complete with red pen. Felt good again. This calls for some celebratory shut eye!
8. Awake again, started to read 1st piece of marking. Damn reading's hard. Maybe I should open my computer.....I can do productive things on a computer, right? Plus, it's already sat right next to the marking.
9. Maybe I'll just rest my eyes a little first.....

And so here I am. Ironically, this is probably the most vaguely productive thing I've done so far. Who knows what the rest of Sunday has in store for me....I know I don't but I know one thing's for sure, I don't half feel sleepy.....

Can you top this? Have you had a more inactive day than me??

Annoying Facebook friends

So I was reading through some of my old blog posts that I have pulled in here from the last few years. I noticed a couple that feature that old dinosaur of social networking sites; Myspace. In order to redress th balance, and move with the times as it were I thought I'd write a Facebook-centric post, so here I give you my list of 'annoying Facebook friends'.

This isn't, it should be noted, an all encompassing note that people are supposed to read and say 'ah yes, I hate that!' but my list of annoying friends, the type of people that frustrate me to the point that I desperately want to tell them as much but never do, in the knowledge that I secretly love having things to moan about and that to be removed from their friends list and restricted access to these wonderful, beautiful nuggets of annoyance. Enjoy.

1. The whinger

She (and yes, it is nearly always a she) used to be quite a cool person when you knew her. You think. You're pretty sure you used to spend the days getting wasted together and didn't give a crap about anything. But, somewhere along the line, she turned into a horrendous dragon from which no-one is safe. She hates her work, her boss, her clients. She hates strangers who looked at her the wrong way and shop assistants who didn't give her the proper respect. But the most vitriolic outbursts are reserved for that most hated of creature: the poor bastard with whom she shares a bed. He is inherently unable to do anything right; he is a lazy, yobbish, waste of space. He does nothing, and yet he does everything wrong. He can't cook, clean or even do his job properly and damn does she want everyone to know about it! Seriously, I feel sorry for this bloke and his continual attempts to do right, Keep trying, fella!

2. The desperately-needs-attention.

'Comment on my status and I'll tell you a secret! I'll pick out your best photo, tell you I want you, come to your house and clean your toilet in the nude! Just make a comment, one little comment, please!'

What do they do all night? I mean, I'm guilty of leaving fbook on while I watch a film, read a book, write a blog post...but I couldn't imagine having to plead to get people to write a little love heart on my page. Is our craving for near constant communication that bad that we are now happy to spill our secrets, pore over photos, answer stupid questions, simply in order to sate this yearning? Is that all I'm doing right now?? Oh, shit...


3. The old school friend.


Ok so this could get me into trouble. I don't mean all of them, but there are a good few who seem to be locked a world that only existed when you were fifteen. They spell as badly, care about the same inconsequential rubbish and still live with, or within a few feet of, their parents. In truth, these people aren't so much annoying as a friendly reminder of how much you've changed, and how old you've become. To think that your life has changed so much in such seemingly little time is....well in truth, it's depressing. But so much better than the alternative...

4. The where did I meet him? Did I meet him? Maybe at that party.....errr.....?

Why did he add me? Why did I accept?! And is this guy not the most active facebooker around?? He updates, he blogs, he vlogs, he has a new photo album every other day and yet you just can't figure out who the hell he is....but the strangest thing is that you somehow get sucked into these peoples' lives, sometimes for years on end. The annoying thing is that you end up playing voyeur to some unkown life and, though you may only glance at the updates as you scroll down, end up knowing more about their recent lives than their dear old mum. Is this what Facebook has brought us to?

5. The can't stop moaning about a website that he actively uses, updates to, blogs to and is all around hypocritical about.

errr.....yeah......

Moral education

So I wasn't planning on writing anything this evening, but after a bit of a TED binge I came across a video from the ever insightful Barry Schwartz talking about, in essence, the dehumanisation of society.




The gist of his argument (allow me some license here, as I've only so far watched it the once) is that we are losing our 'practical wisdom' by the way in which we are conditioned by rod and carrot - we are told to live within a framework of rules and incentives that often ignore the fundamental purpose of the jobs in which we engage, specifically those that require any level of human interaction or responsibility. Rather than consider our own natural and evolutionary responsibility to the sentiments and development of those around us, we follow the rules and incentives laid out for us to live within. He offers a fantastic example from Sweden, in which 50% of people polled stated that nuclear waste disposal was a national responsibility which mean that they would be happy to see it disposed of in their community. When incentivised with cash (6 weeks salary in every year) the figure dropped to 25%, given that with the proposition of financial gain as well as the social responsibility, the negative factors were weighed up and found not to meet the quantifiable figure offered.

It's impossible, he argues, to offer tangable rules and quantifiable rewards to encourage people to act with what he terms 'wisdom' - the wisdom be aware of, and sensitive to, the people around us. And those rules and incentives which we do have to follow diminishes the intangible rewards, and therefore satisfaction of the jobs which we undertake.

Which, long before he started getting on to teaching, got me thinking about my job. You see, for those who don't know me too well, I love my job. Being an English Language and Literature college lecturer, I am tasked with trying to hammer into students' minds an understanding and appreciation for the language in which they communicate. The job isn't exactly stressor free -  in fact the workload can be hellish at times - but there are a lot of factors which, for all its flaws (and there are many, believe me), make it a job which offers a huge amount of pleasure and reward. Some of these factors are local (to my department, not the company as a whole), some not so, but I think a fair few can be modelled onto what Schwartz is getting at in his talk.


For all of the hideous, pointless and beaurocratic rules that surround education in the UK today, ours is still a job which can be done out of the view of a microscope if it's being done well. What goes on in classrooms is thankfully, for the most part, still under jurisdiction of the teacher, and so long as those classes turn into results (which is another discussion entirely), are left so - allowing us to make a classroom an environment in which real, as well as curricular, education can be undertaken. We are lacking in incentives (I can hear raucous laughter at the idea of education being financially incentivised) and so are allowed to focus on the core purpose of our jobs, rather than focus on getting all our bits of paper completed in order to earn 10% more this month. I am fortunate to work in a department which, for the most part, doesn't take to clock watching - it's a bit hard to justify chastising someone for arriving an hour late when a typical work day might see you finishing three hours after your time is officially up. It's not so much that the rules are lax - they're actually very clear - but at a departmental level common sense is generally allowed to take over. Do your job, do it well, don't cause any problems and we'll let you find the best way to meet your objectives. If you happen to make people's lives better as a by product, then all the better.

Now I can see other teachers taking a little exception to this, and those that work with me already getting their retorts ready, so for the sake of balance....

It is true that there has been a time when I have had to try to put in words how I intend to embed numeracy skills and 'Equality and Diversity' into a lesson about the metaphorical allegory for the death of the pastoral in Tess of the D'urbervilles. And yes, we are expected to quantify results and targets and benchmarks and so on and so forth, but this doesn't mar the ultimate purpose of the job, and more importantly, the way in which we conduct it (at least not for those with an ounce of common sense). We can hopefully see past all that shit, and focus on the people for which our job exists as well as for the purpose it exists, that of taking repsonsibility of students' education - one which goes far beyond the confines of the curriculum.

Maybe this is a little naive, and maybe I am as yet not wearied by the long arm of centralised education, but at the moment I love it. And though it doesn't exactly offer the same satisfaction as travelling the world, or thrill or dessing up like and idiot and throwing myself around a stage, it still offers a pleasure and satisfaction that not many other life pursuits do, vocational or otherwise.

I probably will still leave it soon though, I mean I don't want to be a teacher for the rest of my life.....do I?

Swearing (beware the naughty words!)

I was having a discussion recently with a European friend of mine on the nature of swearing; a discussion I've had in various forms with many non-native speaking speakers I've met, taught or otherwise fraternised with through the years. The discussion ultimately and inevitably involves two main topics; 1. What are the worst swear words to use (some sort of ranking system may be involved here) and 2. What are the most quintisentially English swear words, those that may not have been picked up on from films/the net etc. This second topic will inevitably involve more 'jokey' words like 'cad', 'pish' and, of course, 'fiddlesticks'. Occasionally, there is a third topic, that being the most inventive ways of swearing.....from the classic 'I bite my thumb at you' to those of more recent, but no less inventive writers, such as 'donkey raping ass master' (a product of the ingenious Stone and Parker).

Coincidentally I was reading today, as you do, about the origins of the word (look away now, ye of a weak disposition) 'Cunt'. A word so powerful I felt it needed its own capital letter. I had always assumed that it came from an earlier manifestation: 'cunny'. Now, of course, cunny has fallen out of favour and is actually laughable to use in conversation, a source of mirth rather than anger. Go back only a few decades though and it was very much in use - maybe not as powerful as the modern 'Cunt', but then everything was slightly softer in the 70s. I had always assumed therefore, that one took place of the other, as per the usual evolution of language. According to this article, however, both words are at least a few centuries older - and the former has been dated all the way back to the medieval era. A quick Wikipedia search confirmed this, and traces the roots back even further to the Norse 'kunta'.

Now much has been said on why certain words carry with them such a taboo, an nuance unwritten within the word which can really land you in hot water if used in the wrong surroundings (such as introducing politicians on the Today programme, for example) and I don't think I'll add much to that here. However, what I do want to talk about is our attitude towards swearing in toto.

Not long ago, I would have joined the lefty liberal elite in denouncing negative reactions to swearing as an immature response to words that are invariably just words. I would have proclaimed my intention to introduce my children to swearing at a young age (which I assume involves supplanting 'cock' for 'pee-pee' or something) in between sips of sweet wine in order to remove the negative shroud which surrounds it, and presumably quell the urge to rebel. I have always taken issue at the reactions to certain swear words among friends, and would challenge with my own aversion to words like 'Bieber', 'Kardashian' or 'X Factor'. All of which are still at shockingly socially acceptable levels.

Recently though I've noticed a few things which have contributed to a shift in my attitude toward swearing. The first of these is a by product of the internet, and how our methods and forms of communication have switched. When abbreviations such as 'WTF', 'FFS' and 'FML' started to enter the social media sphere I treated them with as much caution as the expanded terms they denote. I could see no difference between them, in as much as I wouldn't between 'BT' and 'British Telecom'; both hideous swear words in their own rights. So needless to say I was surprised when I saw them enter the perfectly natural and acceptable sphere of discourse; people would happily place their metaphoric megaphone to their lips and ask 500 or so people on Facebook 'What The Fuck is wrong with Kim Kardashian's face?' Equally, kids would text these abbreviations to parents, and even grandmothers would see it as the New Big Thing and involve themselves, so as to keep up with the kids. My own little sister has been sneaking ninja swears in wherever she can for years, something which would have earned me a boot up the arse and the inside of my room for a week.

So why would this be so natural and acceptable for people to do in a world where the full terms are still (almost) just as frowned upon? Recently I was watching an episode of Stephen Fry's Planet Word in which he was discussing the purposes of swearing, undertaking a (dubiously) scientific test to determine swearing's analgaesic properties. It was determined that psychologically, swearing increases the pain threshold and is therefore a natural reaction to painful circumstances. However, this effect is lessoned the more swearing is used in non-painful situations, as evidenced by Brian Blessed's turn in the same experiment. It was also mentioned that young children use biting, kicking, screaming etc less frequently once they have discovered words which have a similar reaction on adults. In short, swearing=attention. And a healthier form of attention than kicking and biting, if you ask me.

The logical continuation of this argument then, is that children who don't receive this reaction when swearing would revert to the former behaviour, or whatever that equivalent might be. When the magical effect that swearing has is lost, people need to find a better way to get it back...


Of course it's nothing new that those people who swear more infrequently gain more attention when they do so. I share an office with a man whose use of swear words, in the two years I've worked with him, I can count on one hand. But when it happens, we all sit up. It's interesting to note that in some parts of Scotland to call someone a 'daft cunt' would be a term of endearment and that over the pond the word 'wanker' would elicit little more response than 'fiddlesticks' and to refer to a 'fanny' would be to make a quaint reference to someone's backside.

So, to the beauty of swearing. The naughtiness of it, relishing in the reactions it causes, the nuances of swearing you can call your own, the reclaimation of it, the versitility of the words to suit your purpose, the incongruous affection and, above all, the intricacies of the sematics within. To over use it is to remove these nuances, to cleanse and to genericise it. To introduce our children to it is to sanctify it, in much the same way that anything we are interested in will, for years to come, be instantly destroyed. Besides, children will always find a way of achieving the desired affect, and swearing will always adapt to serve this purpose.

So enjoy your swearing, don't be offended when people react negatively - enjoy the reaction, that's why you swore in the first place. Swear loudly and frequently when the need arises, but hold it in when it doesn't. No-one enjoys hearing someone swear from dusk 'til dawn, but everyone loves hearing someone swear for the first time. Be inventive with your swearing, and find new ways to do so surreptitiously - this is ultimately how and why swearing exists. But whatever you do, never, ever use the phrase 'WTF'. You'll just sound like a dick.

Judgement

'Why me?' Was the first thought that lodged itself in my brain when I tore open the letter on that memorable day in October. I quickly swallowed it down, slightly embarrassed at the triteness of my own subconscious; an abhorrer of cliche, even inside my own head. Settling for a more appeasing, if more thought consuming form of self pity, I considered the percentages.

I knew that the number of people drafted was currently minimal - it didn't take that many people to imprison, or kill apparently. And we live in an equal society now - this lottery was being won and lost every day with the entire population involved. So how did I lose?! Slumping into a state somewhere between melancholy and anxiety, I decided it was time for a cup of tea. My least tea as a free man.

I knew the drill of course, everyone does. Two weeks - if I'm lucky - sat in a brain numbingly bright artificial room, two weeks of listening to people barking orders, requests, pleas at us - the randomly selected stooges - until we don't know our own minds any more. Two weeks in which to weigh up the decisions that must be made, the decisions we must always live with, the decisions which will determine their fate. Of course it could be a lot longer before we're allowed to move on. If we can't make those decisions quickly - if we don't show we understand, if we falter, hesitate or in any way resist the mind games they subject us to then we're stuck indefinitely. We must agree, we must be unified, and it takes only one dissenting voice to prolong our internment. I can only hope they don't deem me a suitable candidate; maybe I can play dumb, or somehow prove that I'm too pig headed to be conditioned. Maybe then I can get out. I can hope.

Of course, there are the positives - once completed, I will have fulfilled my duty. It will be over, and I never have to return. Yes, I have to live with the decisions I make, the fates I seal; but it will be finished and I will never have to worry about the letter arriving again. No-one has to know what happened; how I acted, or what was said. None but those sharing the same torture. Maybe I will be different, but who will care? Those that haven't gone before me will think I've had a nice break. 'Did you enjoy your time off, part timer?' they'll jovially and rhetorically call when I return. Of course, I'll smile and nod and things will continue as normal. Maybe it'll be ok, maybe I'll forget about it eventually, maybe....maybe...

Maybe I'm just overreacting, was the last thought to ring itself around my head, fading slowly as I picked up my case and stepped out to see what fates await me, what decisions are to be made. Maybe I'm just overreacting, as I get into the car and drive slowly - as slowly as possible - out of my road and into the bumper to bumper joy of early morning rush hour traffic. Maybe I'm just overreacting, as I carefully take my seat, straining to see the face of the men accused, interrupted only by the call, "All rise...."

Understanding

There was a time when the idea of gravity was not even a concept to be scoffed at. The very notion that there was an invisible force, acting upon us as much as everything around - even those things beyond 'our' realm- things as yet undiscovered and just as foreign a notion, would have been something dismissed more swiftly than other such absurdities as magic, a spherical world, evolution etc. Civilisation was in its infancy then, and was naive of the discoveries that would come, the only things it truly knew were the only things it needed to know; life was, life ended and, of course, there was the most important of truths; God. How silly people would feel to see how we have progressed from then.

The story broke as most scientific re-evaluations of the world do; slowly. At first it provided useful padding at the end of a news bulletin or two; "And on a lighter note...." 

And on a lighter note, there was the biggest scientific and sociological discovery made since hirsuite precursors to what we now call mankind decided to brave the heat of that bright orange piece of wood and see if they couldn't find some use for it. The media only really picked up on this long after the twitter savvy refused to let it die, when the voices of critics grew quieter and when, of course, the implications were fully understood. Suddenly the critics grew loud again, but only because they didn't truly understand.

At first people, particularly the sort of people who took quickly and resolutely to anger, saw the discovery as an affront to religion; as another challenge, another foe to be defeated. They shouted loud and persistently, ridiculed the scientists that staunchly defended it (albeit whilst also trying, consistently unsuccesfully, to disprove it), and rallied all the voices possible to do the same. However, what these people didn't realise was that this wasn't a discovery to be mocked like the rest of them, it wasn't something that could be named, quanitifed, trapped and ridiculed....this was an understanding, an understanding of the most prolific kind - one which was obvious once your attention was drawn to it, if completely unfathomable beforehand. An understanding that, far from challenging religion, unified it, joining believers and non-believers alike in the true awe of what they faced now that the biggest paradigm shift of modern man had occured. And, as more people understood the voices lessened, drifted off one by one until all but the most stoically ignorant were silent.

As in most cases, the idea wasn't what was being looked for, not even close. But if the biggest hunt at the time was for a God particle, or a unifying Theory Of Everything then no-one could ever argue that it hadn't yet been found, if not in the way intended.

The idea was simple: that there was a force, not unlike gravity, that was invisible, undetectable, unmeasurable in its own right, only quantifiable by the effect it had on the environment which it inhabits. The idea had been present before its discovery, the Na'vi had known of something similar in Avatar, many belief systems had almost got it right in the idea of Karma, as well as indeed various other belief systems who had deemed it to be a fundamental design; God's plan. However, it was only in the early 21st century that people really understood; understood that there is no plan, there is no designer, and most difficult of all, there is no good. No bad. No right or wrong. There just is.

But things aren't so simple anymore as the cold, hard logic of non-theism. We understand now, as they did at the dawn of this new, matured idea of civilisation that this knowledge brought with it further implications than simply the destruction of God, whichever one you choose. We know now that we come from a limited bank of consciousness, that much like energy our social understanding of ourselves will never be destroyed, but change and develop and evolve into something greater, with each cyclical passing of the generations. No, we won't be reincarnated; not as individuals anyway, but we will live on in part, in vestigial form, with the children of the whole.

Yes, we still live as walking, talking individuals but consciously we are never alone. How can each man be an island when he knows that beyond flesh, blood and bone he is no more indistinguishable from the continent around him than a drop of rain would be from the sea in which it lands? How can wars continue when we know that win or lose, the pain and suffering will always live and thrive within the children spawned of both sides?  What is the purpose of rich and poor when the highs and lows of both will be mixed together, stirred within the ever moving cauldron of existence, to be poured into those that at every end of the social strata?

And of course, no longer are we egocentric enough to believe that humans are the only beings worth counting in our view of the world. Why would our efforts at life be the only ones worthy enough to feed the next generation? We may, to date, be the only ones we know of to achieve such a high level of consciousness, but self awareness means nothing in the grand scheme of things. The whole world lives, it breathes, and it learns. We from it, and it from us. Nothing loses out in the evolution of the conscious whole. Nothing dies, nothing is made extinct. We continue, We are and We will be. We will move on, learn and develop as we always have and maybe one day will learn the purpose of our being, and from this we will learn more.

But one thing is, and always be certain. We will grow.

The beautiful game

Today I met a man in the park. He is a nice man, and I have met him many times before; we often walk our dogs at the same time and have some lovely (if often fairly one sided) conversations; today he told me about watching Jimi Hendrix above the Bristol ice rink and of the terrible winter in 1963 in which he had to make a long trek home after his bus broke down.

But the thing I love about this man is that every time he sees me, he always opens with the same line. Regardless of how often he has to put up with my ignorance on the subject, and no matter how often I give vague or negative replies, he will always ask, 'Did you see the football yesterday (last week/on Sunday etc.)?'

Now, I've gotten better at this - since living with a football fan, and especially since getting Sky Sports, I find it almost impossible to cruise through life on my complete ignorance of the sport and all the associated expected knowledge. I was able, for example, to today respond that yes even though I had been asleep for most of it, I was at least in front of a screen whilst the Manchester game was happening yesterday. Admittedly, this simply provoked a deeper conversation concerning the absurdities of lauding City's chances of winning the league so early in the season, along with several examples of other teams for whom this had happened previously. None of which I understood, and was left floundering hopelessly until I settled back on a change of subject to that most universal of subjects; the weather.

Unsurprisingly, this universal masculine greeting has always thwarted my chances of opening the doors to the society which it guards. Except once.

For those who don't know, a few years back I worked as a teacher in a high security prison. It was fun work, and needless to say it offered the opportunity to meet some interesting people (which is a whole other post in itself); one of these people was a young lad nicknamed 'fingers' (originality was not, it seemed, a pre-requisite to entering Her Majesty's finest). Now Fingers was, even to my 25 years, a young kid trying to keep face in an adult prison, in on some minor theft charge or other - you couldn't help but like him, even as a moral obligation to the merciless, if subtle (at least when the screws/civvies were around) teasing at the hands of the other inmates. Don't get the wrong idea - he gave as good as he could get, and I think was for the most part left alone on account of his, for want of a better word, simpleness - but he was not exactly a block leader.

One day Fingers asked which team I support. I gave my stock answer; that I didn't watch, understand or have any interest in football at all. He was floored. It seemed this had some great effect on Fingers, his face betrayed his inability to grapple with a totally new concept and, it must be said, he failed.

"Yeah, but if you did support a team...."

"But I don't"

"But if you did, who would it be?"

I gave up. Luckily, I also have a stock reply for this style of interrogation also.

"Well I guess that as I come from Cardiff, if I had to support any team, it would be them."

Problem dealt with, we moved on. Fingers seemed satisfied, and he was released from the existential nightmare of having to face a world in which men didn't like football. I was off the hook, and resumed my teaching.

Only the hook refused to budge, and moving on wasn't an option. The next time I saw Fingers he was beaming; this was because, as I was to find out, his team (one of the Bristols) had beaten 'my' team. And he was over the moon about it.

"Did you see the hammering we gave you on the weekend!" This never phrased as a question. However....

"Errr.....no?"

"When (player) did this, and (your player) did that, we made you look like idiots." He didn't appear to have registered the fact that I hadn't seen it.

Ultimately, I realised the futility of trying to explain my ignorance and joined in. The beauty of it all was, I didn't even have to pretend to know what the fuck was going on; he did it all for me. All that was required was the occasional nugget of trash talk to spur him on. If told 'I' was playing someone soon, I would claim a total lack of chance of victory on the other team's behalf; if told anything negative at all about the referee, it was a prime opportunity to make some vague comment on the ineptitude of authorities, which would ring positively on many levels.

Soon other inmates would be involved. I would obviously have to drift out if any serious conversation about the sport took place (the knowledge these people had! They could barely spell but knew hundreds of players, teams, stats, scorelines for years gone by) but, if only because the break in the boredom of prison life was worth humouring the middle class white boy for a few moments in the day, I generally got by. And for a few months, I was in the club.

I don't think I could do it for long though. I don't think my dog walking friend will notice any real increase in footballing knowledge in the near future, nor will any new compatriate receive anything but a wan smile and vague dislodging of the subject should they ever try to make football smalltalk. I mean, that would require actually watching the damn thing.

I leave you with a re-enactment of my first ever football discussion with Fingers...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xN1WN0YMWZU (for some reason HTML doesn't seem to be working!)

Saints and Sinners

Isn't Catholocism wonderful?

Recently I've been reading Angela's Ashes, the story of the Author's (Frank McCourt) triple whammy of an upbringing - poor, Irish and Catholic. And it's taught me more about Catholocism and Catholic people than any number of state funded 'Religious Education' lessons ever could. One thing that struck me, amongst many, many others is the different saints that they have for different purpooses - for example they frequently have cause (what with them being poor, sick and dying all over the place) to pray to st Jude, he of 'desperate cases'.

After relaying this observation to a friend of mine who happened to have suffered - sorry, experienced - a Catholic upbringing she explained to me that when you have your first communion, confirmation or various other dark rituals that Catholic people must endure in order to feel more guilty about themselves, you have to 'choose' your own saint. So this got me to thinking: Who would I choose?

My immediate response was st George - not out of any kind of patriotism (remember, I'm Welsh not English) but because I remember reading years ago that as well as England, his patronage also covers Portugal and syphillis. One quick Wikipedia search later and I have the (really quite exhaustive) list - st George is to be prayed to if you are English, German, Portugese (the irony of football louts waving their St. George flags at European matches is not wasted), Greek, a Brazilian football team called the Corinthians (?!) or if you have Syphillis, Herpes (I guess these two wouldn't be so necessary if they were allowed to wear condoms, eh?), Leprosy or any order of skin disease, amongst many, many other things. Wow. What a poor guy - he must be rueing the day he was canonised....what a bunk patronage!

So if st George gets it so bad, what about the other national saints of the UK? I didn't have to look far before I was satisfied.

Paddy doesn't get it too bad - he has to deal with a few places other than Ireland; Nigeria (?!), New York and Boston (at the same time surprising and not so - I guess the pope realised that the Irish in America were having all the fun, and I this must have boosted sales of Guinness there) as well as his only employment sector - engineers.

And on to the only UK saint to actually be a native in the country for which he offers patronage. To 'my' Saint, St David, the patron saint of Wales. And boy was I proud. Those who know me know full well that I am far from religious, and only the tiniest bit patriotic, but this list made me smile; our very own Dewi Sant is, as well as Wales, the patron Saint of Pembrokeshire (hardly surprising as he was born there), vegetarians and poets. That's it. I felt warm inside; I imagined a humble Dewi, sat on a cloud somewhere (possibly with a harp - or is that just angels?) engaged in relaxed conversation with Dylan Thomas, over a tofu salad while on a nearby cloud a red faced St George is stooped over some man's infected bits, being heckled on either side by drunken football louts.

It's a nice image.

Observations of a man with too much time on his hands

I was once sat in a coffee shop with a friend and we were discussing Korean people and the way they act/dress etc. The more intelligent of the two of us likened it to the film 'Pleasantville', in which Toby Macguire and Reese Whitherspoon (not with a fork, eh Dave?) get transported back to 1950's America. The likeness has nothing to do with, as I'm sure you're all thinking, the fact that everything is black and white (those grey tones being an affliction suffered far more by the country that I have just left) but by the way everybody dresses and acts in such an eerily old fashioned way.

Of course it is a very modern city, with a highly productive consumer system in place, and all of the regular American chains that you would expect to find in just about any city anywhere in the world, but the people in it are rather dated; the women will dress up to the nines, wrapping themselves in a sometimes unfeasible number of layers with far too many lacy and sparkly things all over the place; whether they are going to a nice restaurant for a family meal, out for a coffee, or to the shop for a loaf of bread. The men, though more lax in their dress, will still generally wear a shirt, possibly a tie and very often a suit. The younger generation may duck out on the suit, and will go for a more cutting, fashionable style; generally I think they go for Beckham, but end up looking like a French ponce.

But it is the behaviour that amazes me the most...there is such a difference between child Korean and adult Korean! The kids at my school, as much as I love them, can be absolutel helions at times...they will run about, throw things around, wreck any classroom you put them in and generally cause havoc...all very good, normal behaviour. But as soon as these kids hit 18 something weird happens to them, they suddenly discover these things called rules, and hold them more dear than anything. Sure, they know how to have fun; they can go crazy, rip it up with the best of us...but only within the known social norms and parameters, and only as long as nobody is really watching (a perfect example is the fact that you will never see a woman smoking on the street - it's frowned upon - but yet walk into any bar/coffee shop around [where the oldies don't go] and you'll find them all there, puffing away).

So it was to my delight that on my way into work this morning I came across this spectacle:

One of the more 'colourful' characters in my school had an apple, and deciding that he wasn't too hot on this as a breakfast option anymore, he tossed it into the road. With glee both him and his mate (and me behind them) looked up to see a bus approaching from around the corner, perfectly lined up to crush the apple. Unfortunately the bus driver had other ideas, and somehow managed to swerve in a way that meant the front wheel passed on the right, and the back wheel on the left of the apple, leaving it perfectly intact and rolling lazily around.
But wait! There's more excitement to come...as we carried on walking to school I noticed an old man out of the corner of my eye who began to cross the road, heading toward the apple. I couldn't really see his face much (he was wearing one of those silly face masks) but his eyes had a cheeky glint about them that could surely only mean one thing...? Yep! Sure enough the man looked back and forth to check that nothing was approaching, turned his walk into a jog, and then a faintly hobbled run, lined himself up....

'This is it!' I thought...I was actually getting excited at the thought of this little old man defying convention and booting this apple to kingdom come (or as far as his frail legs could allow). I could see him whacking it and winking at the kids like some kind of dubious old grandad on a worther ad, how the kids would revel in this display of free will...something so lacking in this country at times.

...and finally, the moment when boot and apple meet, when all my opinions of old Korean people are shattered and....

...wait...
...what the fuck is he doing...
...oh, for christ's sake...

And so I kept walking. Head down, iPod earphones firmly stuffed into my head I finished my trip into school forlorn, dissapointed. Because at that moment, the very second where it genuinely looked like he was going to make a nice clean, swift kick of it, the little old man stopped himself in his tracks, stooped down, picked up the apple, rubbed it down, placed it in his pocket and then turned to give the two (by now quite deflated) boys a stern look before continuing on his way.

And so the drivers of Dongsamdong are now saved of this tragedy in waiting, two young boys will continue inexorably toward a life of living by the rules, I still wait for the day when I see a display of a truly colourful nature in Korea, and the world will continue to turn.

MKJ Part 1.1: The (actual) flight

Ok, I realise that this is a little out of order but as I started reading about the plane crash in The Satanic Verses, after having watched two plane crashes in Family Guy (note: as I write - and watch and read the above - Hayley is flying to see me. I'm not generally the superstitious type but sometimes coincidence gets too much and I'm starting to worry a little...) I realised that I haven't actually written about the flight itself, and that I'm gradually starting to forget it. As this was my first long-haul flight, and indeed quite an important one, I wanted to record it. For posterity, as it were...

Having wanted to stay with Adam, Matt and Hayley for as long as possible at Heathrow, I had left it until the last minute to go through security and into the departures lounge. So late in fact that after I got through security I only had time to go into Smiths to buy a few more plug adapters and a bottle of water before I heard my flight being called through for boarding. As I walked into the boarding area, it became reality for me something that I knew all along; I was going to a country in which I was to be the alien. Although there were a few western people there (as can only expected on a flight departing from Britain and heading for the biggest city in Korea - one that is a common through route for people heading to Australia) it was mostly Korean faces that looked back at me - for the first time of the year, I realised now that for the next year, I would belong to the ethnic minority. Something perhaps that British people don't generally consider much of a possibility!
I was flying with Korea Air (a fitting start, I thought) and as such, it was mostly Korean air stewards/stewardesses that greeted me, incredibly politely, into the aeroplane. The first faux pas of my trip (the first of many) was to turn left as I entered the cabin...this is really a mistake that I should never have made as though I have certainly never lived the high life, I have read about it enough and realise that 'turning left' is something that only the most blue blooded amongst us are allowed to do - anyway after a brief recognition of the plush reclined seats, and a very polite if not a little desperate 'this way please sir' from one of the stewardesses, I was returned to my lower class way of life and directed into the 'three in a row' economy class cabin.
Although in fariness to Korea Air (you must remember that I have no point of comparison to this) - what an economy class they deliver! I was actually quite unsure whether I had actually made it all the way back to the 'how cheap can you do it for?' as I read my seat number, checked with the stewardess (I actually had to check!) that I was in the correct seat, and then removed the flight blanket, water, toothbrush, eye mask and flight socks to sit down. I was lucky enough to have blagged emergency exit seats (in all fairness I was going for business class, but you take what you can...) so I stretched out, took out my flight tray, removed my own personal television from the arm rest and got comfortable!
Now the longest flight (and incidentally the first) that I have ever experienced so far was five hours to Egypt, which was on a typical 'flying bus' aeroplane, with everyone sat knee to shoulder as if on a short jaunt to Paris - the only difference being that we were served a tin foil dinner, where everything tasted a bit like an insubstantial form of rubber, and they had some Vicar of Dibley repeats on the fer TV's dotted about. So the first thing that shocked me about this aeroplane was the sheer size of it. It had two fucking floors for christ's sake - how the hell can a big metal thing like that ever get airborne?! It was basically what I'd always envisioned flying to be like, judging by all the films/TV I'd ever watched (couldn't help thinking of the 'there's a problem with the left philange' seen from friends), and redeemed all the disappointments that I'd come to expect from previous flights - I even got to walk down the big tube I was always scared I'd fall out of (Dumb and Dumber) - again, another first.
I was to spend the next twelve hours next to a seemingly very nice Korean couple. Granted, I didn't actually speak more than the occasional few words to them, and they could have been absolute and pure evil, but they smiled a lot and were incredibly apologetic for just about everything (I think sometimes even for smiling too much), and the male half, who sat next to me, happily gave up his arm rest for me to selfishly steal for near enough the entire journey so they were fine by me. After some confusion over whether or not I actually wanted to read the in flight magazine (read 'advertisment') or whether they were allowed to move it the few feet in front of me, the safety instructions started (all on TV the lazy bastards), I was told very firmly but nicely to put my TV back in the armrest, the stewardess sat herself down opposite us, some really impatient travellers continually insisted on getting her out of her seat seemingly just for fun, and finally, thanks to my keeping my fingers crossed and praying to santa that it was actually physically possible for this thing to leave the ground, we took off.
Seemingly within minutes, dinner was served. Not being a vegetarian or a Jew, I had to watch everybody else eat before I got my turn. Finally I was approached by an incredibly camp (as if there's any other kind) steward.

'What would you like for dinner sir?'

'Erm, what are the options'

'Well, there steak or Bibimbap'

'What the hell's Bibimbap?'

'It is Korean food with (inaudible explanation)'

'Erm...steak please'

*quick glance in kitchen area*

'I'm sorry sir, we don't have any steak left, what would you like for dinner sir?'

'Well, I don't really have many options then do I?'

*nervous laughter*

'What would you like for dinner sir?'

'...the other one'

And so I was presented with several pots - some kind of meaty/veggie thing, some rice, a few sauces, some pickles and seaweed soup. After watching the couple next to me I managed to open the right things in the right order and create the right mixes and tucked in. It wasn't that bad, actually.

My first challenge was over. Me one, Korea nil.

Next there came (far too much) wine, and then coffee. I slugged them both down, watched Ocean's thirteen (terrible) and fell asleep. And woke up. And fell asleep. And woke up. Eventually I think I managed about three hours as a custodian of the land of nod. So as anyone would do on an international flight, with a seemingly unwakeable Korean male next to them, I watched some God-awful sitcoms until breakfast came. I had another two options for brekkie - either I could take some kind of scrambled again thing or an inaudible mumble. Naturally I went for the former, as I had already had one new thing in the last few hours and I wasn't a connoisseur of illiterate speech and again, for flight food it was pretty good.

Anyway, I was a pro at the flying thing now so I finally got the nerve to stand up. I grasped my single haired toothbrush, walked up to a few seats in front of me and started doing some mister motivator-esque work out as naturally as possible, and then headed for the bathroom, only stopping to answer some guy who enquired as to whether I was looking forward to the big cancer meet in Seoul;

'hey - you here for the cancer?'

'Excuse me??'

'The cancer in Seoul - you going to it?'

'The what?!'

'There's a big meeting for cancer in Seoul, I assumed that's where you were going...'

I'm not going to go into the rest of this conversation as it became a little too normal from that point on to make interesting reading, but it sure span me out...

Ok, so belts on, TV away, brief conversation with Malaysion stewardess (who I'm sure fancied me, but then I tend to think that of everyone), and we're down. Another 10 hours of waiting and we're in Incheon. I'm here. I'm in Korea. No-one can understand me. And now for the next flight...

MKJ Part six: Training to be Korean

The problem with keeping a blog like this is that exciting things don't happen every day…well ok you make observations every day and mentally log them and then within 5 mins forget them and suddenly you have nothing to write about again. I've done that so many time over the last few days…

Those who know Mr Jonathon Stretch may be under the impression that he has changed…dramatically. I believe that's what he'd have you suckers back home think (I was one of those suckers till recently!). Well I can reliably report that he hasn't changed a dot – he is still the same northern monkey that he always was. He's just now a northern monkey in another country (hi Stretch!). Seeing Stretch was my first trip so far outside of Busan..and amazingly it came off with minimal glitches…Emily and I managed to negotiate bus, subway, coach and taxi to arrive at Ulsan, a city about 2 hrs north of us.

It was a good night…with the exception of my camera breaking half way through it, in which we went to two bars almost entirely dominated by westerners (which if I'm honest was actually quite disconcerting). Fortunately when you go to westerner dominated places here you're still surrounded by yanks, aussies, kiwis, Canadians etc and so you're never quite speaking the same language…it's always a challenge (though I must say the person I have found most difficult to understand so far was a Scot…). I must say a dampner was put on the end of the night, by the ordering of my second macdonalds in as many days. I wanted to stay away from these things but when you're pissed, and they're open 24 hrs (24 Maccy D's – how could they do that?!) it's bloody hard to resist…

Anyway at the beginning of this week 40 native English speaking 'teachers' woke up at a silly time in the morning (cursing the fact that they weren't just going to school like normal, whilst in equal measure praising the fact that they weren't going to school, like normal) and traipsed to some out of the way training institute to learn…well to learn how to be teachers. In three days. I'm not going to go into it in great detail as, to be frank, it wasn't very exciting…it was great to be back in student mode – and to be fair, Dave, Lucas, Hannah and I did that with quite a vengeance (I probably ended up regressing about 10 yrs whilst there – Hannah about 17. We both ended up at the same age [sorry Hannah, couldn't resist – that's for the nose comment!!])

I must say the highlight of the week was the four of us going out for dinner and getting royally drunk on Soju (remember out friend Soju? I think you'll be seeing a lot of him over the next year…). This stuff hits you like a train and we ended up dancing in the middle of the street with no music (as the restauranters kept steely eyes on us as we hadn't paid our bills) Lucas and Dave had many car-related high-jinx and Hannah spent most of the night laying in the street. Needless to say we all felt shit the next day.

There's plenty more I could write but I'm about to leave to go pay my first Korean gas bill…Tomorrow (well tonight, if I'm honest) is the start of Chuseok, a 5 day Korean holiday which means that I have no school until next Thursday. I'll update then with whatever I'm about to do….exciting! (well ok, maybe not for you but try and get involved!

MKJ Part five: Beach party

Waking up on Saturday morning was considerably more difficult than it was a week earlier. A week before I had a nice early night, had been planning for that day for weeks and then woke up with nerves long before my alarm went off. This week I had just adjusted to my new time zone, had my first day off (and therefore my first post 7am wake up call) since I flew out here and had been out on the piss the night before…(incidentally, the food for four people, plus enough drinks to get us all pissed came to around 70 000 won, or 35 quid in real money. I fucking love this country!!)

So when I say it was difficult to wake up, I guess I just mean that I didn't even try…every time I groggily opened one eye and realized I didn't have to do anything, I was straight back to sleep again. It felt like home. Unfortunately, it wasn't and when I woke up I realised that instead of it being a shitty cloud and chav filled day outside, it was actually gloriously sunny and around the 30+ degrees mark and not only this but that there was a big surf competition happening on the other side of town. And it was now 2pm. Let me repeat that for all those people sat back home. 30 degrees. Surf competition. Hoyeah.

An incredibly greasy 'toasted' (read 'soggy') sandwich later and I was on the tube on my way to SongJon beach with Emily. I've always head a lot of non-Londoners say that they would love to live in the big city citing, amongst other reasons, having to 'do the tube thing'. Personally I'd rather hack off my arm with a rusty spoon than live in London, but I do quite like 'doing the tube thing', and after last year's continual driving it's such a relief to not have to do it anymore…!

Anyway we got to SongJon for the end of the competition…no worries, It's still bloody hot and I have my trunks. I said a brief hello to everyone, did a quick awkward 'towel beach short change' and I was off…my first time swimming in the Korea Strait…and damn was it warm! I could not describe to most of you how good a feeling this was…It's been such a long time since I've managed to have a swim in a nice sea on a nice beach it's untrue…in fact Portugal aside (which was very choppy and surprisingly cold – though it was the atlantic), I haven't swum in anything but British seas in around 10 years or so! So this was gorgeous, warm and still (once past the breakers at least, there was a surfing comp on after all…!) and I cannot wait to get back there again…!

Anyway, enough about swimming. As I got out more people started arriving…Of course I hadn't really met many western people around, other than those I already knew and a couple of guys from Youngdo (my island of residence) so it was nice to start seeing people from all over the place. I was surprised actually at how many people there were here from the UK – a couple of northerners, southerners and a Scotsman – but then they were far outweighed by the New Zealanders, Canadians, Americans and Aussies. We started drinking (some pissy Smirnoff ice rip off at 1.75 a pop…the most expensive alcohol I've bought so far!). and the great thing is about this place is that the shops never appear to close – we were still making trips to the little corner shop, when the party had swollen to around forty or so people and a beach fire – to pick up some more Soju.

Ah Soju – a vodka style drink, weighing in at 20%, rancid but drinkable. Most Koreans drink it straight, but we didn't quite have the guts for that so it was mixers all the way (with some kind of strange coconut-y cream soda-y thing. But best of all, best of all – a beer sized bottle (and remember this stuff is generally drunk in measures so that's a fair bit) costs just over 1000 won. That's one Dollar. About fifty pence…

The hangover's a fucking killer, though.

MKJ Part four: New experiences

I had some strange experiences during my first few days. The food, naturally, was a little unusual. I tried Haemultang – an eel soup with various fishy side dishes around (including pieces of crab that require you to bite through the shell to get to the meat). I tried Kimchee (pretty much the favourite, if not the national dish of Korea) which is, when it comes down to it, just a spicy cabbage – these weren't, to be frank, my favourite meals in the world. However, the deajagalbe (completely the wrong spelling), which is a pork dish, cooked over hot coals in the middle of your table (again with side dishes – everything comes with a million side dishes) and some kind of sushi-esque (gum-bap or something – feel free to correct me if you know!) meal that I had last night were gorgeous.

Attitudes toward me have been completely mixed as well – the Korean people appear to have a complete love-hate relationship with westerners; I always expected to fell like the proverbial alien here, to experience what life is like 'in the minority', but it hasn't really felt like that. Of course everyone around me looks different and is speaking a different language (I've found it incredibly rare to come across another westerner without it being pre-arranged), and you do most certainly get some funny stares and see people talking about you, but there's no real sense of animosity or of being ostricised.

In fact very often the attitudes toward me are completely opposite – a couple of people have now, in the short period that I have been here, already approached me in the street purely to talk to me (to be a little more cynical, this is generally just for a free English lesson, but I am still new enough here for it to be nice), and as I mentioned earlier people in shops, taxis etc appear to be more than eager to help you out, whether you are buying or not. At my school every day is some kind of Christmas (note: Christmas will not exist for me this year – I will miss it sooo much!), as I very often get back to my desk from teaching and there will be some kind of gift for me – a yoghurt, some fruit, mints etc. today I walked in and found some coffee (they mix their instant coffee with sugar here, and I moan about so much that one of my co-teachers brought some without!), earl grey tea and ziplock bags. In fact purely in the time that I've been writing this blog I've received a load of mints, a chocolate cake thing, a bowl of fruit, some sweet fruit crisp breads, pizza, a carton of milk, some soup and two notebooks. (and believe it or not I am actually losing weight…) All compliments of the co-teachers and the lady who works behind me but can't speak a word of English but regularly comes bearing gifts, proffered with a smile and a bow. Imagine that in England!

It is not of course all positive though – there is a vein of wariness and even contempt for westerners here – they are very often seen as drunken womanisers (a very fair summation, if you ask me), and you will very often draw looks if you start walking around with a tin in your hand…(and I would say a woman on your…but, well I wouldn't know about that!)

I have managed to make a couple of mistakes since I've been here of course (once for offering someone money, MONEY for pete's sake), but to again quote one of two stooges, 'Yeah, you'll upset people without even knowing it all the time – get used to it' (that'd be Hannah). The cultural differences here are certainly many, and very often subtle…but there's only so many times I'm going to get away with the 'I'm just an ignorant westerner' argument…

MKJ Part three: Settling in

Everything, needless to say, looked better in the morning. Granted – I had still only had two hours sleep (five since Saturday morning, if you add the three I managed to get on the plane), and granted I hardly felt at home but suddenly I started to see a few positives. For a start the view from my apartment is spectacular – the balcony overlooks the sea, and from the twentieth floor this really does look quite amazing. Secondly, though my apartment IS a little grubby, there's nothing that a little sprucing up wouldn't solve (note: still to be spruced) and it is far bigger than most people's – in that it has six, as opposed to one, room!) And anyway, no time to think about this – it's time for school!

Now this was probably the turner – this was the point where all thoughts of leaving within days all but disappeared. To those that know me, I have a complete love-hate relationship with teaching. I hate the fact that I do it so often, and in so many respects, and the connotations that surround it, but I generally love my students, and there is no better feeling than a lesson in which you can see they genuinely learn – or than earning respect from them because they know this.

Well it's early days for that, but the school seemed brilliant – as I walked up to it, everyone (teachers and students alike) stopped and stared in apparent wonderment. The students would all bow as I approached, and would come running just to get a glimpse of me, or for the braver – to say hi (a response would result in a flurry of excitement, stifled giggles and inevitably their running off to tell some of their other friends to try it as well). I came into the teacher's room and to my desk to find my timetable. I counted the lessons – eighteen forty-five minute lessons a week. But I'm contracted for twenty two hours, I thought – I must have some extras.

'Mrs Jang. Is this my entire timetable?'

'Yes, why?'

'Oh nothing, just wanted to check' YES!!!

'Oh by the way Kirk, one of the teachers will speak with you later – the third graders won't be having lessons from you for the first few months, as they have important exams coming up, and they need the extra time to study'

I looked down, furtively at the timetable. 1,2,3,4,5,6….six third grade classes….

I'm sure the skies parted at that point – I have twelve forty five minute classes a week to teach, I am being paid a grand a month for it, with free accommodation (plus various benefits that get thrown wantonly at teachers from time to time), and no marking, little planning and NO PAPERWORK to fill out…this is the dream teaching job!

I was woken from my reverie by the fact that I was being shuffled down the staff room toward the head (soon to become 'principle'), just as I caught the last glimpse of an angel darting between some rapidly closing clouds, I had a mic thrust in my hand, was grabbed by the shoulders and moved into position beside the big wigs of the school. Everyone in the room stood up and some grandiose music started playing. Ah – it was time to say hello.

I started to realise as I wandered around, that yeongdo (the Island on which I live) is not nearly as far away from everything as it seemed – the thing about Korea is that there are so many people here that none of the chains (and everything is a chain) can afford to not have a store in even the tiniest area. Equally, there are a million taxis everywhere all the time – as Dave (Holt) put it to me, 'you can never get lost in Korea, no matter where you are, down the tiniest little side street even, you will ALWAYS see that little light driving toward you to pick you up.' Or something like that.

Speaking of taxis, I was coerced out for dinner, in spite of my extreme tiredness and jet lag, to Nampo Dong on that Monday evening by Dave and Hannah (who I really can't thank enough – this was the start of my settling and becoming comfortable with getting around Busan) and I was amazed, that although it took around 15 mins to get there, the taxi only cost the equivalent of about 1.75 (there's no pound key on this damn computer!). What got me as well is that as I stepped out of the taxi in a busy street, leaving the taxi driver with the 200 won (about 10 pence) that would be my change, he actually called me back to make sure I had it – it seemed that people who don't like taking more than they have earnt (though I think that some of the more cynical people working here that may read this will probably disagree…)

Anyway, after this and then another meal with Emily (both of us of course completely wet behind the ears, I was ready to start discovering…)