A Morale Boosting Meeting...

It was Monday morning and the English teachers of our school had been summoned to a meeting with the schools owner and our new manager. Apparently we were to be introduced to the manager, and given a morale boosting talk that would have us brimming with excitement and enthusiasm for the upcoming weeks.

I could barely contain myself; coming into work an hour early is something I have always relished, especially when it is unpaid and I spent the previous evening drinking heavily.

We take our seats and the owner and the new manager stroll in grinning like the Cheshire Cat and...the manager looks about eleven. This boy is my manager? When he first walked in, I was about to tell him to go and wait for class and buy himself a lollypop. He'd better be good.

Little Boy in his Dads clothes:"Hi guys, first of all thanks for coming".

Reasonable start, I decide to stay and hear him out.

Little Boy in his Dads clothes:"The owner is a bit disappointed in some of the things you guys have done. Many of you have only got 24 or 27 hours work a week and yet not one of you has asked if you can do anything else"

Right. My usually sunny disposition had rapidly clouded over and rain was on the way. I look around the room and see a mixture of bemusement and distaste.
So let me get this right. You give us our contracts and assign classes, you then feel that outside of the job we are here for, we should offer to do little extras?

Like what? Perhaps I could nip in on my ONE DAY A WEEK OFF and say, mop the floors? Maybe you would like me to finish teaching 6 hours of lessons and, I don't know...clean the toilets, repaint the ceiling, build you a fucking extension and kit it out with a rocking horse and some crayons so the new manager has something to do?

So you're dissapointed that we haven't asked for a list of chores to do when we are not in class? Well I'm dissapointed too. I'm dissapointed that I can't come to work drunk. I'm dissapointed that I can't slap the kids. So we're both dissapointed, let's just move on.

And then we are informed that if we don't get more students some of us might be sacked. Excellent. Now I'm not sure if "morale boosting" means something different in Korea, but considering this is an English school they seem to have their definitions a little confused.

But now it becomes some sort of surreal good cop, bad cop routine.

Owner:"And please don't think that you should just do your one year, we want you to stay for two or three years, all of you."

Ah...so we might be sacked at any moment, but we can stay for several years. Gottya.

Then we hear about "Summer Intensives". Additional classes that are from 9.30am to 12.30pm, and we get no extra pay. YES! Sign me up.
Apparently intensives offer us a "great opportunity". Hmmm...there's that translation issue again, this is like when you told us you wanted us to stay for ever, but you might sack us. It is like when you told us you would boost morale and then you crushed it.

I think you confused the meaning of "great opportunity" with the meaning of "complete fucking pain in the arse".

The manager is still smiling and asks if we are all good. Allow me to answer in the theme of the meeting. "Yes we are great, that was a fantastic meeting, I look forward to the next one." Oh my mistake, translation problems you know how it is;I meant to say "No we are borderline suicidal, your meeting was fucking retarded and I hope you are both run over by a sewage truck on the way home".

And the news just keeps getting better. I have been given two summer intensives per week for the next month. Oh joy of joys. And then the toddler in charge tells me to come and see him for my training, this should be brilliant. What are you training me in? Finger painting? How to make a farting noise with your hand under your armpit? I look forward to it; or should I have said I'd rather gouge out my own eye with a rusty spoon? It's so tricky to find the right words in these meetings.

Marine McLovin and the Watch Negotiation

Six proud days had passed since I had sung my way to glory and now I was back on my old stomping ground with only two friends in tow. Dubs had joined me for a night of tequila and watery beer and with him was our schools head instructor Stanley. Stanley is from Chicago and acquired his name due to his delight at some ice hockey team winning something called the Stanley Cup. He even bought a cigar for the occasion, so Stanley seems a fitting moniker.

It was to be a lowkey evening of drinking, eating chicken and complaining about trivial matters that do not warrant complaints. But as we whined and sank shots of tequila, a group of five US Marines approached us and asked us where we were from. Teachers and soldiers don't tend to mix a great deal and it is fair to say that amongst the teaching community in general the opinion on soldiers is somewhere between poor and diabolical.

But this group of shaven headed, hulking, trained killers seemed a friendly bunch and before long we were exchanging stories. For every tale I heard of a gun battle in Basra, I would regale them with the time that the air conditioning in my classroom was not working and the temperature soared to 32C!!

As they ran us through their weapons training, we told them about photocopying our weekly test sheets, and I believe both groups got an insight into a way of life they could barely have imagined before this informative meeting.

The Marines were all called incredibly American names such as Chip, Hank and Donovan. But I liked them, and we soon agreed to head to a Sheesha bar and smoke flavoured tobacco over a few more drinks.

And it was here that Corporal Mclovin bared his soul. If you have seen the movie Superbad, then you know full well who Mclovin is. If you have not, then google him and imagine an identical human being on steroids.
Mclovin had been the quietest of the bunch until we got to smoking and now he began to tell us about his fiancee who had ended their relationship by text message saying "the distance was too great".

Stanley asked where they lived in the US, and Mclovin explained that she was a soldier too and she was based in fucking Seoul. I wasn't having that.

"The distance, is too great? No disrespect Mclovin mate, but she's a fucking idiot. The train gets you to Seoul in less than 2 hours. I know you loved her, but this might be for the best, you don't want simpletons for children."

Mclovin went very quiet and our group stopped talking. Apple flavoured smoke drifted past my face and the only sound that could be heard was a gentle bubbling of the water in our sheesha as Dubs smoked thoughtfully and watched.

Mclovin: "Yeah. It was some bullshit. I found out she cheated on me dude, I did everything for that bitch...but fuck I still love her."

Me:"I understand lad, but listen, to me Mclovin, you have to move on, be glad you found out that she was a selfish, cheating bitch now and not when you were married with 2 or 3 little Mclovins running around."

Mclovin looked at me and nodded, but his lip was trembling,"I know, but I don't know how to get over her"

I suggested that maybe he could turn his unhealthy love for her and the pain of loss into a more constructive hate. To take every happy memory they had and twist it in his mind into something poisonous and vile, wish ill on her and hope that she got moved from Seoul to say Afghanistan.

He didn't seem so sure. In fact I could see his eyes beginning to well. NO! I could not see this. I don't like to see a grown man cry at the best of times, but a grown man who looked uncannily like Mclovin from Superbad? That would be awful. And a grown man who looked like Mclovin from Superbad who was a trained killer and had bought me a beer? That would be unspeakably dreadful.

I needed to think fast and I needed to make him see the positive in all this. But how? Some sort of snappy one liner that offered hope. Something original and maybe using a metaphor or two. He saw this woman as the one that got away. How to symbolise this?
Of course! Fishermen. Fishermen talk of the one that got away about a prize fish. So women could be called fish for the purpose of my line. Brilliant.

All I needed was to give him hope, let him know that out there in this vast world there were many women who he could find who did not think 1 hour and 45 minutes on a train was too far to make an engagement work for a year.
But what to call the world?

Think Roberts, damn you, think. YES! It was so obvious, the sea. Fish live in the sea and if one gets away there are always more. I smiled to myself; a moment of inspiration once again, and I could avert the disaster that would be a US Marine sobbing onto my perfectly ironed polo shirt.

I tried it out. It did not fail, although I thought for a moment I caught Dubs and Stanley rolling their eyes. Perhaps the metaphors were too subtle for them, who knows and who cares?
The important thing was that Mclovin was back from the brink and our group began to talk of better times and more beers.

We headed out into the night and as we wandered towards our next venue, another soldier appeared, shouting to our soldiers (yes they were ours now) he ran up to join us and then without warning looked at me, looked at my wrist and said "Hey dude, nice watch. I want to buy it, how much?"

I would be lying if I said I was not a little taken aback. But my time with the US Marine Corps had taught me to be prepared for anything at any time. I gave him a quizzical look and said "Sorry?"

Marine in need of a watch:"Your watch man, I like it. I want to buy it off you, seriously. So just give me a price, but listen don't be a dick and say something stupid like One Million Won okay? So come on, how much?"

I affected a look of contemplation and pursed my lips as if battling with numerous thoughts and then looked at him with as blank an expression as I could muster...

Me:"Erm...I'd say about One Million Won".

The sale fell through, and after a brief visit to Mcdonalds, our trio of intrepid teachers parted company with our military friends and headed for home, afterall we had a busy week ahead of us and the owner of our school was holding a meeting this coming Monday to "boost morale".
Perhaps I should have invited Mclovin in hindsight, but I think his morale was boosted enough for one week, so it would have to be a teachers only affair at our teachers meeting.

And what a meeting it turned out to be...

Until next time, this was Monkey Roberts.

I Sing, Therefore I Am...

I am walking down the neon lit streets of downtown Daegu, deep in thought and more than a little broken. My moment of inspiration only moments earlier had led me to invent a new sport that would sweep the globe to rapturous praise, but my colleagues either scorned me or looked mildly amused. And not amused in the way someone is by a fantastic comedian, but more how they snigger when someone dancing, slips and falls into a table, badly injuring themselves.

Although my friends were still with me in the flesh, I could feel I had lost them in spirit. I had slipped in their eyes, gone from being a role model and perhaps even an icon to being the class clown. Maybe even an object of mockery.

This was serious. I am the one who does the needless mocking and covers up my own inadequacies by picking on people in my circle of friends. I needed Tiny and Little Spoon to look up to me once more (as I am sure they always did) and not in the physical sense.
I needed Justice and Dubs to forget my moment of insanity with the "Small Off" and again see me as a mind of infinite wisdom and wit. At the moment the only virtue I would still be recognised for was probably my humble modesty.

Little Spoon suggests going to a Norebang. Jackpot.

Norebang is Korean Karaoke, you have a private room with hundreds of songs to choose from, snacks and an overpriced bar. Overpriced bars are not usually my thing, but I enjoy a snack and I felt confident that I was probably one of the best vocalists currently alive.
No sooner had I fallen from grace, than a chance to redeem myself had arrived.

We all agreed, it was time to sing. Ha. I very much doubted that this band of English teachers were much in the way of singers. I've never sang in a karaoke back home, but the more I thought about it, the more it became obvious that this was simply because it was too small a stage for my talents.

Time to go to a shop and buy cheap booze to smuggle into the Norebang. Spoon and Tiny pack their oversized handbags with Soju and beer.
We approach the front door. I look at my hapless friends, smiling away, unaware that after my first song they will be too ashamed of their voices to dare touch the mic. Tonight will be an audience with Monkey Roberts.

We walk in and I push my way to the front; out of my way amateurs I'm the greatest front man who lived on my way to the stage.
We choose our booth and Dubs has had the nerve to pick up the song book. Give me that book boy, I'm Otis Redding reborn.
I pick the song, the music starts. I'm Mick Jagger.

I sneer at my friends as they take a seat and I grab the microphone. I'm James Brown.

I sing.

I'm fucking dreadful. Absolutely appalling.

I glance around to make sure an impostor has not sneaked in and begun wailing like a demented baboon in order to ruin my moment of redemption.
I see myself in a mirror, my mouths moving. This cacophony of hellish sounds is coming from me.

There is a mixture of shock and fear upon the faces of the people who had come here to hear me perform. I should stop. I must stop. But the failure, the shame, the final nail in my coffin.
No,I will not stop. I will sing louder and I will climb up onto the table in the middle of the room.

I knock over the bowl of snacks. Fuck it, if these bastards are hungry they should have eaten before we came out. I begin jabbing my finger angrily at each of their startled faces and my off-key, flat warbling turns into a bestial howling.

It works. Justice is ad libbing parts of the chorus. Dubs is grinning like a mad man who just had his strait jacket cut off and Tiny is laughing and bobbing her head. There is another screeching sound that is cutting through my nightmarish performance like finger nails down a chalkboard. It's Little Spoon. She is also ad libbing. Only she has her back to the screen with the lyrics and is just roaring and screaming unintelligble gibberish.

I'm back. I've won. Come Monday, I can once more swagger into school with my head held high and look my workmates in the eye with my steely gaze.

My debut album will be out next year. This was Monkey Roberts.

What's a Small Off?

It was a bleak and wet Friday night when I bravely headed downtown to addle my brain with cheap alcohol. I was accompanied by a gaggle of fellow teachers who have yet to be introduced and the infamous Little Spoon.
The new teachers were a married couple known to me as Tiny and Justice and a cheerful chap from Connecticut called Dubs.

A brief introduction. Tiny and Justice are not actually characters from a new cartoon or a comic book, crime fighting duo. I named Tiny as such because she is not tall, a hilarious and astute nickname I'm sure you'll agree and one that requires a rapier like wit to think up.
Justice is her husband and there is very little reason for his nickname (which nobody,including me actually uses, it's purely for this blog) other than it sounds like his last name.

Then there is Dubs. I have often felt that Americans from the east coast have a closer sense of humour and political outlook with Brits than the rest of America, there seems more self deprecating humour and a more objective world view. Dubs is only 23 years old but more than vindicates my ridiculous, wild generalisation about a nation of over 300 million people. Because despite being the youngest teacher, he has a much older head on his shoulders.
Not literally obviously, that would be bizarre. In fact that would be so freakish I frankly wouldn't be friends with him.

So the four of them are drinking and laughing whilst I am drinking and thinking. I leave all this idle merriment to them as I have important thoughts to ponder. Something has caught my eye...

Tiny and Little Spoon are standing up, (or at least I think they are it can be hard to tell) and despite my fantastic 20/20, eyes of the hawk vision, I can't tell who is the smallest. As you can imagine this is a pressing matter and it leads me to invent the worlds greatest one on one competition.

"Oi, how about a small off?"

Some loud mouthed, drunken yob has just shouted at the two girls. What a dick. Everyone looks at me. Oh that was me.

Through the mists of inebriation I had devised what seemed like a gripping and hysterical sport. Loosely based around the concept of a "dance off" but without the stupid dancing and with more emphasis on being small.

I explain it, and lick my lips as I wait for the feedback to my fantastic idea. They are going to love this, who wouldn't? Nobody is laughing. Fair enough, still trying to get to grips with the rules and a little in awe. Tiny has her eyebrows raised and is looking at me as if I had burst into her family home on Christmas Day and pissed on the childrens presents.

Justice and Dubs look bemused and Little Spoon is eating popcorn. It's just me and Tiny, face to face, well no, face to waist. It is here that I should explain that despite her size she might be the loudest woman currently residing in Asia. Justice is a quietly spoken man who thinks carefully before making a considered and interesting point. Tiny is a megaphone trapped inside a human form.

"WHAT THE HELL IS A SMALL OFF?"

I thought I had explained, oh well I'll explain again.
She stands back to back with Little Spoon and we see who is smaller; we all cheer and laugh and the victor is the smallest one who wins...some mild praise and head patting.

Actually it's not as good as I had first thought. As I explain it again I'm beginning to doubt whether it will ever become the global phenomenon I had envisaged. I know lots of small girls back in the UK, some of them are reading this. They wont have known until now that I had planned on signing them up on my return to a sort of Small Off Federation, like the professional wrestling organisations. I was going to take them on tour....

My dreams are in tatters. This is a rubbish sport, nothing even happens and the winner doesn't even win anything. Not only that but the loser doesn't mind losing and the whole event takes about 2 seconds. I might be an idiot.

Tiny calls me an idiot.So that's that confirmed.
Little Spoon is finally paying attention and says she will punch me "in the jugular". I doubt she can reach, but I refrain from her telling her so. Still Dubs seems to like it and Justice is sort of smiling, so maybe deep down he thought it was great but didn't want to go through divorce proceedings in Korea.

We finish our beers and decide to put this ridiclous idea that Dubs came up with, behind us and go to sing at a Norebang (Korean Karaoke)...and you will hear all about my dulcet tones next time.

Children Are The Future...

Or so the saying goes. And it is going to be one drab, unimaginative and cretinous future if my students are anything to go by. Well that's harsh, some of them are as sharp as a quite sharp thing and some of them are as entertaining as a small child with no background in the entertainment industry can be. But some of them...where to start?

Allow me to introduce you to Olivia and Sophia. Remember that all Korean students have English names for the English teachers to use. Usually these are normal, although it is often down to the quirk of which teacher chose their names, hence why I have taught a Coo Coo the Panda, an Optimus Prime and a kid called Clown.

Evidently the teachers who bestowed these children with names had far more fervent imaginations than Olivia and Sophia. Every class ends with a project, a presentation to me where the kids can show their flair and invention. Olivia and Sophia have been reading a story about a time machine and their project is to produce a presentation about where they would go in a time machine, complete with a poster to show the wonders they saw.

So I sell it to them, like an enthusiastic double glazing pitch. "You have been given a time machine, where will you go? Perhaps back to see Dinosaurs, or maybe a thousand years into the future, imagine what you might find, anything you can think of is fine, write it down, tell me about it".

I leave them to it. Ah there they go, scribbling away, I wonder whether they will delve into the deepest parts of human history or fly boldly into an uncertain future, hundreds or even thousands of years from now. A childs imagination is a joy...

Me: "So guys, what year are you going to travel to?"
Sophia: "2020"
Me: "What?"
Olivia: "2020 teacher, just finish University."

I look at them and realise I'm shaking my head. "This is not a chance to cut out 10 years of being a child, you will still be 13 when you get there, it is to see what the world is like, understand?"

Sophia: "Ahhh...Yes, okay 2050 then."

Genius. They have the adventurous spirit of an agoraphobic.

At this point I should explain that with some of the slightly younger children we play games inbetween the work. Catch a ball, hide a marker pen, all the classics loved by people across the globe.
And the fallback game for any class is Hangman.

One class of twelve loud, little pip-sqeaks loves Hangman and I make them come up one by one to do a word or two from the story we are reading. But they do not play the game by the conventional system. They simply shout out random words from the book. Eventually I get them to try letters unless they are sure they know the answer, but there can be two words up without a letter filled in and it will be incessant shouts of "X,K,Q,P".

So I stop them and explain very very slowly that almost every English word must have a vowel in it. I write the vowels on the board and say "So if a word is there you MUST try one of these, so do not stop trying these letters until the word has at least one. Understand?"

They shout yes. I repeat myself, and ask them to tell me the vowels. They do it. The kid standing by the board has written a hangman of two words and not a letter has been found yet. I remind them that both words must have one of the letters I have on the board and then I say "Okay, carry on".

Pip-squeak 1: "K"
Pip-squeak 2: "Y...no B B B"

Idiots. No wonder you eat fucking dogs, get out of my class.
Suppress the hatred, let the stick man hang by the neck until he is dead. "Dead"...that's two fucking vowels got it?

And then there is my small class of four teenagers, three boys and one girl. In Korea the behaviour of the two can sometimes overlap in a way that back home would be met with raised eyebrows. Boys will hold hands. In fact they will also have pencil cases with Hello Kitty cartoons on and various other "girly" emblems.

I am writing on the board for my fairly disinterested gaggle of teens when one of the boys suddenly shouts "Teacher you very handsome". I stop writing, look at him and say "Erm...thankyou, now carry on with the reading".

Rather than have his peers laugh at him in the good old fashioned, homophobic way that we all know and love, his friends shout agreement and then the chant starts. The hands of one start drumming on the table and the mantra "Handsome, Handsome, Handsome" begins to echo like a highly inappropriate bass line around the room.

Before I have turned full circle to stop him, all 4 of the class are chanting and one of them has hastily scrawled down handsome in big red letters on a piece of paper that he is wildy waving above his bulbous head like some retard at a protest march.

This is a problem. They are being disruptive and I stop them, but what action to take? If I call for a Korean member of staff to discipline them I need to file a report and explain my course of action to a manager.
I can imagine that "Well you see I had to send them down to you as they were calling me handsome. Yes handsome, and last week they told me I had fashionable shoes, it has to stop."

I was going to include a photograph of some of the children, whether the ones in question or the ones I like, but then I realised it could lead to my being identified and then obviously fired. Frankly if I was teaching your children, you'd probably want me fired too, but then again hopefully your children don't have the creative flair and memory of a satsuma.

The Psycho, The Russian and Richard.

Saturday 5th June...

It's time to hit Busan. Little Spoon knocks on my door and we head to the train station, stopping quickly to buy a couple of bottles of Soju for the trip. Afterall we are going by train and no journey on public transport is complete without getting needlessly drunk and making your fellow passengers feel uncomfortable.

As the train pulls into Busan, we leap off in a haze of excitement about the wonders of seeing a festival based around sandcastles built by grown men. But we need to get money first. I have only $100 on me as I foolishly left money at my apartment, and who knows how much a beer is in Busan? What will I spend on food? How much will the hotel cost? These are all questions I need answering. Not the most grave and important questions facing mankind granted; but questions nevertheless.

The machine swallows my card. Brilliant. Fucking Koreans. The xenophobia passes as I look over and see that Little Spoon is merrily requesting $600! She is not going to spend that in one night and one day, so I should be able to borrow money if needs be.
I look at her. She looks extremely cheerful and is humming to herself. I wonder why she is taking out so much money "Erm...how much did you mean to withdraw".

Spoon looks at me as if I have asked her what country we are in or how we got here. "Sixty dollars obviously". Ah, okay.

Me: "But you've just entered 600,000 won"
Spoon: "Er yeah..duh, and a dollar is 1000 won".
Me: "Well quite. So if a dollar is 1000 won, then 60 dollars is 1000 multiplied by 60, which is what?"

She frowns. She looks upwards and bites her bottom lip, I can hear the cogs grinding inside her head. "Oh shit, no, I need to put it back".

For a second it looks as if she might try to post the money back into the machine, but instead we meander off to find Blancquita and her friend Nancy.

We meet them and a couple of other teachers and get down to some dedicated drinking. And it is at this point that we meet an unlikely trio of Korean girls. My memory is a little fuzzy, but during the night our group was joined by a friendly Korean girl, her gigantic and miserable friend nicknamed "The Russian" and a third girl who seems rather agitated and aggressive who I shall call "The Psycho".

Nobody explained why "The Russian" was named as she was, but I put it down to either the fact that she seemed as happy as someone who had just won a holiday to a Gulag or an unnatural love of potatoes and vodka.

We arrived at the beach to observe the festival and I will have to take back some of my sneering criticism. The sandcastles and carvings were insanely detailed. It must take genuine talent to produce, but if I was being a grumpy, killjoy twat then I might argue it was talent that could be put to better use. And I am.



And then we sat down in a circle and began talking. Within seconds, The Psycho has suddenly blurted out.. "I tell you something, story about my friend Richard".

A story about a man I'd never met called Richard? I was all ears.

The Psycho begins...

"So, I have English friend, name is a Richard." So far so good, nice to have some information at the start of a story about who it's about and where he's from etc. Carry on...

"And Richard have some problem when he get to Korea. Have problem with his school and with place to stay. I know friend who can help him so I get him better job and give him number of person to find good price for place to stay."

I check the rest of the group, yes as I thought nobody is exactly gripped yet. Frankly this story about Richard better pick up soon or I'm off to look at a sandcastle. But it sure does pick up...

"Now I am woman. I have the pussy YES?"

Bit of a tangent here, but we all nod in agreement, she is a woman and she has well "a" pussy certainly, I don't want to correct her use of the word "the" it just seems petty.

"So if I want to give this pussy to man I can do whenever I like. So I help Richard with job, and what does he send me in text message? I tell you. He says 'Oh thankyou so much, you have been so helpful to me, you are such a nice girl, I don't know how to thank you.'

Ah nice message, she must have been pleased with that text from Richard...

"So I text back to him...FUCK YOU RICHARD"

Wow. I look at the group and yep everyone is taken aback. Shit even The Russian appears to have awoken from her maudlin slumber to make a face that suggests the reply was a tad unorthodox.

"Fucking Richard, think you get this pussy because you say I am nice. FUCK YOU RICHARD, don't text me all nice words FUCKING SHIT".

And so it turns out that she told Richard in no uncertain terms to never contact her again. I would love to have seen Richards face when the familiar beep beep of a text message went off and he eagerly opened up a text to see something along the lines of "Don't mention it, glad I could help, will see you soon".

Poor Richard. The atmosphere had turned dark, The Russian heaved her towering frame off the sand and drags The Psycho and an apologetic friendly Korean off into the darkness. And as they weave away between the sandcastles, for a second I think I hear the faint sobs of Richard upon the nights breeze.

Little Spoon, Blancquita and Nancy suggest we hit a cocktail bar the next day and we spend the hours getting obliterated and wondering what became of Richard.

Until next time...

This is Monkey Roberts.

Roberts Arrives In Daegu.

Friday 4th June.

My train pulls up in Daegu and I look out of the window at the view. Looks like a shit hole. Luckily, once I met the manager of my school and jumped in a taxi, the rest of the city looked much more promising. I'm seriously tired and even the rush of being HIV negative cannot hold back this fatigue.
My manager asks me if I want to come and see the school this evening. I most definitely do not. She asks if I would like to meet my fellow teachers. Not really, I'm imagining five Wisconsin Kids and four guitar twiddling, ice cream salesmen who wont shut up.

But being the refined gentleman that I am, I say I would love to see the school and meet my colleagues, and inwardly vow to be as polite as necessary and then get home and watch Planet of the Apes on my laptop.

We arrive at my apartment and I am pleasantly surprised that it's not a complete hovel with a hippy as a flatmate. I've got my own place thank fuck and it's walking distance to the school. Not only that but I am asked if I would like a couple of weeks off before I start working and $300 to tide me over? I look at my manager as if she might be mental, but it seems she is serious and relatively sane. The day just got better.

I meet the other nine teachers and forget their names within seconds. They are finishing work and talking about getting food. I for one am definitely not going out or going to drink. I am too tired to talk, and want to spend one night without a random cretin pestering me with questions.
No, I am without any question going home and not to eat or drink.

"Four more beers please. Wow only 3 dollars a beer, that's good and this Soju stuff is a great shot."

What a failure.

But it's panning out well. Everyone is cool, and this Korean spirit "Soju" is like drinking water but gets you drunk. And it's all cheap. Taken alongside my blood test results and the failure to pass training by the weeks most irritating gimp, this is turning into a positively okay Friday.

I will now introduce you to one character from my group of co-workers. From here on, she will be known as "Little Spoon"; due to her diminutive stature and the fact that she has the general knowledge of a kitchen utensil.
Myself and three other teachers stay drinking for half the night and Little Spoon is one of them. She is a good laugh, as you can laugh with her at something witty you have said and also at her when she says something absolutely ridiculous. That is double the amusement.

Little Spoon says she wants to go to the nearby beach resort of Busan tomorrow to meet up with Blancquita (another teacher from our school) and some friends of hers from training. Apparently there is a sandcastle and sand carving festival on the beach. Well that sounds like...well like...erm possibly the worst festival that anyone in the history of the human race has ever devised. But with $300 in my pocket, begging to be pissed down the drain on a pointless excursion to a "festival" that a toddler would be ashamed to admit thinking up, I say an enthusiastic yes to my invite.

And that will take us to Busan, where I encounter sandcastles and psychos and learn the fate of a poor soul named Richard.

Until next time...

Monkey Roberts.