I Will Not Train Your Elephant.

The title is self explanatory and I don't see my position changing anytime soon. Moreover this stance is not confined to elephants in Laos so any readers in Thailand, India or elsewhere need not get any ideas. But I will come back to this later.

Little Spoon and I had flown from Hanoi to the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Luang Prabang in northern Laos for some relaxation from the moped madness of Vietnam's capital.

And it was certainly relaxing. Luang Prabang is beautiful, sedate and so relaxed that everything closes by 11.30pm. For a young go getter like myself this would usually be a major issue but I was happy to wander around looking at monks and drinking fresh fruit juice while Little Spoon took photographs of everything of any interest and everything else too.

We knew our visit was brief and that we would soon be moving on to Vang Vieng but it seemed worth investigating what activities Luang Prabang had to offer. Three things seemed popular and initially all were fairly appealing. First of all visit a waterfall in the jungle and swim around in the pool at the bottom. Granted this might not sound thrilling on the face of it, but everything closes at 11.30pm remember? If Britain was the same perhaps there would be less teenage pregnancy and more day trips to waterfalls.

But the trip looked a bit short, with too much traveling on a bus and not enough time waterfalling.

The second option is where the elephants come in. We had heard all about elephant trekking and although it is clearly a bit of a gimmick it looks interesting enough. Little Spoon collected the most professional looking leaflet with a huge amount of information about what we could expect for our money.

I opened it up wide eyed and expectant. I finished it furious and in the knowledge that I would have to take a firm stance on elephants from this day forwards.

Allow me to summarise the fun and frolics on offer for a fairly expensive package...

"Day 1: Learn how the elephant handlers train the elephants. Practice their techniques, collect the elephants food and feed it. Take the elephants to their enclosure in the jungle. Return to your cabin for the night."


Hmmm...my suspicions were already arising. This day one sounded worryingly similar to a day of work. I came to your jungle to relax and possibly galavant if the terrain permits it; I didn't come to learn techniques let alone practice them. I read on, perhaps day two would involve riding the elephant to a fun fair or watching them dance while enjoying a nice lie down in a hammock.

"Day 2: Rise at 6.00am"

I beg your pardon? I double checked, yes it definitely tells me to rise at 6.00am on my FUCKING HOLIDAY! Now I was angry, there had better be a very good reason for why I was expected to pay money to be woken up at 6am and it had better not involve practicing anything.

"...make your way from your cabin to the elephant enclosure and bring the elephants back to camp, clean them and give them their breakfast."

Right. That does it. Let me get this straight, I have come on holiday to one of the world's most beautiful towns to relax and soak up the tranquil and idyllic surroundings. I am now expected to pay money to train your elephants, feed your elephants and fetch them back and forth from their enclosure? Sure.

While we are it, perhaps I could enroll on a "Hotel Cleaners Camp" where I can pay for the privelage of learning the best techniques for scrubbing shit off a toilet, how to fold towels quickly and then I can get up at the crack of dawn to work for free.

If you elephant trainers didn't want your elephants you shouldn't have bought them from wherever you buy elephants from. You want the elephant to come back from its enclosure? You fetch it. You want it to have its breakfast? You feed it. I was half hoping the elephants might bring me breakfast not vice versa. Am I expected to put them on my back too and carry the lazy, long nosed swines up the mountain?

I hurled the leaflet away and told Little Spoon we were not going to be a part of such a swindle. But I could see she had been dazzled by the pictures of elephants and was still eager to embark on this madness. So I reminded her that it involved getting out of bed at 6am. Little Spoon is someone who finds getting out of bed at 1pm a trifle taxing and would probably be quite happy if she was reincarnated as a cat and could sleep for 18 hours a day.

That sealed it. She was now more opposed to elephant training than I was, and given that I now put elephant training courses on a moral par with racism, homophobia and kicking the elderly it was fair to say she felt strongly on the matter.

That left us with the last option. Massage. Several traditional massage venues were scattered along the picturesque streets and the prices were very reasonable. The only issue was that Little Spoon had become convinced that every massage available in Asia involved a "happy ending" if the client was male.

Little Spoon: "Oh so you think massage is a good idea? Yeah I bet you do."

Me: "Spoon, this is an UNESCO World Heritage Site, not the red light district of Bangkok. If anything we will probably get in there and have to learn how to give a massage, change the towels and sweep up."

Despite her reservations, she had been out of bed for a good three hours and the lure of being able to lie down again was too much for her to resist. We went inside the place that looked the most traditional. Having no idea what a traditional Laotian massage joint looks like, we based this on the amount of wooden carvings and plants they had.



We both chose a one hour massage with oils that was said to "Relax, Rejuvenate and Increase Blood Circulation".

The first 50 minutes were brilliant. It was the first time I had ever had a proper massage and it was indeed relaxing and rejuvenating. However, the final ten minutes were obviously where the tiny masseuse decided to increase my blood circulation. I have always been pro increased blood circulation, but ideally I would like it to circulate inside my body. But her techniques seemed focused on getting it to circulate all over the room and to splatter the white washed walls and fine wooden carvings.

She tried to pull my head off.

It was not a head rub. She took hold of my head and tried to pull it off. Off from my neck. Where my head has always been.

I grimaced and quickly thought through my options. I could punch her. She was very small afterall and I was feeling pretty rejuvenated so I could probably take her. Or I could bank on my neck being stronger than her arms and stick it out so as not to incur any fines for beating up the masseuse.

I chose option two. It was a fairly close call, but my head remained where it belonged and I hastily got dressed and came outside to find Little Spoon eyeing me like a detective might look at his chief murder suspect.

Little Spoon: "So...enjoy that did you?"

Me: "Well yeah, until the last ten minutes, because then she tried to do the old increased blood circulation thing and..."

Little Spoon: "I knew it! You got a happy ending didn't you? Didn't you, you filthy animal?!"

Me: "NO! Don't be stupid, she just tried to remove my head from my body and it hurt. Surely you had the same, didn't she try to decapitate you too?"

Little Spoon: "Erm...maybe, I'm not sure, I fell asleep after about 15 minutes and she woke me up at the end."

Brilliant. So I paid to have a generally enjoyable time that culminated in being assaulted by a tiny Laotian girl and Little Spoon paid to essentially go back to bed but in somebody elses house. Albeit a very traditional house with nice carvings and an outstanding array of plants.

Our time in Luang Prabang was drawing to a close and we booked our bus journey to Vang Vieng; home of the famous tubing, opium smoking hippies and drunken tourists drowning. It sounded great.

Until next time...

Monkey Roberts Hits Hanoi.

Do not be alarmed. Hanoi is not another abstract name for one of my students, so I have not resorted to beating any of them into a bloody pulp of bones, skin and Hello Kitty clothing. Anyway if I was to thrash one of my students it would have been 'Fred Flintstone' or a massive oaf called John who claims to be 14 but appears to be 36.

No, Hanoi is the capital of Vietnam you ill informed oiks and Little Spoon and I decided to travel there and beyond now that our contract was finished. We woke up at 5am to get a bus journey to Incheon airport, bristling with excitement at the prospect of visiting a country where a glass of beer is about 15 pence and where there are also some bits of history, culture and other afterthoughts to soak up too.

We were pushed for time because we booked an early flight and because we are miserly beggars who opted for a cheap bus rather than a rapid, expensive train to the airport. But when your destination sells beer for 15 pence, every penny counts.

The bus breaks down.

Of course it does. God couldn't possibly let me have a nice holiday just because I'm an atheist and refuse to acknowledge him. Little Spoon seemed fairly unperturbed as she had bought a stupidly expensive new camera for the trip and was now able to get some stunning shots of us stood on the side of the road with a broken bus.

So at least when we missed our flight, never went on holiday and returned to Daegu, hot, tired and forlorn we would have crystal clear images of Korea's motorways to dazzle our friends with.

Stupid Korean transport system. Yeah so every bus and train is always on time, there are never delays, it's good service and there are multiple journeys to every destination all the time. But now look at you with your broken bus, having me stand on the road for no good reason.

Three minutes later and the replacement bus arrives and we're off again. Okay Korean transport system you win this battle, but I'm keeping a close eye on you. As for you God...HA! Nice try pal, but I've been tempting fate and refusing to knock on wood my whole life, so you're going to have to do better than this if you want me to accept you.

The next few hours are about as dull as life gets, so I will save you the details of my sandwich in China during a 5 hour stop over to change planes, and spare you the hilarious problem with Little Spoon's shampoo at customs.

We got to Hanoi and it's mental. I'd been to Vietnam years ago and remembered the local people's love of courting death on the roads, but I never made it as far north as Hanoi and clearly up here they take suicidial driving very seriously indeed. Everyone rides motorbikes and nobody drives on a set side of the road.

We were in a people carrier so I was confident that any of the almost certain crashes we would have on the way to the hotel would at least only result in maiming or death to the unfortunate families of 4 on their mopeds and leave me happily protected in my first world transport.

So comforted, I chose to warn Little Spoon of the various scams and rip offs we would encounter. I carefully explained to her that people would hassle us constantly to buy badly made trinkets, pose for pictures for money, push unwanted snacks and tours upon on us and generally try to get us to part with our cash.

She nodded sternly and practiced her "No Thank You" line carefully. We worked on the stern shake of the head and dismissive wave of the hand.

Two hours later as we walked along Hoan Kiem lake in Hanoi, I looked at Little Spoon in her traditional Vietnamese hat, wearing two locally made bracelets as she carried two bags of pineapple and a giant Chupa Chups lollypop and wondered when she would first get to use her hand carved ink stamp of an elephant.

A picture of Little Spoon using her lolly as a baseball bat. Well of course.



I was not best pleased with my own efforts at haggling and avoiding rip offs either. I had been reliably informed that a beer from a Bia Hoi venue would be about 15p and sometimes cheaper and yet so far today I had paid 25p and 45p!! I'm not Bill Gates for fucks sake.

But fueled by our extortionately priced beers we went out into the manic Hanoi streets to find a restaurant and to my delight I found a place serving a delicacy I had to try.

Me: "Spoon, let's go here"

Little Spoon: "Stop calling me Spoon. Why?"

Me: "I've been calling you it for 12 months, it's not going to stop now is it? Because look it sells baked tortoise."

Little Spoon: "You're an idiot. Oh my God, that's horrible, I'm not eating a turtle I used to have one as a pet, my Mom calls them 'tootles'"

I stopped her at this point and explained the difference between a tortoise and a turtle, as clearly only a savage, uncouth degenerate would eat a turtle (or a tootle for that matter) but dining out on a tortoise baked in its shell is every Englishman's dream.

I could be overstating the passion for tortoise based dishes in England, but I have grown to hate the lazy little leaf chewers over the years. And I'll have you know this is not an irrational hatred. Far from it. In fact it is a hatred born of a love that was not allowed to flourish. Allow me to explain.

As a young boy, fresh of face and yet dour of character I had a few things in life that I yearned for with a growing intensity as each month passed without them in my life. Each of these things would make my Christmas and Birthday request lists for many years until it became clear that my heartless parents would never indulge me.

These things were a Giant Tortoise, A Rifle, A Dog and a metal platform that you could screw to the side of your house and access via a rope ladder. I am sure that most readers would agree that aside from the dog, none of these requests was particularly unreasonable or outlandish for a small boy.

But my stick in the mud parents clearly didn't realise we were in the 20th Century and that their straight laced, killjoy attitudes were an embarrassment to them both. So never did a young Monkey Roberts get to sit 30 feet in the air on a steel ledge on the side of his house, taking pot shots at the local kids as his dog played cheerfully with a huge tortoise.

And for this reason, I came to resent tortoises. I don't like the fact that they live a long time and I don't like their work ethic. I would like to bake one and eat it on the streets of Hanoi however.

But once again I was to be denied. Little Spoon would not eat it and instead I had to settle for a delicious meal of marinated beef with local dips and vegetables. I bet if I wanted to buy a rifle she would say no to that too! But it's alright for her with her hat, stamp, bracelets, fruit and impossibly large lollypop.

We walked through the bustling streets to find a bar and I fumed at the injustice of it all, especially as Little Spoon had everything she wanted from here and more besides...

Little Spoon: "Oooo look, that man has balloons. Can I get a balloon?"

Ah ha! Justice.

Me: "Erm...no. No you can't have a balloon."

Never let it be said that I am a petty man. Because if it's said I will find a way to get you back, no matter how small the vengeance is.

As the first leg of Hanoi came to a close, it was time to look forward to the delights of the World Unesco Heritage site that is Luang Prabang in Laos...

Until next time.

Say Hello And Wave Goodbye.

Well here I am. My year in Korea has somehow come to a conclusion in the blink of an eye and as I approach the end of my contract so does Little Spoon, Tiny and Justice. Little Spoon and I are off to Vietnam and Laos for a holiday, while Tiny and Justice are travelling the world. But before we depart this coming weekend, I felt it proper to fill in the blanks of the last few weeks.

A new teacher Huckleberry arrived. A man with experience in teaching for this company before. A man who has travelled half the globe and worked in orphanages in Africa and South America. A man who has to replace me.

I smirked at the idea that a worldly wise, orphan helping, experienced teacher could possibly fill the void left behind by someone best known for eating around 24 eggs a week and smelling of alcohol up until about 2.30pm on any given day.

This year he spent time in the Middle East meeting people in Yemen, Oman and elsewhere to discuss issues around American foreign policy and to talk about the recent killing of Bin Laden with a diverse group of individuals.

Fair play I guess. Earlier this year I completed a gigantic burger challenge in a new bar record of 23 minutes! Four half pound burgers, eight rashers of bacon, eight slices of cheese and side orders of fries and chilli. A NEW RECORD! My picture was taken by the bar and put on their facebook page. I'd like to see an orphan try and beat that sort of time.

But as it happens Huck (a clever abbreviation of Huckleberry I'm sure you'll agree) is actually a very good replacement for me. Because as it happens he also likes to drink, is mildly misanthropic at times and doesn't actually have any real qualifications that should allow him to teach.
He also stood on his head on a table in a bar on the first night.

Give the man my job.

The only real concern was breaking the tragic news to my kids. How would they take it? Badly I was guessing. I explained to one class of 10-11 year olds that I would be leaving as I marked their homework. This work consists of them being given a word which they must use in an original sentence and then a phrase or short sentence which they must use in a longer, original sentence.

I took 11 year old Lilly's book and gave her a reassuring smile, I felt that she might take the news harder than most, such was her affection for me and my quirky take on education. Let's see, she had to use the word "possibility" here...

"There is possibility I kick Monkey Roberts Teacher"

Interesting. So how did she use the word "imagining"?

"I imagining I'm rich and Monkey Roberts teacher is the beggar"

Clearly my zany sense of humour had rubbed off a little, but it was all light hearted fun. I read on "Use the phrase 'A long way to go'"...

"Monkey Roberts teacher still had a long way to go after the operation for his terrible accident of losing the legs."

I look up at her now. She is smiling and nodding "Funny teacher?" I nod slowly, yes they're fucking hilarious Lilly. Okay what's the last phrase? Ah she must use "Full Tilt" in a sentence. I'd like to see you get in some cruel jibe at me here.

"Monkey Roberts teacher came full tilt against the electrical fence and went to dead."

But Lilly was so proud of her work she showed the rest of the class, and now 50% of them write their sentences based upon my demise. Well, I'll show them. I'm coming back. That's right, I will ramble around Vietnam and Laos with Little Spoon and then I will have a couple of months in England, but then I shall return!

And when I do, I will be coming into class "full tilt" you little rat, and "imagining" how I can make my lessons even more monotonous; oh and there's a "possibility" I will spill hot tea over your face. You've "got a long way to go" with me yet Lilly.

And it is that type of creative writing that landed me this position in the first place, a position I feel forced to return to on the basis that I have no other options other than perhaps becoming a human guinea pig for pharmaceutical companies or an armed robber. Both options I will mull over this time next year.

It has overall been a great year mind you and I will be sad to see Little Spoon, Tiny and Justice not here when I return. But they have to go and have new drugs tested on them and hold up banks so I wish them the best.

You will be relieved to know that I intend to blog about Vietnam and Laos and even about my return to England, so there's a light at the end of the permanently long dark tunnel that is your collective lives.

So before I go and eat some eggs, I will leave you with as always some fantastic free thinking from the students of Daegu. The first was a speech in response to my question of how we could help people with disabilities and why we should. After listing the various conditions such as blindness, paralysis and so on, there was a heartfelt plea from twelve year old Julia for everyone to care for each other and then this succinct conclusion.

"So look after disabled or you get the punishment. Perhaps chop off the arms."

Have you been reading the Old Testament again Julia? Yahweh would be so proud.

And finally in a class of younger students, we somehow taught them about conditioning responses in animals. I thought them a little young for Pavlov's Dogs, but they got the idea and then had to choose an animal for a pet and one trick they would like to train or condition it to do.

Lena chose a mouse but not without reservations.

"I want to pets the mouse. Because I think it is very cute, genius personality and smart with the tricks. Also it eats the cheese. However, mouse is small and very dirty so I sure to cleaning the mouse and want to condition it and say 'Don't be eating the cheese everyday and you just wait!'"

Yeah mouse, always eating the cheese, learn to wait you dirty, small genius.

A Week Of Royalty And Retro.

Well what an exciting week it has been. Two complete strangers engaged in the highly rare and unique ceremony known as a wedding last Friday and I for one was beside myself with delight. When your life is interminably dull, there is nothing more soothing than living it vicariously through others, and if those others happen to be very rich for no good reason then even better.

It was a crying shame that being stuck out here in Korea I missed the hype and frenzy that apparently built up throughout Britain and many other countries in the build up to the big day. I was told that one lady interviewed on British television had flown in from the USA solely for the wedding and had camped out for four days to get a prime spot for watching the procession. What determination, what enthusiasm, what a woman.

Just before the procession came fully into view she caught a glimpse of Prince Williams red jacket sleeve and fainted, was put into an ambulance and missed the entire wedding. What tragedy, what misfortune, what a cretin.

And that was a moment I would have paid to see and treasured for always. In years to come I could sit my grandchildren down and tell them where I was on the day an American half-wit feinted and ruined her entire holiday. Being a huge fan of schadenfreude, this heart warming tale lit up my rather stale week and I told anyone who would listen about the "best moment of the Royal Wedding".

As it happened, during the actual ceremony I was teaching a group of 14 year old students in my usual jovial fashion. One of them asked me if I was sad that I "cannot see the Prince's wedding" and I had to gently explain that I was not sad because I was a republican who would like to see the Queen beheaded in a violent, bloody uprising. He nodded solemnly and continued to work on his presentation about creating a movie; a movie which his team gave the tag line:

"If you see this movie, you will piss your pants".

It sounds like the sort of movie experience that the fainting American tourist might enjoy. Night out at the cinema? Well sure, but only if something extremely embarrassing will happen, you know how I like to spend my leisure time.

Talking of Princes, I was accused of having a syndrome carrying this very title only a few weeks ago. One of my female students complimented me on being "very handsome today teacher" and I of course replied "Yes I know".

Given that this rather regular false compliment is given out by students almost every lesson in the futile hope that it will result in you letting them play games rather than work, you would think my reply would be brushed aside. But it was not. A group of four girls erupted in high pitched screeches of amazement and fury...

"No no, Prince syndrome. Teacher you Prince Syndrome."

Prince Syndrome? I immediately thought of the singer and stopped in my tracks fixing this gaggle of shrieking adolescents with a steely, yet intellectual stare. I have Prince Syndrome do I? Are you trying to insinuate that I am a short, scrawny, weasel of a man who enjoys wearing velvet suits?! HOW DARE YOU! I am not short.

I demanded an explanation and it turned out that Prince Syndrome basically translates to arrogance. A boy or man with this affliction thinks of himself as a Prince and is hugely conceited. I assured my class that I did not have Prince Syndrome, as frankly it sounds like a weakness in someones character, and I simply don't have any weaknesses in mine. Moreover, of my numerous virtues, modesty is one of my strongest points.

But I did think of Prince Syndrome last Friday when the students asked me about the Royal Wedding. Can a Prince have Prince Syndrome? There's a deep, philisophical question for you to ponder.

Despite the wedding not getting huge coverage here, it was certainly covered and it made the front pages of the newspapers. But then archaic institutes like the Royal Family should be popular here, as despite their love of technology, many Korean children in particular seem obsessed by objects that are at best quite retro and at worst outdated.

I see some cheerful young teen wandering the corridors of the school with his Rubiks Cube in hand and give him an approving nod. But in the classroom their obsession with pencils and pens is even more bizarre. Every child seems to pride their reloadable pencil; the type where you put flimsy lead sticks into it and can then press a button to make a nib appear, only for it to break as soon as you start writing and then press the button again.

They love a good pencil these kids. But the other day one of my students 'Homer Simpson' upstaged the entire class with his prize possession. A Parker Fountain Pen.

Now, I have no idea if Parker pens were popular in the USA, but back in about 1992 when I was at school, Parker pens were very much sought after. But this was in 1992. It's now 2011. I felt that perhaps I should let Homer Simpson know that we now lived in a world of DVDs and the Internet, but he was too busy holding court to an amazed mob of small children who were fawning over his pen.
A pen that leaks. A pen that makes a blotchy mess everytime you use it even slightly carelessy. A pen that can break very easily and needs to be refilled all the time.

Now I know how much retro attractions carry weight in the classroom, I am thinking of ways to impress my students. Perhaps I could leave my I-Pod at home and swagger into work with a Walkman. The kids were go mental. I could show them the old cup and ball on a string game, throw away your Wii kids, all you need is this and a spinning top to be the pride of Daegu.

Imagine if I rode to school on a Penny Farthing! I can imagine the scenes of jubilation now. Crowds of children cheering, Korean parents awe struck at my British extravagance, and fellow teachers lining the roads to take a picture of me gliding to work in style. I would just have to hope than none of my American co-workers fainted before they even got to see the little wheel at the back.

Korean Manners And The Meaning Of Dreams.

Many westerners who have spent some time in Korea would tell you that Korean manners is an oxymoron. Koreans don't queue in shops, they push in. The older Koreans spit on the street openly and push you out of their way if they are trying to get somewhere.

But there are in fact many rules of etiquette that are just different to our own. Obviously I ensured that I was well acquainted with most of these as soon as I arrived so that I knew the best possible ways in which to be obnoxious and offensive to people around me.

For example it is a huge faux paus to write someones name in red. Red means death and only the name of a dead person should be written in red ink. I found this out in my first week by the screams of protest from my students when I wrote their names in red marker, and I have heard it every day since then, when I cheerfully select a big red marker anytime that I have to write one of their names.

This may seem unnecessarily cruel, but it is actually necessarily cruel. The only time I have to write their names on the board is when they are misbehaving, and as I'm not allowed to thrash them with sticks in the manner of a Korean teacher, a small death threat seems quite fair.

But despite my deep knowledge on Korean culture and manners, I was shocked to learn of one of the necessities of good manners a couple of weeks ago. My students had to create a poster guide on Korean Manners to inform foreign people of how to behave. The usual by-products of Confucianism were all there...

Bow
Older People Eat First
No Shoes In The Home

And then a rule that stunned me and reeked of horrendous prejudice.

TWO HANDS.

I looked closely at the poster, and sure enough there was a drawing of exactly two human hands next to the rule. How did this physical norm become so important to being seen as well mannered? Was there a dark time in Korea's past, when a rabble of vile, one handed bastards tore through the cities and towns with repulsive behaviour?

I began to imagine this mob of one handed scum and the disgusting acts they must have carried out. But they are long gone, surely Koreans must move on and recognise that you can be courteous and well behaved and yet only have one hand.

What if a one handed person wished to visit Korea to do good deeds or spread their wisdom? Imagine someone like Britain's own Abu Hamza, fresh from prison and simply looking to visit South Korea to speak politely about global jihad and to respectfully rant about his hatred of Jews? Why, he would be seen as rude and abhorrent simply because he has only a single hand.

It made me wonder how many iconic and great one handed figures of literature and history may be reviled in Korean culture. Captain Hook, Luke Skywalker...perhaps even Jeremy Beadle?!

The explanation for this two hands demand was that it actually meant you should always hold a bowl or cup with both hands when passing it to someone or when a person is filling up your drink etc. That's the official line, but I'm not sure I buy it. Afterall I have not seen a single person with one hand or less since I have been here, and that seems somewhat suspicious if you ask me.

I wondered whether I had stumbled across a hidden, dark secret of 21st Century Korea.

Talking of wondering, a day dream is also a type of wondering and a day dream is in many ways closely linked to dreams, which brings me smoothly onto the topic of dreaming and dreams. That sort of seamless, literary segue is the type of talent that most writers can only dream of.

But whilst by day I am a blurring whirl of activity, educating, quipping and pondering; by night my brain evidently takes some time off, because my dreams appear to fall into two categories. Needlessly violent or mind numbingly mundane.

The violent dreams have seen me punch walls and wake up flat mates or neighbours with my expletive riddled rants. Until recently I had never been able to remember what these evidently terrifying and brutal dreams consisted of and then I swore so loudly in one of them that I woke myself up. I remembered the dream and what had caused me to become violent, and I'm not sure if I should now feel relieved at the content or more concerned.

To cut a medium sized story short, I met a girl and agreed to add her on Facebook. I should point out that this is what happened in the dream, obviously in real life I don't meet girls and certainly don't add them on Facebook.
Anyway, as I was adding her, the ghost of her deceased father entered the room and told me not to add his daughter.

Now she had not even told me that she had a dead Dad, let alone that he would start interferring in our blossoming friendship. I ignored him. So he began to pull my foot and insist I stop adding his daughter, which I found quite rude. In fact he could not have been ruder if he had had one hand.

So I kicked him in his ghost head and screamed "Fuck off".

I fully understand if at this point you decide it is probably best to never read one of my blogs again, but please rest assured that my more vivid dreams are not so unusual. In fact there have been times when I have had a dream and not realised that it was not something that really happened until days later. The most recent example being so dull that even my own brain must have been kicking itself for coming up with such a dreadful dream.

I dreamt that someone I knew couldn't wink. They would try, but it always resulted in a blink. That's it. I got to work and couldn't remember which teacher couldn't wink, so I asked around and sure enough everyone could wink. It gradually dawned on me that I had actually dreamt the entire cannot wink episode complete with the identity of the poor individual being forgotten.

What sort of person dreams that someone they know but cannot quite remember, can only blink? Apparently the same sort of person who dreams of overly protective, dead fathers and dreams that kicking their spirit will resolve a conflict.

In contrast, both Little Spoon and one of my students known as "Hotdog" have had far more interesting dreams of late. In the past week, Little Spoon dreamt that she was a detective on a murder case, the local mayor and in an upgrade from the mayor, also that she was running as the next US President.

Ambitious? Or delusions of grandeur? Neither could apply to a man who dreams about winking.

But the dream of the week must go to 10 year old Hotdog. One of the most energetic and talkative students that I have, she interrupted the opening gambit of Tuesday's lesson to tell me about her dream and she even managed to insult my general knowledge with her initial question.

Hotdog: "Teacher, you know Hitler?"

Me: "Yes Hotdog I know who Hitler is."

Hotdog: "I have the dream of Hitler teacher."

Me: "Really? What happened?"

At this point, Hotdog leaps from her chair and proceeds to act out the rest of her dream to the classes delight.

Hotdog: "I see the Hitler, kick him, kick his leg, and kick the hand. He says 'No no, sorry, I am sorry', but I kick him again. Then computer...you know computer? Computer to crash on the Hitler's head. So dead."

So even a ten year old ADHD sufferer has better dreams than me. She got an apology from one of the 20th Centuries most evil men simply by kicking him, and then killed him with a computer over the head.

I didn't know what to say, so I just said "Well done" and decided that when I had to write her name on the board, I would use green instead of red. She deserved that much at least.

Food Poisoning, Rules and Korean Salt.

Well it has been a month since I last blogged. After such a triumphant return you would think that I would have leapt back into the hustle and bustle of my teaching life and been eager to share it with the handful of people following my exploits. You would have been wrong to think such a thing.

I have been so busy that I felt sick at the mere thought of sharing anything with you. In the mood I was in, I would have spat in your face if you asked to share a light snack with me, nevermind my innermost thoughts and feelings.

My school gave me a horribe schedule. No surprises there and then I got food poisoning. It is difficult to explain why getting food poisoning is worse for me than for other humans, but I will attempt to enlighten you. Up until September 2009, I had never had food poisoning in my life and I had certainly tried. I ate from squalid road side huts in Cambodia, I ate old yogurts at home that were 2 months past their use by date and I even ate a sausage from a barbecue that had been left on a plate in my backgarden over night.

And not a hint of food poisoning. This led me to announce to anyone who would listen that I was "immune to food poisoning". A number of people tried to reason with me and suggest I had been fortunate. I mocked them and ridiculed their way of life.

Then one fateful night in September 2009 I bought a chicken (yes a whole chicken) from my local kebab shop. I ate it, as one tends to do with chickens. I got salmonella. I was obviously very ill, but more importantly I was psychologically damaged. My world view had been rocked and I was not the man who sneered at salmonella and scoffed at E-Coli; I was a normal man, a man who could get food poisoning.

My critics crawled out from under the rocks they had been hiding under and told me that they had tried to explain to me that my boasting was foolish. You would think that I would be humbled and begrudgingly accept my folly. You would be wrong to think such a thing. That is the second time in one blog that you have thought something and be quite wrong about it, but I shall not hold it against you.

So disgusted was I at my bodies weakness to salmonella that I masked my insecurity with more bravado and proclaimed that I would "never again get food poisoning". My friends and family shook their heads and sighed. I laughed, waved my finger and told them that I was indeed tempting fate but that I would never get my comeuppance.

My comeuppance took less than two years to arrive and it arrived promptly on Sunday March 20th after I had just been to Seoul to watch Little Spoon, Rudeboy Yatesy and Chocolate Orange put in an outstanding effort to complete the Seoul International Marathon.

The Friday night before this, our two faced, money grabbing employer had tried to sweeten us up with a meal out. A meal of seafood. A meal that involved watching a slug like, shell fish being cooked alive on a grill. If you are prejudiced against slug like, shell fish you would love this. As a man who has long admired slug like, shell fish I felt slightly uncomfortable watching it spin and writhe on its shell and attempt to crawl off, only to feel the even greater heat of the grill and jerk back onto its increasingly hot shell.

Some of the teachers chose not to eat this poor little blighter. I however, decided that his suffering should not be in vain and I ate a good deal. It tasted nice, and Little Spoon and Blancquita tucked in too.

But the tortured slug was to have the final laugh. Because moments after Little Spoon finished her marathon, she began to feel ill. Being a general know it all and self proclaimed medical expert, I informed her that it was simply dehydration. She began to vomit violently. I nodded. Definitely dehydration. Then Blancquita began to be sick. I raised my eyebrows, because she had not run a marathon. Just a coincidence then.

Then I was sick. And as it turned out so was everybody who ate the little slug like, shell fish. When I find out the correct name, I will inform you, but I also intend to return and eat one again. Because we are now mortal enemies. You might be thinking that I would stay clear of something that gave me food poisoning, but let's be honest you have not been very accurate with your thoughts so far have you? As it happens you would be wrong for a third time, because I am not in the least concerned about getting food poisoning again, for a simple reason.

I will never get food poisoning again. Ever. That is a bold claim, but one I make, confident in the knowledge that I will never get my comeuppance.

Talking of unusual Korean foods, I should warn anyone planning on coming here about Korean Salt. I'll be honest, I had not encountered any problems with Korean salt myself, but a major one was drawn to my attention by Little Spoon.

As you may recall she likes to eat limes with salt. As you may also recall I had smuggled a bag of limes into the country at the risk of five years imprisonment, and Little Spoon had bought herself a large bag of salt for the occasion.

I watched her prepare her ludicrous snack in the way you might watch a beetle on its back struggle to get back onto its feet. But I did not envisage the problem that was to emerge...

Little Spoon: "Mmmmm....hmmmm...strange."

Me: "What's strange, other than this entire snack?"

Little Spoon: "It tastes different than at home. It's not horrible, but...it tastes not right."

She frowns a little and then dips her hand into the bag of salt and tastes it.

Little Spoon: "Yep, it's the salt. Korean salt is weird."

Me: "It can't be, salt is just salt."

Little Spoon: "NO, Korean salt is weird, come here and taste it if you don't believe me."

So I did.

Me: "You're right. Korean salt is weird. Korean salt is sugar."

As you can imagine this issue with Korean salt is quite inconvenient. It could ruin an entire trip and certainly would ruin many meals. But thankfully I have found a solution. If you fancy something with salt on it, then don't use Korean salt (because it's sugar remember), just use Korean sugar. Because Korean sugar is salt. Strange eh? Well either that or Little Spoon just picked up the wrong bag, but I doubt that could have happened.

So as another week began at work on Monday, it was time for another staff meeting and a quick reminder from our employers about what was expected of us. The usual things were mentioned, such as make sure you are on time. Finish student reports by the deadline and a few guidelines on grading.

But then a bombshell. A totally unreasonable and outlandish demand.

"Remember not to touch your kids".

WHAT? Don't touch the kids? You will be telling me I have to wear trousers during lessons next. Everyone seemed a bit surprised to hear that we shouldn't fondle the children, but if that's what the Koreans want then fair enough, when in Rome and all that...

Anyway I am off to have a cup of Korean coffee. That's tea to you and me.

A Triumphant Return And A Triumphant Return...

That's two triumphant returns. The first one was of course my return to Manchester, England. A return that was generally deemed to have been fairly triumphant by all those polled.

There were of course small issues that hampered me slightly. One of which was that many of my friends saw me for the first time at a mutual friends wedding. For some reason everyone seemed to be paying the Bride and Groom a lot of attention and the photographer who I had assumed was there for me, spent most of his time taking pictures of the newly married couple.

Despite this insult I had a fantastic day and even managed to forget that the very next morning I was off to the airport to fly back to Korea, hungover and facing a new nightmarish schedule of teaching.

My alarm woke me.

It was the next morning. I had to fly back to Korea, hungover and facing a new nightmarish schedule of teaching.

I packed quickly, just the essentials really. Trousers, Shoes, Wash Bag, Limes, Underwear, Cheddar...

The limes were for Little Spoon. She eats them with salt. She is a freak. She also eats apples with salt, but Korea has plenty of apples but not a lime to be found. The cheddar was for me. I am not a freak. I eat cheddar with bread and grated onto pasta.

My adoring family sped me to the airport with plenty of time to spare and after checking in, I had some time to kill, so I headed for the shops. At this point something happened. Nobody is really sure what. I certainly don't know and as nobody else I know was there, it seems to safe to say that nobody is really sure.

Whatever happened, I lost some time and never got it back again.

As I queued to buy a bottle of nicely chilled Ribena I heard one of the announcements for those idiotic passengers who are holding up their flight by not being on the plane. Morons. I say delay the plane and let the cretin get on and then at 10,000 feet throw the worthless sack of excrement out of the emergency exit to plunge to a long overdue death.

I was almost at the front of the queue, the only person ahead was some impossibly wizened old woman buying a magazine I couldn't quite decipher; Coffins Monthly or something no doubt. The bell sounded for a repeat of the late passenger announcement. I shook my head with disgust...

"This is the final call for passenger M.Roberts, repeat the final call for passenger M.Roberts, the gate will be closing now."

The idiots name rang a bell. It was a huge bell and it was ringing very loudly indeed. Oh fuck. I hurled my Ribena at the prune like woman and ran. In hindsight I could have just put the bottle down and ran, but at the time throwing it seemed the right thing to do.

Now I was sprinting. It had been warm, so my jacket was under one arm and my rucksack of assorted gadgets and books for the flight was over the other shoulder. I refused to allow these hinderances to slow me down. I tore through Manchester airport like Usain Bolt.

As I sped by, I would catch glimpses of stunned faces, frozen in shock at the speeds I was reaching. Perhaps they thought I was Usain Bolt. It would have been an easy mistake to make; I caught a reflection of myself in a mirror and sure enough I looked like him. Yes I was shorter, whiter and he doesn't usually run with a folded up jacket and rucksack...

But the pace was there.

I made my flight. It was only a quick one to Amsterdam before a change, but long enough to get glowering looks from all the other passengers.

The next flight was far more sedate but irritating in itself. First of all I had people sat next to me. I've never been a big fan of people and within 10 minutes of sitting down one of these obnoxious scumbags had spoken to me quite uninvited...

"Hello, sorry. Excuse a me please. Sorry"

He wanted to go to the toilet. Should have gone before we left shouldn't you? Still it was to be a ten hour flight, but heaven help him if he decided he needed to go again at any point. Everyone around me was Korean, but the captain announced that the languages spoken by the staff on board were...

"English, Korean, Dutch, Russian, Mongolian and German".

Mongolian? Do Mongolians even speak Mongolian? Apparently they do. I wondered if there were any Mongolians onboard. Possibly sat next to a German. I could envisage it now, the two trading war stories, bragging about their genocidal histories. It made me sick.

Thank God I came from a nation who had never started wars or ransacked nations for their wealth and resources. I ordered some English breakfast tea from an airhostess who could possibly have been Mongolian but if she was, she wasn't letting on.

I idled away the flight imagining my second triumphant return. The return to Korea. I was to meet Little Spoon, Chocolate Orange and Rudeboy Yatesy in Seoul. They had been running a half marathon. Wait until I told them about my sprint in Manchester Airport, they would LOVE that story. They would probably be quite impressed too, as I'd imagine I was hitting speeds that they did not get close to during their little mid morning run around Seoul.

Last thing to do before I landed was fill in my declaration on anything illegal I might be bringing in. Guns? Not this time. Drugs? Nope. Endangered animals? Nah. Fruits or Livestock products? No...erm...hang on.

I had a bag of limes and two blocks of cheddar cheese. Extra strong cheddar cheese too. I scrutinised the form.

"Maximum Penalty for false declaration, FIVE YEARS in prison".

Oh fiddlesticks.

Imagine if I got five years in prison?! That would be a quite untriumphant return. And "untriumphant" is not even a real word, but it would be it, if I went to prison. Five years in jail would put a huge dampener on my return to Korea and it would also do my long term prospects of being an underworld boss no help at all.

Imagine years from now if I was in a seedy bar talking to other career criminals about my past...

"I did five years in the joint motherfucker"

Because I see my criminal life based mainly in America.

One of the crime bosses would undoubtebly ask what I went in for? What would I say?

"Erm...smuggling....yeah, that's right homie, one whole bag and two blocks of the extra strong shit; I came in with the Mongolians"

Maybe I could pull it off. However it would not be necessary as I got through customs undetected, a free man and still with my contraband intact.

I went to meet my friends, and they were there, including Chess Champ and Dubs. It was in the end a most triumphant return.