“I’d punch you. Punch you right in the mouth.”

Today’s difference isn’t strictly between Korea and England, rather America and England, although a night out in parts of Seoul often merges USA and Korea into one.
Show an American a room full of flowers and they’ll tell you how wonderful they look. They’ll tell you how much they love flowers, even if they don’t. You’ll end the meeting feeling good. Show somebody English the same room and they’ll ask where the coffin is.

One night in a bar in Chuncheon I had a conversation with two American guys on the topic ‘top five people you’d like to meet.’ It was full of positivity as we discussed our heroes and how they’ve shaped our lives.

On my first day back in my Oldham office a colleague asked me: “If you could punch 5 celebrities flush in the face, who would they be?”

In the spirit of national pride here is my punch list. The rules are that the punches are to the face, will not kill or leave permanent marks and they are also without repercussions, so if there’s a famous woman you dislike, fret not, punch away; it’s only a blog.

Shane Ritchie

My first answer and it was made immediately. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve always despised him. Maybe it was his smug smile as he replaced people’s stained shirts with new ones and claimed Daz did it(it takes a special kind of desperation to pick up Danny Baker’s rejected jobs). Perhaps it was the needless abuse he dished out to Peter Simon during his time as presenter of Run the Risk. More than likely though it’s because one of his boys is called Shane jnr, and another is called McKenzie Blue. Anybody who puts a colour in their child’s name is practically asking to be punched.

(Punch me, punch me right in the face)

Garth Crooks

Football is a world that’s easy to hate, and there’s plenty of punchable people. It could be Ashley Cole: “55k a week is taking the piss.”
Sepp Blatter: “Women should wear tighter shorts.”
John Terry: “I just had sex with your wife.” (lawyer’s note, this is not a genuine quote)

But all of these will feature on so many punch lists. I like to spread the wealth and so my football man is that ditherer of questions, that confuser of events that have just happened. A man whose fourth most searched for term on google involving his name is 'Garth Crooks Idiot.'

Garth Crooks (shouting): “That should never have been a red card, only ever a yellow card.”
Steve Claridge: “It was his second yellow card Garth.”
GC: “But still.”

His job started at the BBC as a post match interviewer, and it’s not hard to see why when he excels in that art with hard hitters like this:

“That was clearly the result you wanted wasn’t it?” (To a Dutch player after they’d won 3-0) or even this question made to Arsene Wenger:
“David Seaman made a phenomenal save today. Is he capable of saves like that?”

Such a poor performance in such an easy task as asking coherent questions would have most people fired, but sadly Garth has just moved further up the pecking order at the BBC and into that realm of football pundits that really shouldn’t be eating unassisted, never mind offering their insight into the game.

Imagine if a journalist was to interview a celebrity and just asked ‘You’re good, aren’t you?’ Or a doctor that asked ‘It hurts when you move your knee. Are you capable of moving your knee?’ A world full of Garth Crooks is a frightening prospect and for that reason he deserves a punch.

Chris Moyles

Chris Moyles is the peak of the Radio One Iceberg. That’s not to say I don’t want to punch him on his own merits, but in this case he’d be taking the punch for the whole of Radio One, especially the news desk.

I love the BBC. It makes me proud to be British. The website is magnificent, the shows are generally of high quality, and it shows why privatisation isn’t always the best way. Programmes get made by the BBC that don’t make money, but are quite clearly high points of our culture. Think of Blue Planet, The Thick Of It and Have I Got News For You. These are programmes that don’t insult the intelligence, that promote knowledge and are made by people at the top of their professions.

Sadly Chris Moyles and Radio One are the antitheses of these qualities. The breakfast show seems to consist entirely of Moyles talking about ‘funny things I said in the pub’ all of which have been written by producers. If there’s one thing worse than bombing, it’s bombing other people’s material. Such funny things include shouting down the microphone, referring to a ringtone as ‘gay’, introducing himself to Halle Berry as a ‘big black man,’ saying Polish people make great ‘prostitutes and ironers’, and having footballers on his show who say the word ‘faggot’ without reprimand.

Radio One news is no better. BBC news should be a bastion of impartiality and informed comment, and yet it allows Radio One to constantly follow up its new reports with opinions of the public disguised as intelligent statements, such as “James from Luton says ‘I think the floods in Pakistan are terrible.’” Really James? How informative; I may have struggled to have come to such a conclusion had I only been presented with the raw figures of 3,000 dead.

“Chelsea from Salford thinks ‘Them MPs aren’t right, they need to be sorted out.’” Fantastic Chelsea; would you like that to be implemented as a policy to tackle Government corruption? Just as simple as sort them out. If only such laws had passed but 5 years ago, think of the waste that could have been avoided.

For this and for only ever being Northern when it suits you, Chris Moyles, given the chance I would punch you full in the face.

(How has this man made money?)

Paris Hilton

To keep this blog from being accused of sexism I have decided to include a woman. Namely Paris Hilton. As a child I was well taught in the ways of the world by my father, and so I know never to trust anybody with a monobrow, anybody who wears a hat with no practical purpose and women who carry dogs in bags.

Through no fault of her own Paris sums up the worst in rich children who really don’t have a clue, and don’t really need to, because even if they flunk everything, they’ll always have money.

“All British people have plain names, and that works pretty well over there.”

No Paris they don’t, just ask Shane Ritchie.

Number 5

I do my best to make the blogging experience as interactive as possible, and because of this, and in no way due to my laziness I have left the 5th option open to public discussion. Who would you punch in the face? You get to leave a comment at the bottom and I get more dwell time on my website; it's a win win situation.

Blog away reader, blog away.

Scroats

Scroat - [scrote]
-noun
Difficult to define, but people who aren’t scroats can generally tell if somebody else is. A scroat often be seen stealing from old people, shouting at their partner when pissed or generally just doing scroaty things. Scroats often congregate into groups with other scroats. They can be indentified by a constant need to massage their testicles. They’re often seen being walked by dogs that seem intent on killing anything that crosses their paths.

My neighbour is a scroat. I know he is because when he’s drunk at weekend he calls his girlfriend a slag. I can tell she’s a scroat too because she stays with him. For all their faults scroats tend to be fairly loyal, perhaps because nobody else will hang out with them.

On my return to England I was amazed by the sheer quantity of scroats, I counted 42 outside one shop alone. Korea is mercifully free of them. There’s no sense of cool if you’re stupid in school or any sense of ‘well done’ if you’re somebody who cheats or steals.

Much like honesty and decency spreads through all walks of life in Korea, so Scroats infest English culture like rats. Footballers dive and go on strike to top up their millions, led by big time Scroat Ashley Cole. Celebrity TV shows are made to cater for them, and even political parties like the BNP exist, should they ever become inspired to vote.

One day soon they’ll be a Scroat religion with a leader who wears all white and ridiculous quantities of gold. He’ll lie, cover up crimes and blame everybody else when he’s caught.

Wait a minute ...

Neighbours

Apartment living has its benefits: Heating bills are kept lower, there’s no garden up keep and you don’t have to negotiate any tricky steps when you’re drunk. However, it does mean your access to neighbours is limited to looking into their living rooms across the carpark.

During my time away in Korea our house was rented out. For the most part the tenant left it in one piece, however, a gardener he was not, and so my first job on returning was to tidy the garden as best I could. The first two priorities were cutting the grass and removing a vine plant that had gotten out of control. To do both jobs I borrowed a pair of blunt shears.

After hacking at the grass for some minutes I finally removed two blades. Exasperated I moved onto the vine plant. When I left England it was growing, but was a manageable size. Now it was a beast of epic proportions. As I removed leaves I saw the remnants of eaten plants, scores of crushed snails and the bones of next door’s cat that went missing. It seemed impenetrable, especially so since my tools had developed a layer of rust that chipped off only to reveal older rust. A Russian doll of rust lay beneath.

After an hour of squeezing leaves between the ‘blades’ my neighbour, whom I have never spoken to, offered to lend me her secateurs. The offending plant was massacred in minutes. My gloveless hands bled as it went down fighting, but I kept on. It went deeper than I thought possible. The inside was a graveyard of bugs, plants, snails, Russian spies. As I went under the leaves to cut the plant at its main stem I felt the branches closing in on me, but despite its best efforts I cut it down to the roots. All thanks to the kindness of neighbours, neighbours I never would have spoken to had I lived in an apartment.

Having said all that my other neighbour is a twat.

Going home

Korea was an easy place to live. 27 hours make a full time week, a meal out costs a fiver, beer is plentiful and work starts late. However, because of this, it isn’t the healthiest place. Like a tree’s age can be counted by its rings, generally you can tell how long a teacher has been in Korea by how many extra inches they have around their waist since they arrived.

Despite having an incredible year full of new experiences and new friends, leaving Korea, for my health’s sake at least, wasn’t all sorrow. Nobody wants to be the last to leave a party, but it’s hard to be the first.

(Perhaps the best ever song about going home, apart from Driving Home for Christmas by Chris Rea obviously)

Different people have different responses when it comes to the time to go. Some count down the days on their facebook walls as if the whole thing was a prison sentence. Some people cry, some people just stay. For the most part people are mixed like I was. Heading home my first feeling was joy at seeing my family. Actually my first reaction going home was ‘Finn Air – £500 for excess baggage – robbing bastards!!!,’ but after stealing a cushion and headphones from the flight, my sense of justice was restored and I went back to being happy at seeing my family. That was followed by sadness. Not at the end of the highlife, Korea is as close as one can be to being back at university, but without the need to eat baked beans for 42 days straight. I was sad at the fact that due to their homes being in USA, Ireland, Australia and Canada, I probably wouldn’t see my new found friends again.

With regular travelling people come and people go, and that’s part of the deal. You know you’re probably not going to see them again, so moving on isn’t hard. However to live in another country for a year means to put down roots. Friends are made and plans are made with them. Your life is a normal life, but in another country. When the time comes to leave that means not just leaving a country, but your friends, groups, plans, local bars, favourite restaurants, colleagues and hardest of all in my case, students.

The culture shock I experienced going to Korea was only eclipsed by the culture shock going back to England. In the spirit of easy reading, starting tomorrow, each day I’ll be posting the main differences between the two countries.

Tune in tomorrow for the first difference: neighbours.

A river ran through me

It’s said the Inuit have over 100 words for snow. Likewise we English have a whole collection of words for small body of running water with no obvious danger: stream, brook, spring, creek, course, rivulet, spate, pissflow. A river is something big, something to be feared and crossed on a bridge; to be looked at from a distance and admired.

A stream is where I got my running water kicks as a kid. I used to journey down brooks in my wellington boots. There was no need for waders; the water never rose above my toes, but still it felt like an epic journey each time I traversed the watery mile to the local tennis club.

(The "river" Chew in Greenfield. My home village.)

I poked things with sticks, imagined huge waterfalls ahead, pushed my action man in his raft, generally anything but come to terms with the fact that I needed a friend.

I had to do the work in my head; we simply don’t have that many big rivers in England to stimulate the imagination. I put it down to generosity of spirit; with our 200 days of rain each year, we make sure that every village has a trickle running through it. Anything else would just be greedy.

That’s probably why I’ve never white water rafted before. The only white water I’ve encountered has been from industrial waste in the Thames.

When I heard it was done in Korea I had to try it. Before we travelled East to Inje, friends insisted the water would be calm; an easy introduction to the sport. Sadly it wasn’t to be. The day before, it rained as if an ark was needed. The whole sky was like an endless bucket being poured on all below it. The river raged up 2metres in a week, up a grade in a day.

It wasn’t a case of spotting the white water as we drove alongside the course, rather spotting the water that wasn’t. I could see all manner of rafting paraphernalia in the swollen water: paddles, helmets, arms.

I asked the instructor if it would be dangerous. He nodded.
“It’s safe ...... verrrrry dangerous.”
“So, it’s dangerous then?”
“No, not dangerous, just a little not safe.”

This carried on back and forth. The instructor looked at another instructor and they told me various contradictory statements about the safety, or lack of it, of the rafting. The safety class was similar. We were told what to do if we plunged into a rapid. “Turn around, head up river, feet down river. Be verrrrry calm.”I looked at the waves rising up then crashing down into holes 3 metres deep. It didn’t seem conducive to calmness.

We got in the boat and practiced in the one calm spot for 10 minutes. This involved the guide shouting various instructions in Korean, the rafters shouting them back, and the boat spinning 360 degrees. He seemed pleased with this and so we set off into the first rapids.

Lindsay and I shared a boat with a group of high school exchange students from Singapore. They were confident, articulate and spoke in 2 languages, flicking back and forth between English and Malay, often mid sentence. The country has 4 official languages. Maybe their fluency can be put down to education; maybe that 42% of the country is of foreign heritage. Whatever it is if Korea really wants to be serious in its efforts to become a bilingual country then it need look no further than Singapore as a working model.

As we waited for the boat to drift to the first rapids and its doom I took time to look around. Cities in Korea are cramped, built upwards and generally devoid of any aesthetic pleasures. However, this does have a benefit. Much of the country is undeveloped, and in cities like Inje you can travel 10 minutes in a car and feel, as I did that day, like you are in true wilderness. Mountains rising up from rivers, entirely forested and seemingly full of adventures to be had.

(10 minutes from drive from the city of Inje brings you to this)

Then the rapids hit. We trashed our paddles around furiously, swayed from side to side, got soaking wet, but from the first swell I was hooked. There’s something extraordinary about being thrown about in a boat that is only comparable to when I’ve been mountain biking or fell running. You may not know entirely what you’re doing all the time, but that’s the draw card. You really don’t know what the result will be, because you don’t control every possibility. Nobody but nature does.

I started to get the hang of it, or at least I thought I did. We hit more rapids and guided through with no more damage than wet bodies. With 3 more rapids left we hit a big swell that rose the boat up and then dropped it mercilessly at what felt like a 90 degree angle. We all fell about, desperately clinging on. A girl was thrown overboard into the swirling abyss and the guide began to scream. Until that moment he’d be the epitome of calm. Perched precariously on the back of the boat and joking about. At one point I’m sure I saw him doing a handstand. Now though he seemed frantic. We were in the middle of a big rapid with a large slab of granite approaching. The problem with rocks is that they’re not in the habit of moving out of your way. Everybody grabbed what they could of the girl, whilst trying not to be thrown to the greedy river themselves. We finally hauled her on board and left her to lie at our feet.

She looked terrified. We managed to traverse the rest of the white water with no further incident, and it was then that I could consider the facts that make rafting so exciting. It really can hurt you. The water doesn’t help you out. It’s unrelenting, and so needs unrelenting respect and attention. That just deepened my addiction.

One of the best parts of outdoor sports compared to competitive sports is the removal of the competition. With that gone, your success doesn’t correlate to somebody else’s failure. It creates an atmosphere where people help each other out, and do their best to make sure you enjoy the experience. I looked up the river from our end point and the smiles were just the same as mine from boat to boat. If there’s ever a sport that sums up the spirit of Korean people, then it’s rafting.

"A nation’s greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members." Gandhi

The average person in the UK will spend 42 days in hospital over a lifetime. I’ve spent 12 in just the last 4 years before coming to Korea, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that I would receive some treatment during my time here.

It’s not that I’m especially sickly; most of my problems have been injuries. Damaging nerves in my hand after spearing myself with an electric toothbrush is a particular highlight.

My first trip to the hospital here was to deal with the dreaded swine flu, or piggus sickus to give it its Latin name. I arrived at the treatment room 5km away from the main building, on an island, over a moat reinforced with barbed wire, just in time to see the sign being changed from ‘keep out, leper colony.’

My next trip was to have an x-ray on my foot following a collision with a seemingly suicidal goalkeeper at football. This time I went to a different, smaller hospital; the choice is endless here in Chuncheon. I entered the building and was immediately given an appointment for an hour’s time. Coming from England I was expecting to be told to come a month next Tuesday, but only if it isn’t sunny, otherwise the old women will fancy a day trip.

From the time of appointment I was seen to, given an x-ray, assessment of the x-ray and prescription, all within 25 minutes. I’m still not sure what was wrong with my foot. He just kept pointing at my toes saying “abnormality, abnormality, abnormality,” whilst dancing about with some sort of staff, before sending me on my way to physical therapy. This involved a walk of 100m and no waiting.

They must have known I was English, because physical therapy involved the kind of treatment James Bond could expect to receive should he ever fail to escape the clutches of the enemy.

First a red hot bandage was wrapped around my foot. It was left on for 10 minutes, plenty of time to leave my foot medium to well done. I was told to lie down whilst they cooked my body parts, something the old woman in the cubicle next to me was evidently doing, as my bed shook violently with her snores. After the time was finished a nurse removed the pad and took it back to its rightful place removing wallpaper.

The middle part wasn’t as bad as a nurse rubbed gel onto my foot and moved a lump of metal over it. I had no time to ask what it did as straight away it was removed and replaced by two electropads. These proceeded to send electric currents through my foot. I did ask what these were. Her English was sketchy, but she managed to mention something about ‘stunning cows.’

As it turned on she pointed at a button and said ‘pain, press here.’ I nodded, lay back and relaxed knowing there was nothing a couple of pads could do to hurt me. Then it started. Waves of currents were sent through my bones. The first set forced my body upright, the second, gave me a twitch I’m still trying to get rid of. The next few went entirely through my foot, and gave it a similar to sensation to being crushed in a vice. After two of these I pressed the buzzer frantically. The nurse walked over, nodded and turned the power up. I screamed in agony and pressed the buzzer again, only to see her manically grinning as she turned it up still further. We played this game for 5 minutes before the power shorted out, the hospital lights started to dim and my foot began to smoke. Then I was allowed on my way.

Ignoring the devastating pain, and thinking of the time taken, for me the whole experience was fantastic. But therein lies the catch: for me. I can afford it. Millions can’t.

Certainly the old man I see near my apartment, bent double with arthritis, using a plank of wood as a crutch because he can’t afford treatment or crutches, can’t afford it. It’s an $8,000 a year minimum to be insured here, and that covers roughly 55% of your bills, only if you have work.

Nor can the woman who uses a pram filled with bricks to act as a makeshift walking frame. If you have no work, then you’re liable for 100% of your bills. Insurance just buys you the right to be treated.

In the other major country with no free healthcare, the land of the free, the USA, it’s a similarly shitty deal. 47 million people have no medical insurance. That’s more people than live in the states of Connecticut, Oregon, Iowa, New Mexico, Colorado, New York, Virginia and Utah combined. 2 million people a year file for medical bankruptcy in the USA, meaning every 30 seconds somebody has their life ruined because they’re unlucky enough to be sick, and couldn’t afford to be treated; all this in the richest nation on Earth. Of those people, more than half will have medical insurance.

University education is simply not an option for those at the lower end of the economic ladder. They have to spend their money on not dying. To be treated for leukaemia costs $500,000 and most insurance packages don’t cover that. 1 in 3 of us will get cancer at some stage in our lives. It’s a frightening enough prospect even without knowing you and your family will have to spend the rest of your days paying back debt, just to have a chance of survival.

There are hundreds of examples of insurance companies ruining lives with a loophole, just for a drop in their ocean of profit, but the argument doesn’t need strengthening. To make profit from people’s ill health is wrong. That simple.

An argument given by middle class people is ‘I have to wait too long for treatment.’ What a fantastically selfish, arrogant and small minded view. ‘Yes there may well be people being turned away bleeding from the hospital door because they don’t have the right forms, but there’s just no way I’m going to wait 3 hours for this x-ray.’

At least they’re waiting for something. Those 15 million in the USA with no healthcare could be hit by a drunk driver today and they won’t receive medical attention unless they have insurance. Even then they could well be liable for costs as their insurance company look for any way possible to not pay. In an age when $3 trillion dollars has been spent on the Iraq war alone, that is, in all senses of the word, criminal.

A country with no public healthcare benefits only two groups. The first is drugs companies. It’s no surprise that the USA prescribes more drugs than any country on earth, with around 50% of the country on prescribed medication, yet it comes in 38^th for life expectancy. Below Cuba, Puerto Rico and Greece (where over half the population smokes heavily). Treatment is administered with profit as a priority and patient welfare a sorry second. $70 billion dollars a year is made by insurance companies, and yet more people die each year in the USA from prescribed drugs than through traffic accidents.

The second group of people perceived to benefit from a private system, in terms of reduced queues, is those with enough money to go private in any country. If you can afford the $8,000 a year to be treated in South Korea, then you can afford a full BUPA package in the UK, or to go private in France, Spain, Germany ...

Using queues as an argument is redundant.

Whilst my two hours of waiting and full treatment was a novelty here, I could easily have such an experience back home in England. I’m just not forced to pay if I don’t want to.

Still not convinced? Tell the amputee using a stick he’s carved himself to aid his walking because he can’t walk, due to not having treatment on his legs, as he can’t work to be able to afford the fees. Tell him no public healthcare is acceptable. And then try telling him with a clear conscience.

Can you do that? Then it’s time you signed up for private healthcare; you really can’t afford to wait.

Dad, there's something I need to tell you ....

The start of the World Cup, coupled with an Auntie and Uncle of mine moving to Brighton has had me thinking about a life changing moment of my own. A moment I finally admitted my true self to my father.

Before I did some research I was under the impression that Brighton is a place to move if you’re retired, a hippy, homosexual, or a combination of the previous. Some light reading soon revealed my ignorance; some students also move to Brighton, although they don’t pay taxes so I’m not too sure if they count.

Time in University, Sussex or otherwise, is similar to moving to Brighton, in that it is often a time when homosexuals can finally be themselves and live true to their hearts. They can finally go about their daily lives around liberal people, free(r) from bigots and self enforced celibate child abusing priests telling them that their desires are unnatural.

I have empathy for such a situation having been through a similar time of denial myself.

When I was still a primary school student I was an Oldham Athletic fan; a small team for my American readers, with an average attendance of around 5,000. I went with my dad most weeks. I talked the talk to my fellow fans, and even read the local paper to keep up to date with players. I was a committed fan; a signed ball in my room is proof of that, but all the while something didn’t feel quite right.

Cheering goals never came naturally; the appointment of a new fitness coach didn’t have me on forums. I just didn’t feel like other Oldham fans. I was unhappy and unfulfilled.

And then came Arsenal. As a 13 year old I found myself awake late one Saturday night watching Match of the Day. I didn’t need to watch it. As an Oldham fan I should have been indifferent as the news of an unknown Frenchman taking over a Premiership team was announced.

But little did I know how Arsene Wenger would come to change my life completely. Over the next few weeks I started watching MOTD in secret, with my TV turned down. I was thrilled at last. I was experiencing the pleasure the other boys got when they talked about Oldham.

Watching Arsenal was like a dream, like nothing I’d ever seen before. The ball was passed around on the floor. They didn’t kick people. They were playing football. I’d found myself, but it would be years for me to come to terms with it.

Right into my 20s I watched the Gunners in secret, making games I did see look like a coincidence. I’d go to Arsenal friendly bars, and then ignore the people I’d watched games with if I saw them on the street. If I watched Arsenal in a regular pub I’d put my jumping up when they scored as cramp, shouts of yes were because of a polite form of tourettes; anything to avoid people knowing I wasn’t really an Oldham fan.

Something had to give. I was living a lie, and lying to those closest to me didn’t sit comfortably. I began to confess to my friends. I told myself in the mirror I was an Arsenal fan, then it was friends who didn’t care about football. A trial run of coming out. It felt like a weight had been lifted every time I said the words “I’m an Arsenal fan.”

Eventually I let thing slip, I’d argue the qualities of Pascal Cygan with such gusto that people knew something was wrong.

Some guessed, some I told and some simply asked me outright. Soon there was nobody that didn’t know. Nobody except my father.

I told him over and over again in my mind, but each time it came to doing it in person I bottled it. I was too choked with emotion that I just ended up asking him the time. He was never quite sure why this was ‘big news,’ nevertheless I couldn’t come out. I didn’t want to upset him.

Then came a charity hike with friends. My dad was the driver, taking us to various mountains to climb, all in the aid of a good cause. The discussion inevitably turned to football, at which point a member of the group, that I didn’t know as well, asked that question:

“Who do you support Lewis?” The friends that knew looked around uncomfortably, twiddling thumbs, silently whistling, doing anything to avoid eye contact. One friend even blinded himself with a penknife just to make sure.

I waited one second....two seconds....three seconds. My dad turned and looked at me. I could see it in his eyes ‘what’s the rush son? It’s an easy question.’ I couldn’t do it anymore.

“Arsenal.” It shot out like a bullet. I’d confessed. I turned to look at my father. The man who made me, who would look to me to pass on the family name. He just smiled and turned around to look at the road and switch the radio to five live; the Arsenal game. Turned out I had no reason to worry after all. I sighed as he began to talk:

“Now, you know who was a great defender? Pascal Cygan.”