Thursday, 18 March 2010

Interviewing My Dong

It's my birthday today. I made it into my fourth decade: much better than the average English cricketer.

As fate would have it I had to go for an interview with the boss of a cram school today. I had already done an interview with a patently lithium taking nut case of a woman that refused to do email and had the gall to insist that I make an impromptu speech about the freedom of the press. I driveled on about South Africa, government corruption and the paparazzi for well beyond my allotted 300 words. The aged woman pretended to listened but I could tell she was relaxing in that lithium space between reality and sleep. 

The upshot of the experience with the mad old lady was that I had to meet the cram school President. And so that’s what I did today.

The ‘headquarters’ of the cram school was a cramped room on the second floor of a dilapidated building near my local train station. Four employees, the boss and mountains of paper and computer hardware were squeezed into the room. I inched my way in a circuit of the room to get to the boss’s desk. He sat very casually in a swivel chair. He was about 50 with salt and pepper hair that was oddly shaved over the ears and in a ducks arse at the back. This cut made him look like he had invested in a second hand toupee.

He waved me over and I sat on a stool in a narrow gap between his big desk and a book shelf. He didn't speak any English.

He stared at my paper resume like any moment Google was going to translate it for him. He asked me my age. I told him that today I was 40. He then asked me if I was married. I told him that I was married to a local Japanese girl.

This grabbed his interest immediately. After some puzzlement on my part I realized he was asking me if I had any children. This is when his impressively forthright political incorrectness reared its unashamed head.

I told him that at present we didn't have a child.

He looked in astonishment and said something I couldn't fathom then he pushed his chair back from the desk, clenched his right fist and tucked his elbow into his plump belly. He then said more incomprehensible Japanese and something that sounded like “dong”. He was clearly demonstrating how I should stick it to my wife. He didn't give a rat's arse for the sensibilities of the three young female office workers in that dusty room. He then asked me if I like Japanese girls.

I tried to play along without feeding at the altar of complete chauvinism. I said Japanese girls were “very nice”. This was far from an acceptable answer for the company president. He then wanted to know what English girls were like. I whispered conspiratorially to him that they were often overweight. This sent Jabba the Prez into guffaws of pleasure.

I think that sealed the deal for me because shortly afterwards a geeky minion who spoke a bit of English came over and asked for my alien registration card and passport. We then filled in a form detailing when I was available to teach the progeny of the rich how to pass meaningless tests. It ended with me handing over my bank book so the number and name could be photocopied.

The President stood up and shook my hand in a manly manner and allowed me to go.

I stepped out into the sunny day and considered the possibility that the matrix was glitching and spilling out Alice in Wonderland moments.

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