Hoo Flung Flem

I don’t know what it is about Chinese Man, but he seems entirely pre-occupied with clearing his throat.

Perhaps blocked tubes and pipes is a national affliction. Perhaps despite over 2000 years of medical eminence and herbal remedy, the solution has yet eluded these people, and they have been condemned to a life of retching and spitting and cappuccino machine impressions. Perhaps this is why most of the men look so unhappy. Maybe this accounts for the dower looks on many Chinese faces as they trudge forward in life, heads bowed, looking for the next gutter?

But for whatever reason, Chinese Man would not be out of place on an English football pitch.

Every opportunity is taken. Any hint of a gutter, the streams, the sidewalks, even over the side of a bridge, showering down on some unsuspecting river boatman. Accordingly, a simple stroll down the sidewalk demands a series of complex choreographed pas-de-deux, tripping between the shiny globules.

Keep you eyes open for fear of intercepting an arcing delivery of targeted precision from any man within two metres of a bin.

The rest rooms have become a hotbed of activity. A veritable orchestra of men tuning up their nasal flutes and throaty oboes with the rhythmic percussion added by the sound of the missiles hitting the porcelain.

The country side takes on a new outlook. The peaceful tranquillity of the River Li is disturbed by Jong Public revving up his oesophageal engine and edging forward ready for a green light to launch his next dewy projectile. The hills are alive with the sound of mucus and “rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens” takes on a more sinister, slimy meaning.

Either way, be it by advancing Western influence or restraining Eastern phlegm, this is truly nation of Great Expectorations.