Episode 4: The Boat People, Part 1

Answering the question ‘where are you from?’ is not as straightforward as it could be. My answer of ‘South London’, ‘Clapham’ or ‘Streatham’ is often met with ‘but…your family’ or ‘I mean originally…’

Well here goes Part 1...

 

Vietnam, the Land of Opium and Glory

My paternal family’s settlement in Vietnam can be traced back to the late 19th/early 20th century being my Great Grandfather’s doing. The story I often heard as a child was of 2 brothers with nothing but 3 pairs of trousers between them, eventually settling across the border and raising families in Vietnam having exhausted all opportunities in their native China to no avail. Another more detailed version of the story told to me more recently was that the significant ‘opportunity’ was in fact smuggling opium from China to Vietnam which culminated in enough funds for agricultural land to settle on. As is the case with my family, many of the Chinese in Vietnam belonged to the Hakka group of people (客家人, translates directly as ‘guest people’); nomadic by nature so for whom movement and re-settlement was fairly common.

 

Broken Families

Following the fall of Saigon in 1975 marking the end of the Vietnam War relations between Vietnam and China became strained, this along with the new communist government’s treatment of Hoa people (越南華人/越南华人/ethnic Chinese in Vietnam) led to the majority of Hoa people fleeing Vietnam from 1978 onwards. This was all the while native Vietnamese were already leaving the South following the end of the war in 1975. The plan at the time was to simply to settle in China, crossing the border by footbridge from Mong Cai, into Dong Xing, China; from there spreading into nearby towns in and around the Guang Xi region and integrating back into Chinese society.

Families were already being split and torn from the moment people started fleeing Vietnam. My maternal Granddad left Vietnam pretty swiftly taking my frail Great Grandmother across the border into China first. Granddad instructed his 8 children that for whomever the opportunity arose they would each take their own journey separately. Granddad’s thinking behind separating the family though not obvious to most was quite simple; fraught with danger and the chance that not every journey would be successful, the thought of a single failed journey for the entire family was unfathomable. Mum’s two older brothers soon followed, with their wives and young families.

For Mum, 21 at this stage and unmarried her opportunity came in leaving with Dad’s family. Following what we’d now refer to as a ‘shotgun wedding’, she left her own family behind to start a new life in China. A future laced with questions rather than answers, anxiety rather than excitement, uncertainty rather than security; far from the wedded bliss that young dreams are made of.

 

Not So Fine China

It quickly became clear that settling in China for any sustained period was impossible, realising much of the same struggles that led to the ethnic Chinese leaving for Vietnam in the first place. China in the 1970s wasn’t the developed super power we recognise today. Already a low standard of living with the lack of opportunities, resources and housing this would only be compounded by influx of refugees from Vietnam in what would’ve been in the tens of thousands.

Attention quickly turned to saving in order to fund an onward journey; an onward journey that was never in the script when leaving Vietnam originally and for which the final destination was still unknown.

 

To the Boats

For my family at least, the onward several week-long journey would see them leaving China by boat, on to Hong Kong where it had been reported that refugees were being received following successful voyages directly from Vietnam. Though venturing on to what is technically foreign land, Hong Kong as a destination made a lot of sense. A shared language in Cantonese meant that communication would be less of an issue so pleading for refuge would be that much easier; that is of course assuming the journey by sea were to be successful, not all of them were. Far from straightforward, even the successful voyages would have been met with close encounters Hong Kong being predominantly ethnic Chinese in population, the cultural parallels would’ve seemed a less daunting proposition. Whilst at the time being under British rule there was also the dangled carrot of a potential new life in the West.

My maternal Granddad worked on the water, was well travelled and well connected through his work as a food distributer. When it came to the scramble to flee to Hong Kong, he was very much a go-to figure and facilitated many families’ journeys away from China. Fortunately for my family, being ‘boat people’ (before ‘boat people’ became a thing) made not only securing spaces on boats that little bit easier but the experience and knowhow in operating boats proved useful also. In fact the boat my family travelled to Hong Kong on was under the stewardship of none other than my Mum.

Thousands of these small, basic and overcrowded boats sailed from Vietnam and China and unsurprisingly they weren’t all successful voyages. For many that boat journey will have been their first time on a boat; for the least fortunate it’d prove to be their last. The boats were poorly equipped and many under totally unqualified and inexperienced stewardship. Some boats will have been overcome by storms, others falling victims to pirates; families were broken and some wiped out entirely in an instant.

 

Refugee Camps

I’ve heard a number of differing accounts about the camps in Hong Kong. By my Mum’s own admission, in hindsight the camp they were housed in was actually fairly pleasant having later compared stories and experiences with others. It was smaller than the other camps and in contrast to the experiences of those housed in larger ones, they were treated well given the circumstances and were adequately nourished.

The dorms were shared, opened in the evening and locked again in the morning at strictly set times. Mum would have been held in Hong Kong at the same time as her some of her siblings, yet being housed in separate facilities meant that they couldn’t see each other.

It wasn’t freedom, it wasn’t even living but they were kept alive. No-one knew how long they were to be housed in the camps. The hope would have been weeks perhaps, the expectation was possibly months and the fear was years or never leaving at all.

 

Ending the Uncertainty

The option of integrating into Hong Kong and settling there was never in the offing. In the midst of what was a humanitarian crisis, the hopes and dreams of tens of thousands quickly turned to foreign lands. One thing I was surprised to learn was that people were given options and had some say in the matter of where they might ultimately start their new lives. America had already taken in thousands of Vietnamese refugees, those who originally fled the south from 1975. It was the first choice for 99% of people held in the camps. Little was known about anywhere else. Besides being cold and the English eating potatoes, nothing at all was known about England. Refugees were shown videos of the various countries accepting refugees and decisions were being made based on these brief and probably not entirely accurate clips (I would love to get my hands on some of these videos).

Many in fact turned down the chance to go to England in the hope that onward travel to America would materialise. My parents decision to pursue settlement in England ultimately came down to their desire to finally put an end to what felt like never-ending uncertainty that had marked their lives. Uncertainty over how long they were to continue surrendering their freedom within the camps. Uncertainty over whether they’d be sent back to China (if they were believed to have fled from there rather than Vietnam) or sent back Vietnam for repatriation and re-education which was also an outcome for many ethnic Vietnamese despite having reached Hong Kong. Uncertainty over whether they’d ever get to lead normal lives at all.

England offered that certainty. A small but significant step in re-gaining some control over their lives that must’ve felt at the time to be at the mercy of others. Though many unknown challenges would undoubtedly be thrown their way no doubt fraught with curiosity, fear and excitement in equal measure; they’d be given a chance of freedom, a chance at life. Onwards to King’s Lynn…

 

Realisation, Reflection, Responsibility

It wasn’t until my late teen/early adult years I became curious about this journey my parents’ and grandparents’ generations endured. As I started piecing the timelines and various stories together it dawned on me the enormity of what happened. Broken families, the risks, the sacrifices, impacts on the communities where the refugees eventually settled and seemingly more notable now, people’s mental welfare. What are the lasting impacts for those who lived through witnessing the failed sea voyages, the deaths, robberies and rapes at the hands of pirates? This was a truly monumental humanitarian crisis; the ripple effect from which is still being felt today. The more interested I became the more things started to make sense.

Once you truly understand the hardship and the loss suffered it’s difficult not to feel immeasurable sympathy and pain. We were often told growing up that we take so much for granted, but I never felt the weight of those words until now, knowing what now know. I have genuine admiration and pride for what my family and our people endured to give us, the next generation a chance at the fruitful lives we’re all now realising. Responsibility comes in not forgetting. Responsibility comes in continuing to tell the stories of our journeys. Responsibility comes in instilling pride in all that our families and our people have overcome to achieve.

 

More Responsibility

I’m not totally happy with my writing of this piece, but the responsibility I feel massively outweighs my own vanity and as such has determined the timing of its delivery to this moment. This episode is the very reason for me starting PPPI in the first place. Despite being episode 4 it’s the first I started writing back in early 2019, long before Covid-19 and certainly before hands were forced for #StopAsianHate to become a movement.

2020 was a year that shone the brightest of bright lights on Chinese people. Never have we had our culture and our values attacked in the way we’ve seen since Covid-19. That light has carried with it all Asians the world over, not just the Chinese. We’ve seen loss of lives, damaged livelihoods and undoubted pain endured in the past year, both directly from the virus and indirectly from the hate that has been given a platform from which to grow; as blasphemous as it may sound I am thankful for that light. That light has instilled pride in Asians where pride previously had been repressed. That light, instead of resentment and misunderstanding has triggered in its place curiosity in the minds of young Asians towards their own heritage. That light has given a powerful voice to a unity amongst Asians that until now has only been allowed to exist in silence.

Our responsibility now lies in continuing the courage to stand strong and stand proud, continuing to make our voices heard and continuing to be united long after this light ceases to shine. #StopAsianHate, share more love and tell more stories.

 

Soundtrack to this Episode

JJ Lin – 她說 (Album)

高爾宣 OSN - #OSNrap (Album)

E.So – 靈魂出竅 Outta Body (Album)

Vicky Chen – I Am Who I Am (Album)

Shirley Chen – 绿色

Shirley Chen - 你的酒馆对我打了烊

AGA – Mad

Kendrick Lamar –good kid, m.A.A.d city (Album)

Various - Strictly the Best Vol. 60 (Compilation)

 

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Episode 3: Twisted Linguistics

Growing up in our household there were 3 languages: Grandma’s language, our language and English. I would later piece these into the real world with Grandma’s language being Cantonese, our language being “Ngai” (𠊎話) and English of course as English.

We as siblings were always told by Dad growing up, “Chinese people should speak Chinese, be it Grandma’s language or ours, stop speaking English at home!” The naïve child me would agree with Dad, ever the patriot; we are Chinese and we should indeed be speaking our own languages. The adolescent me however, somewhat more cynical having gained the gift of perspective weighed things up differently. Despite having been in the UK since 1980 his grasp of English has remained non existent so the thought of a “foreign” language being spoken under his roof must have irked him. Not to totally explain the real reason for banning English at home but certainly a strong contributing factor I feel.

 

Grandma’s Language

Cantonese to the rest of the world, although this was often the language spoken in Chinese films, TV shows on VHS and pop music that we were exposed to, I wanted no part in learning this as a child. Only Grandma spoke it. Absolutely everyone else in the family spoke ‘our language’ it would surely have been easier for Grandma to just learn to speak ‘our language’ all those years ago. I hated the idea of learning a whole different language just to communicate to Grandma. Resourceful as I was even at that age, it was a waste of my energy and efforts.

I would of course discover in later life that of our 2 Chinese languages it was in fact Grandma’s language that would prove the more useful and more widely used in the real world. Though I always knew through TV and media that beyond our family Cantonese was more widely used, it didn’t become tangible or real until we began to see Mum and Dad switching languages in Chinese restaurants and supermarkets for the message to hammer home. Grandma’s language wasn’t just for communicating with Grandma, it was for everyone.

Despite Grandma living with us, the conversations we had were limited; typically household and day to day related. We didn’t have day trips together, holidays or even eat out so the scope for learning and improving Cantonese was so restricted. Added to this, like many in her generation Grandma was also illiterate so there was never a promise of anything beyond the limited spoken exchanges.

Though I may have accepted the importance and wider use of Cantonese my desire to learn it remained low (in part due to the identity issues covered in episode 2). Mum and Dad would repeatedly tell us to learn it, without teaching it (though I do vaguely remember any attempts to speak to us in Cantonese was often just blanked or met with ‘stop speaking to me in Grandma’s language’). Of our 2 languages Cantonese was by far the lesser spoken of the two which meant I wasn’t very good at it. It was ultimately an almost impossible environment to learn and improve Cantonese at home. Cantonese school at the weekend may have seemed like a solution but it would only further fuel the resentment towards learning it. There’s perhaps another episode in Chinese school alone, but in short I hated being there and hated that it took up what felt a huge portion of my weekend despite being just 3 hours on a Sunday morning.

 

Our Language

There is little written about our “Ngai” (𠊎話) language; my research yielded absolutely nothing at all (possibly a better indicator of my research skills than anything). What I do know is the language is a derivative of the more widely known and spoken Hakka Chinese (客家) so perhaps better described as a Hakka dialect rather than a language. To Mandarin or Cantonese speakers it can sound like a hybrid of the two, whilst also often bearing no resemblance to either!

Its use is far from what you’d describe as wide. The language as we know it was widely used by the ethnic Chinese in north Vietnam and across the border into Guanxi, China. Since the mass migration from the area in the late 1970s and early 1980s knowledge and use of the language will have depleted significantly; firstly by the now overseas Chinese who more often than not will have opted to speak and teach Cantonese exclusively to future generations given its wider use and secondly within China the government’s push for Mandarin to be universal to the exclusion of all other dialects.

Our language was spoken by everyone in our family, both paternal and maternal sides. The closest family friends also spoke it so as a child through language it was very easy to determine who was family (or at least very close to it) and who wasn’t. For my parents there was never a doubt that this would be the spoken language at home. It’s the language my parents spoke to each other, their siblings and their parents (with the exception of paternal Grandma). It was never even a discussion I’m told.

Despite the amount of exposure as a child within the family, it soon dawned on me that no other children my age/generation was speaking it… Even amongst my own cousins. The eldest 5 of Mum’s 7 siblings were married, all of whom to partners who spoke both Cantonese and our Hakka dialect. All but one of those families opted to teach Cantonese exclusively to their children, an approach shared by so many families which has ultimately contributed to the language’s decline. Despite its seeming lack of popularity I always embraced it and revelled in the fact that we had what at times felt like our very own ‘secret language’.

 

English

The outlawed language at home! It doesn’t bother Dad so much these days but once upon a time we’d be having to choose our moments carefully, not just when but also in which tongue we spoke. There was never a punishment per se, but often Dad’s demand that we speak Chinese would just be met with silence. Partly down to him totally killing the vibe but mainly down to us not being able to articulate as well in our own language what we could in English.

So English was learnt at school with next to no exposure to it at home. I would’ve been that kid in nursery speaking Chinese to the teacher for the first few weeks or so. Not your regular Chinese either, as explained above this was some secret backwards hillbilly Hakka Chinese that 99% of Chinese people wouldn’t even understand.

Kids learn fast though and we all grasped English pretty quickly and are all totally fluent as you’d expect of any other person born and raised in the UK. Between us siblings English remains the preferred language which is the case with pretty much all family and friends for whom English is native or fluent.

 

Missed Tricks

Fast forward to 2019 my eldest Ruby is attending Cantonese school herself, now into her second year. We try our best to keep her enthusiasm to learn and motivation levels up (admittedly it often involves cake and bubble tea) which is something I feel was a real struggle for me when I was sent to Chinese school on Sundays as a child.

Being able to help and support children at home as they learn is vital and my own inability to support in this area, through my own poor Chinese literacy, led me to enrolling in evening school myself to learn Mandarin.

Why Mandarin and not Cantonese? I remember once catching a snippet of a debate/discussion/interview on Chinese TV, in mandarin, that Dad was watching. Whilst we never actively learned Mandarin we did have some exposure to it. I have no idea who this person was, how significant a public figure or even the forum was but the key take-out for me was ‘Chinese people must speak Mandarin. The other dialects are not important. The nation’s people, Chinese people must speak Mandarin. Those who can’t or won’t are idiots’ (or words to that effect). Whilst I may not agree with the dismissive attitude towards other dialects (Cantonese is in fact an older language with a far richer history for instance) or the damning of those who can’t speak it, I do agree that as the nation’s language Chinese people should be encouraged to speak it. So for me the hope is that whilst learning to speak what is a new language in Mandarin, the reading and writing elements will benefit my Cantonese also, thus enabling me to continue my ‘super Dad who knows everything’ role.

Thinking back to my very first class, I couldn’t get over the feeling of regret that I didn’t do this sooner. What was stopping me from doing this 10 or 15 years ago? After all I had some very humbling and borderline humiliating experiences in my late teens early 20s when visiting China and Hong Kong; not being able to speak, read or write as well as the expectation might be despite in appearance at least being like everybody else. Not to dwell too much on the past I can’t control, I realise that my thoughts and feelings about learning Mandarin today are totally positive. It has reinforced my view that it’s never too late to learn and the importance of continually investing in and bettering yourself.

 

Soundtrack to this Episode

Songs in A Minor – Alicia Keys (album)

Ashanti – Ashanti (Album)

Great 5000 Secs – Eason Chan (Album)

Victoria – G.E.M.

小問題– AGA

You Don’t Know Me – Dusty Bottle

真的愛你 – Beyond

老少平安 – Packho Chau

13樓的大笨象 – Stephanie Cheng

 

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Episode 2: Quychon Tu

Self-titled already? Love yourself much? Yes, that’s my full name and whilst my intention is not to be totally self-absorbed and up my own arse, I’ll proceed to explain why I feel my name is so symbolic to my identity (duh! Stay with me please), my family’s journey to the UK from Vietnam and the positivity I feel towards my heritage today; much of things I had hoped to cover in this second but first real episode to PPPI.

“I Hate It!”

Quychon Tu is the name I was given. The name I was expected to present myself to the world with. “Really, that name? I hate it!” From the moment I could read and understand what a name was and its purpose, I hated mine. So ugly to look at when written, so unbearable to hear regardless of the pronunciation. To this day I’m not totally sure that my preference is in even the correct pronunciation, that is if one even exists.

Registers at school with new or supply teachers provoked anxiety. Anxiety at having to correct and explain my name once called. Anxiety at the eventual sniggers from the other children. Anxiety at the “why always me” feeling I had at the prospect of having to say that little bit more than just the one-word answer required of everybody else. Anxiety that often led to me not answering at all, stone dead silence, for one of my classmates to confirm that the strange noise that came out of the teacher’s mouth was in fact my name and that I was very much present though perhaps not totally correct. Why couldn’t I have a normal name? Why did I have to be Chinese? I hated my name. I hated looking Chinese. I hated being Chinese. There was genuine resentment as young as 4 years old. Is it even normal to be able to recall so vividly anxiety as a four-year-old?

By the time I started Secondary school, I had totally wised up though. A right high IQ mathmagician problem solver I was. I filled out my own application/registration forms and made it distinctly clear what my name was. I became just “Chon Tu”. Two words. Two syllables. Elementary level phonetics. It would take a first-rate dick of a problem seeking teacher to get this wrong. Problem solved.

 

Not Just a Name

It wasn’t until much later I was able to dissect and understand my name. The name given to me was actually 徐贵俊. Very Chinese right? Quychon Tu, not so much as it’s in fact a Vietnamese phonetic translation of my name.

The Vietnamese translation owes to the fact that my family though ethnically Chinese, in the late 1970s/early 80s were forced to flee the only home they had ever known for several generations in North Vietnam. By way of China and Hong Kong they had found their way to the UK as refugees (there is so much more to this journey, enough for its own biopic which I will attempt to cover in another episode).

‘Tu’ (徐) is my family name (in China this would be ‘Xú’, in Hong Kong ‘Tsui’).

‘Quy’ (贵) is reference to my generation’s name so is shared by not just my siblings but all cousins across the same level for our entire family tree. It’s totally ‘old hat’ and as naming conventions go it’s as bound to tradition as you can get, which is very much representative of my family dynamics generally.

‘Chon’ (俊) is the only part of my name that is unique to me and fittingly translates to ‘handsome’.

 

Rinse & Repeat

My own experiences and identity conflicts led me to question others as an adult, namely my much younger cousins of school age. My curiosity came from two places of equal measure. First was the notion of ‘was it just me?’ and secondly out of genuine concern. As much as I didn’t wish my experiences unto others, I didn’t want to feel as though I was alone in my how I felt. 10, 15 almost 20 years on from my own experiences are the cycles exactly the same for them? Surely not…

Through what must’ve been awkward discussions at least on their part I soon uncovered the same resentment, not specifically to their names as such but certainly to being Chinese. Are all UK based Chinese kids growing up with the same resentment towards their culture? Towards their parents and grandparents? The desire to fit in and be like everyone else, what power does this hold and what damage could it do? Then there’s the repression of it all because I know from personal experience there’s no real outlet for it. My own siblings look as Chinese as I do sharing two thirds of the same name yet between us never discussed a word of how we felt for 30 plus years. Aside from sound boarding half-hearted motivational jibber-jabber to my younger cousins about how they should feel proud I had no fix for this. It was a heart-breaking realisation.

 

Through the Rain

For my own children I’m driven to break the cycle. My childhood may have been character building, but my own children need not experience the same cultural anxieties. Then there's providing a home environment that embraces our Chinese culture but not to the exclusion of all else where they miss out on what’s deemed ‘normal’. It wasn’t by design on my parents' part but ultimately that’s what happened. They raised us the only way they knew and it just so happened to not include celebrating Christmas, making Easter hats, McDonalds birthday parties and all of the other fun things ‘normal’ children experience.

Fast forward to current day and near enough all my cousins have already or are emerging into adulthood. I can’t speak for them but my hope is that like me, they’re all secure and confident in their identities, are able to express themselves freely and embrace our culture.

For me certainly no lingering anxiety remains. I love and fully celebrate my heritage and even feel compelled to act as an ambassador of sorts for Chinese culture in daily life, or my brand of it at least.

 

Soundtrack to this Episode

How Will I Know – Whitney Houston

Angel of Mine – Eternal

Summer of 69 – Bryan Adams

Pop Ya Collar – Usher

Behind These Hazel Eyes – Kelly Clarkson

Hey, Soul Sister – Train

Through the Rain - Mariah Carey

Dancing in the Moonlight – Toploader

 

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Episode 1: Strong Stink

Ping Pong Pen and Ink (or PPPI as I'll now refer to it), rhyming slang for "Strong Stink" sets the tone nicely for where this idea of mine could be headed... for personal pride alone I hope it doesn't stink the place out but ultimately others will be the judge of that. So here goes!

"What's That Smell?"

80s born refugees' child. Norfolk-born, South London raised.

Manchester United fan and footballing legend in my own mind.

"Fussy" eater, reluctant cook and Mr “hold my beer”

Listens to almost anything with a beat.

Collector of nice things.

The Irony

“You’re not even popular amongst your own family and friends! This is going nowhere fast? No visitors, no hits, wasteman!…”

Those have been my very words and thoughts in the past aimed at other people's blogs. Here I am throwing my own words into the public domain yet I’ve been THAT guy. That glass half empty guy. That negative energy guy. That damp squib. That hater guy. But that’s not the end of the irony…

More Irony

I don't read. I care not for the scriptures of others, yet here I am scripting in the hope that others care. Outrageous.

My reading is limited to what can only be described as being borne totally out of necessity; directions, instructions, manuals and what’s pushed in front of me on social media. I’ve never been motivated to expand my horizons through written matter. The irony of PPPI is becoming greater with each written word!

"But I Enjoy Writing Tho"

Indeed. Probably not something I've embraced at all or ever admitted to. Writing digitally suits me absolutely fine. I’ve never been the pen and paper type; the nostalgia of it is lost on me (though it did dawn on me quite recently that I enjoy collecting nice stationery. FTW dotted notebooks are the future). Had I attempted to write this on paper the inevitable incomprehensible mess it would’ve become would’ve resulted in yet another one of those projects I started, never again to be resumed. So writing digitally it is and Blogger/Blogspot is conveniently my vehicle for now.

I always got the impression that reading and writing went hand in hand, absolute parallels. Enjoy one you'll enjoy the other, be good at one and you'll be good at the other. Maybe I'll catch the reading bug one day, it's never too late but for now at least it remains something that doesn't rock my world.

Playing with words, some quick wit and sharp humour seems the limit of my creative powers. I can't draw, I'm not at all artistic or musically talented. Not a complaint by any means as I'm fairly accepting and happy with my lot in fact. Aside from Tripadvisor reviews PPPI will be my first attempt at disseminating content to the masses.

"Who Cares?"

I truly believe there's an audience for every story. So if this falls flat like a lead balloon I'll simply blame the audience and the Blogspot platform!

PPPI I feel would be worth doing even if just my nearest and dearest tune in, nod along and from it they take some light relief. Behind the perception many may hold of me, life figured out, picture perfect family blah blah blah in fact lies a journey full of question marks, conflicts and insecurities with much of its course still to run.

No two stories are the same and fingers crossed mine is far from over. The journey I envisage for PPPI is one firstly of recollection and acceptance, of not just the good but also the not so good. I want to create a sense of belonging and identity for those of us who share like experiences. I hope to displace misunderstanding with understanding, or at the very least evoke discussion and offer perspective. For those merely looking in thinking "WTF?" I hope to grip and keep you on the journey too with continued intrigue and insight to my brand of Chinese culture. So I'm not expecting much at all huh? A famous quote springs to mind right now:

"Reach for the stars! Don't settle for shiny debris"

Quychon Tu, Once Upon A Time

Had it not been for my cousin quoting this on her Facebook profile, I'd have forgotten it ever existed. Thanks Yun!


"Read All About It"

In terms of content I want to commit to posting new content at least once a month. There’s plenty I feel people can relate to:

• South London life
• Striving to be best husband/father/son/friend I can be
• A career in retailing
• FOOD, glorious FOOD (Feat. the 3 Ps: Pizza, Pie n Mash, Pho)
• The pain of being a United fan in 2019 having lived through the entire Fergie era…

The stories of my childhood and formative years there’s also an element of ‘it can’t go on untold forever’ that maybe only a handful of people will relate to:

• My parents' journey to the UK from Vietnam, The Boat People
• Living in a squat as a child
• Enduring racism
• That takeaway life
• Resenting, coming to terms with before totally embracing my Chinese heritage
• (Still) Getting to grips with language

Soundtrack to this Episode
No sane person ever works in silence. Music is for always.

For each episode I'll offer a taste of what's been playing in the background or the vibe I'm feeling at the time.

Dream Catch Me - Newton Faulkner
Under Pressure - Queen & David Bowie
Ruby - Kaiser Chiefs
Two Can Play That Game - Bobby Brown
Little Do You Know - Alex & Sierra
All That She Wants - Ace of Base
Same Jeans - The View
What Makes You Beautiful - One Direction
Beneath Your Beautiful - Labrinth


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Does anything here resonate and connect with you? Shocked or surprised? Apologies if you came seeking actual PPI advice... (just my 2p though, go solo cut out that middle man agency)

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