Despite the onset of Autumn, and the orange leaves and morning mist with which it comes, last weekend’s O Sake Matsuri has seen my crush on Japan blossoming, like an spring Sakura, into a full blown love affair.
Relaying the festivities to my favourite homosexual, Robert, he looked on with as much puzzlement as a heavily pixilated image all the way from England can, and said; “is everyone in Japan a spastic?”
On reflection, the behavior that ensues when Japanese and Westerners unite would see one admitted to an isolated padded cell and lobotomized immediately in other parts of the world.
Pointing and shouting Japanese words for anything in the peripheral vision is commonplace and encouraged by native speakers, who cheer emphatically, before returning the sentiment with the pidgin English they were taught back in school by heavy drinking social degenerates similar to ourselves.
After one too many sakes, and still with over 900 of numbers 1-1,000 to sample, despite its juvenility, we think it more than a little funny to ask for a number “69”, a joke shared by the paralytic 40-something next in line.
“I, know, 69,” he barks out like an angry Rottweiler, with the obligatory high five before continuing to act out the position, sticking his tongue into his cheek to emphasise the fact that there is meant to be an engorged penis in his mouth.
I’m sure he is one of the first to collapse.
Meanwhile our friend’s girlfriend, the beautiful and hilarious Akiko, is apparently having trouble of her own in the toilet. She’s dropped her Sake cup in some mud and one hundred and one other festival goers are offering their assistance with the very important job of cleaning it.
My tan pleather boots’ first outing since early spring see far better results after a visit to a Japanese-style toilet than back in March, seeing my splash back-free endeavour applauded as I emerge from the squat of doom.
Grown men lie like the war dead sporadically throughout the festival ground. Perfect candidates for ritual humiliation from Westerners, we pose for photographs before balancing whatever miscellaneous objects are to hand on their sleeping persons in an easy game of Human Buckaroo.
Such non-confrontational, good humoured fun is entirely acceptable in the peaceful sake-fueled world that is the stereotypical Japanese weekend.
A parallel universe to that taking place across land and sea, where it is frowned upon to so as much as crack a smirk on public transport, let alone socially interact on any greater level with total strangers.
Throughout the day grown men run up, cheer in our faces and force hugs on us, yet it doesn’t leave us feeling invaded as it would back in England, possibly because they don’t attempt to slip a digit up your nether reasons at the same time.
Taking minimal alcohol for the stereotypical Japanese person, gender inspecific to reach levels of instability, leads to an added bonus that there are no queues and no waiting times at the various sake stands.
Some may say this is a perfectly harmonious combination that allows us sake seasoned westerners to swallow shot after shot of the sickly fortified rice serum until we reach levels on a par with our already comatose comrades of the orient.
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