Driving me crazy

One of the most mind boggling things that I have come across in the past seven months is the unfathomable concept that is the stereotypical Japanese motorist.

Rumours that there’s as much chance of a person passing their test within the generous figure of ten attempts as there is of Saddam Hussein being canonised, are confirmed by our American colleagues. Due to some legal loophole and when they intend on staying in the country for more than a year, US workers must sit the nation’s test, which they repeatedly and without exception fail.

Adding to the list of contradictions, of a country people fall in love with for its contradictions, is the overt recognition that the driving test difficulty factor does not tally with the peril which ensues once a newly qualified motorist is set free on the nation’s roads.

Big on conformity the general consensus is that, as one does, everyone else follows suit. Parallel parking in supermarket car parks is the standard and anyone deviating is considered taboo and subsequently frowned upon. Unless, like me, you’re a foreigner in which case it is acceptable because you are an idiot.

In a car park as empty as The News of the World’s bank account, I park leaving once space between me and the only other vehicle, badly, with my wheels overhanging the space between.

As I am walking toward the store I spy another motorist pulling up alongside my own car, which has just been delivered back to me following work to repair the impact of a hit and run, before attempting to reverse into the space between - which is in fact only half a space because of my inability to conform to the strict regimental parking ethos.

Meanwhile another shopper has arrived, and is making attempt after failed attempt to reverse park between two white lines amid a sea of vacant spaces. Shaking my head in despair I look back to see that potential car crash has aborted mission and is also doing his best to back into the space at the other side of my shiny, newly fixed automobile.

Indicating occurs after a driver has slammed his brakes on and turned the corner, seeing gaijin such as yours truly forced to swerve into on-coming traffic in an unexpected and involuntary impulse reaction.

Habits of white transit vans on winding country lanes suggest that they are universally problematic. Trundling along with speeds fluctuating between 30 and 40kmph – the equivalent of an Ellestimated 18-25mph, is frustratingly dangerous, especially when you haven’t allowed yourself an entire morning to travel to work.

Yet these would-be Formula One racers wreak havoc at road works. Seemingly oblivious to red lights, they carry on straight through at the same break neck speeds into the inevitable stream of oncoming traffic, causing road closures, diversions and heightened stress levels of Ellie Mays. I exaggerate slightly, none of the above has ever resulted from a white van man’s rash actions but there is a strong probability that I will one day soon find myself entangled in this unfortunate sequence of events.

Not only are the motorists a menace to society, so too are the location of petrol stations. A country dominated by mountains, toll roads are the main gateway and most popular access route between two points. On a long journey a car can be on the highway for the majority of the day. Yet petrol stations are as commonplace as Anne Widdecombe’s sexual encounters.

To leave the toll to fuel up before re-entering increases the price, seeing a raised proportion of potential breakdowns with empty cars chugging to a standstill as people eke out every last millilitre in the vain hope that, like a mirage, a petrol station will appear on the horizon.

Invariably it never does.

We have encountered the dangers of absent petrol stations first hand when I was almost mauled by a dog before being rounded up and shot by the Yakuza as is accounted in an earlier blog.

There is a vending machine on the top of Mount Fuji but no fuel resources in the most essential locations countrywide.

Despite all this the longer I am here the more, like everyone else, I accept Japan’s flaws with a shrug and the fleeting thought, which provides a perfectly legitimate excuse for all the inexplicable idiocy which is the glue holding the country together.

“That’s Japan for you.”

Sake paves the way to world peace

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.