With every Christmas comes an unexpected and tragic celebrity death to dampen our festive cheer. With the ghost of Christmas present taking Martin from us on Big J’s birthday, the countdown to 2012 was no exception.
At the age of 14, equating to 88 in canine years, some may say that the Chihuahua, to use a trite expression, "had a bloody good innings".
Those some do not include owner Kelly Osbourne, who was reportedly devastated upon discovering the stone-cold rigamortis ridden pooch.
All this aside our Oriental Christmas was full of the usual oddities which have long since become eyelid batless moments, starting with the winter equinox’s Yubara Lemon Onsen.
Invited to appear on local news television stations, we agreed to bear all in the natural outdoor hot spring, amid 626 lemons at an event which promised to eradicate any coughs, sniffles and untimely deaths for the entirety of the coming year.
With post-apocalyptic threats looming over our heads as we enter 2012's “end is nigh” dawn of Aquarius, we must do everything in our power to prevent ourselves falling foul to this prophecy to which the weakest links of modern society are doomed.
Getting naked in a hot tub seeming like a perfectly legitimate way to ensure salvation, we arrived ahead of schedule to soak in every possible molecule of Vitamin C excreted from the citrusy life savers.
Having already soared to fame during an earlier TV appearance during a local noodle eating contest, I was aware than many people were depending on me.
So arriving at the location to discover a bath full of geriatric males, flannels on their heads, snow falling and full frontals of wrinkly genitalia in every direction, we were more than a little perturbed.
Two floor length towel dresses later, we found ourselves sat in the middle of the water, surrounded by old men, one Gaijin and a baby. The scene around the perimeter of the bath can only be described as the naturist equivalent of a red carpet Hollywood film premiere.
As the cameras flashed and filming tape rolled, men wafted their manhood metres from our faces as they stood to cool off and reposition.
We made the news, and the papers and my celebrity status has been brought back to the forefront of Yubaran minds.
The same evening we were welcomed to my local Karaoke bar with a bag of new items, adding to their already brimming dressing up box, consisting of one horse head and two plastic masks which would have been better suited to serve as cunning disguises during an armed robbery.
Trussed in fancy dress, giving Lady Gaga everything we had, the teachers from one of my elementary schools came into the pub for a pint and a sing song.
Beer fuelled elation ensued and, upon returning from the toilet, I was informed by my nearest and dearest friend, the lovely Lucy;
“I’ve managed to get a reindeer head one that one and rabbit ears and a mask on that other one.”
The two unwitting victims?
My principal and vice principal.
Good effort Lucy. Good effort.
As last orders came and went we sang our finale, paid up and set off through the thick snow for a late night, drunken onsen, which has since become the normal run of events at one o’clock in the morning whenever anyone visits me in my sparsely populated town.
During daylight hours, locals adhere to the strict rules surrounding these little spots of sacred tranquillity, which include removing all clothing and keeping edible substances far from the water’s edge.
After dark rules are redundant and standing up in the water, with an umbrella to keep the snow off your naked body, while taking long, slow drags on a cigarette, is seemingly acceptable.
So too is stroking the bare legs of drunken gaijin females as they relentlessly attempt to simultaneously balance and drag on sodden clothing.
Yes Japan’s answer to Mr Motivator’s attempts to woo failed miserably and he was left sitting forlornly, the thick snow slowly burying him, and his garish get-up, to a disputably timely end.
Next to Hakone.
An hour’s train ride from Tokyo, like Yubara, Hakone is a traditional onsen town. Except with stunning views of Mt Fuji and Lake Ashii, it is a holiday hotspot for both natives and foreigners.
Our costly hotel promised Fuji would be in full view from our bedroom window.
Needless to say we were stunned to see not a snowy sniff of the eponymous mountain upon our arrival.
Asking the porter where the mountain had gone, he pointed in the general direction of sky.
We had been conned.
Our second observation – “where the fuck is the shower?”
There was no shower.
Or was there?
When I arrived in Japan I never envisaged myself sat alongside a friend, on a plastic stool, in the buff, looking into a long mirror and hosing myself down.
While old women took a communal and very hot bath in our peripheral vision.
But needs must.
It does beg the question – what happens when you’re bleeding? Something I hope I never need to find out.
Next morning opening the curtains, Lucy screamed with joy, dragging me over to the window.
And there he was.
Fuji-san.
Back from his Christmas holiday and snowier than ever.
My first reaction?
“Fucking glad I didn’t take on that beast in the unholy heat of the Japanese summer.“
Despite appearing in all his morning glory for us to ogle as we ate our breakfast, less than an hour later, when we boarded a pirate ship on Lake Ashi, he had gone back into hiding and the stunning pictures we had hoped to take were left as images we will only ever see in the travel guides.
Sitting in the onsen at sunset, gazing out at Mt Fuji who had again reared his beautiful white head, was a slightly more pleasant sight to behold than the atrocious wrinkly range of twin peaks polluting our vision the previous night.
Hakone locals are similar to those in other regions of Japan, they go beyond the call of duty.
Ask for bus timetable information, get a free lift to your destination.
Bear this in mind if you ever visit - it could save you a fortune.
Following an impromptu taxi ride, we arrived at an outdoor art gallery.
Convoluted airborne exhibits, displaying crassly disturbing images of rotting and mutilated corpses, were made beautiful by the stunning mountainous backdrop. Even a man sticking his fingers in a woman's chuff while fondling her pert breasts became completely inoffensive.
Next a cable car ride up to the boiling sulphur pits of Owakudanai, emitting odours reminiscent of the Banks residence post-Sunday lunch when my father clears the room with one of his “chicken farts”.
Being engulfed in this eggy bad is not the most appealing way to spend your holiday.
Yet again, worldly wise Japanese people passed on their words encouragement as we left our local areas to embark on this latest adventure.
"You're going Haknone? You must try the black eggs."
Dubious, but adopting the “when in Rome” philosophy, we bought a bag of the “famous” oval-shaped fodder.
Expecting rotting, underdeveloped chicken corpses, we were surprised to discover the innards were run of the mill hard boiled eggs.
With all the beauty Hakone has to offer, once again the Japanese favour the mundane flavour of a convenience store sandwich over a land steeped with history.
We did discover a benefit to the eggs - that if eaten the yolks will increase the consumer's lifespan by a three-year minimum. Descending the slopes of Owakudanai, we stopped off for a pint and a cigarette to celebrate our new lease of life.
After a heavy night of karaoke with the locals, we awoke up thick headed and light-hearted as we said sayonara to Hakone and set off on a direct train sexed up as a “Romance Car” to the bright lights of Tokyo.
We had considered asking which train to get on the pre-empt of a free lift all the way but decided the train was most probably a speedier option.
Having received glowing reports of Tokyo Maid Cafes, which are, according to our friend Johnny, classy family establishments with great, over attentive service from cutesy maids, we trusted his judgement and agreed to accompany him for a repeat visit.
Hauled off the street by a not so cute but very lively maid, we followed her through a rabbit warren of back streets and up the stairs to possibly one of the most uncomfortable meals I have ever endured. And this includes the array of failed dates with the waifs and strays of London - including the guy wearing the undersized lime green tiger jumper as well as the man who laughed like a blocked drain mentioned in an earlier blog.
Maids dressed like school girls, and no older than college age, served beer after beer to a range of solitary sex offenders occupying the dingy haunt.
It was akin to all the serial killers from every cult horror film ever produced being scooped up and dumped into one room. The guy next to us was a carbon copy of the retarded brother in the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
There is no such thing as walking out of a restaurant once you are seated in Japan and so beer was our only remedy to endure the long wait for our food.
New Year's Eve is the biggest night on Monabeaker's social calendar, which I have long since loved, and Tokyo did not let me down.
With our pidgin Japanese we were able to find an underground all you can drink haunt.
Two hours for 2,000 Yen on New Year's Eve.
Bargain.
The so-called Nomihodi works very well when serving Japanese punters, who are scientifically programmed and proven to be able to hold much less alcohol than their drinking buddies from across land and sea.
Throw a group of Westerners into the mix and this fail safe profit making business enterprise suddenly finds it very difficult to come even close to breaking even.
While becoming well and truly inebriated for the equivalent of £15 might have tainted the bar's New Year joy, it certainly accelerated ours as we headed to Shibuya crossing, Japan's busiest pedestrian walkway to start the countdown along with thousands of other well-wishers.
Only the Japanese can run across the road each time the lights change, screaming "Happy New Year".
For more than an hour.
Without getting bored.
And only the Japanese can make it so entertaining for all involved.
Despite no visible signs of crime and disorder, streams of police were on guard to keep the jovial mob jovial.
One man, who was wafting his manhood around on a rooftop, was carted off by a six strong force. Asides this minor blip, there was no threat of any misdemeanour.
Ironically the sight was more than marginally less offensive than the gaggle of geriatrics who sat in the bath with us back in Yubara.
Entering the Year of the Dragon, green beasts were out in force, offering free piggyback races to Lucy and myself.
The night was long, drink fuelled and when we eventually arrived back at the hotel, crouched outside eating takeaway, a very kind young chap went into the local shop, reappearing with two hot coffees, which he handed to the white chicks he had mistaken for tramps.
Drunken gaijin tramps, dressed up the nines, slumped outside a hotel on New Year's Eve?
The mind boggles.
With New Year’s Day came a compelling urge to shop. Leaving my comatose friends to sleep off the hedonism of the night before, I set off to Shibuya once more, stopping along the way for breakfast in a roadside cafe.
As I sat down, eagerly anticipating the bath of tea before me, my brain took a turn for the worse, sending me into a dizzy spiral. Feeling very unsteady on my rested feet, it soon became apparent that this wasn't the aftershock of a night on the tiles but rather an earthquake, measuring four on the Richter scale.
Given the atrocities of March last year, I was understandably a little on edge.
However, as my life flashed before my eyes those around me carried on with theirs.
Inevitably it was nothing to worry about but, as the years go on, my "survival of Tokyo’s New Year's Day Earthquake of 2012" will be exaggerated to astronomical levels as my grandchildren look on in awe at the incomprehensible travels of Granny Gay Wanks.
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