Children of Japan - Part 2

I find it remarkable that, a group of 14 year olds I have been teaching for almost four months now, 14-year-olds who have been learning English ever since they could say Konnichiwa, did not, until last week, realise that their English teacher is, in fact, from England.

Upon being informed of this startling revelation they exclaimed, in Japanese translated by my co-worker, “No! Really? But you speak English so well.”

It transpires they were under the impression that, devoid of language, people from England are all doomed to a life of muteness. Meanwhile the English taught in Japanese schools actually originates from a larger land, which has only existed in its current form for a handful of years. And that the Americans invented and developed our beautifully diverse native tongue in this relatively short space of time.

Tar me with the brush of overt patriotism but to have something so important, which has been nurtured over the centuries under the influence of the likes of Chaucer, Shakespeare and countless Mills and Boon contributors, I feel a little disgruntled that its origins are being misrepresented on the Orient.

While English has been unfairly assigned to a culture of lexicological rapists, who transform the poetic into the downright crass, their lack of knowledge of my homeland does raise eyebrows as to what on earth these children have been taught over the years.

Frustration vented, there are countless observations I have made about Japanese children since my last blog entry.

Despite brushing their teeth vigorously after every meal, posters threatening the effects of tooth decay slapped along corridors in schools everywhere - as well as mirrors to check the end results - most children still look like they have been feasting on permanent markers.

Sugar laced toothpaste, with more white stuff than a family-sized bottle of coke, could have something to do with this generation of morbidly halitosis suffering tots, who will undoubtedly be wearing dentures by the age of 25.

And the problem does stem into adulthood. One lady, who was talking to me from good two metres away, with a mouth like a derelict graveyard, caused me to do a sick in my mouth after catching a whiff of the raw sewage smell emanating from her face. Even the tramp in my earlier blog’s false teeth were rotten beyond repair.

This problem has escalated to such an extent that the Toothfairy doesn’t visit Japanese children. She can hardly develop the Tooth Castle conglomerate with mountains of mouldy gnashers.

In the unlikely scenario that the Toothfairy doesn't exist, God forbid, it is doubtful that parents could afford to slip 100 Yen under their offspring’s pillow every time a bit of its tooth crumbles away.

This discovery that Japan is Toothfairy-less was made during one of my self-introduction classes. On the verge of circling the room, shaking hands with all the delightful tots, I spied one particularly grubby little boy spitting blood and mucous followed by a tooth into his hand. Stopping the class, excited that the Toothfairy would be paying him a visit, I was surprised to see him throw the tooth straight into the bin. And so ensued a wildly animated description of the winged money giver as I flitted around, re-enacting her daily work.

Hopes to abort the handshakes were scuppered when the aforementioned boy firmly attached himself to one hand, while another boy, who I'd earlier seen sneezing a huge lump of green stuff into his mits, grabbed hold of the other.

A major disinfection operation was undertaken immediately after class.

A further observation of the stereotypical Japanese student is their inability to dress themselves in anything close to suitable attire. If I could speak enough of the language I would highly recommend that parents invest in an English phrase book before taking their offspring shopping ever again.

Wandering into school wearing T-shirts brandishing such slogans as “I want to be loved long time,” and; “Sweet girl, Sweet loving,” is far from appropriate for the classroom and, to put it bluntly, a paedophile’s dream.

Additionally the general attire is suggestive of

a. A blind mother

or

b. A Gok Wan-style ambush en route to school

The prize for the worst dressed child to date goes to a goofy fourth grade elementary boy – or at least I think he’s a boy.

Kitted out in pink and yellow Simon Cowelleqsue chequered trousers, hoiked under the armpits with legs at half-mast, teamed with a shocking pink T-Shirt tucked in tightly at the waist. The look was finished off with shocking pink socks pulled up under the half-mast trousers and dazzlingly white trainers.

What were his parents thinking?

With teeth larger than his head and milk-bottle bottom spectacles, he is geek-chic gone badly wrong. Considering there is no "right" way to achieve the Shoreditch dickhead car crash craze, it may be difficult to imagine just how tragic this poor soul looked.

Tears in the classroom　are　still　commonplace.　At　the　tail　end　of　last　week,

a　perfect　day in one of my favourite elementary schools was tarnished by a very spoilt, and very disruptive 11-year old.

Habitually vocal he deliberately calls out wrong answers, runs riot around the classroom and refuses to speak to me during practice time.

So when he ran out of playing cards, playing Janken Champion (rock, scissors paper) he burst into tears because I asked him if he could ski before surrendering him another card.

One by one his comrades joined forces until the entire class was staring at me with an unnerving presence reminiscent of the children in Wyndham’s ‘Midwich Cuckoos.’

An eerie silence followed, forcing class to finish 15 minutes early and the homeroom teacher to offer a grovelling apology back in the safety of the staff room. I really must learn the Japanese for “Harden the fuck up.”

Junior High offers worse problems, a prime example being highlighted only last week when oral examinations transformed mouthy teenagers into little more than zombies.

Two examples that stand out are the 13-year-old, who I genuinely feared was about to draw a scimitar from beneath her pinafore dress and embark on a full blown slashing rampage, and the third grader who simply stared at me through her thick fringe for a good five minutes, like one possessed until I plucked up the courage to send her back to the classroom, scoring her a big fat zero. Considering her post school-aspirations highly likely consist of securing a checkout job in the Japanese equivalent of the Pound Shop, it is doubtful that a qualification in conversational English is top of her agenda anyway.

Back to the perfect day in my favourite school. Earlier in the day, and teaching “do you have a….various stationary/furniture items" saw children lifting their scissors, pencils, chairs and desks over their heads. At one point I inadvertently cleared the room by asking “do you have a unicycle?” at which point I expected them to reply "no I don't."

Instead, and with dazzling enthusiasm, the classroom vacated as they ran to the shed, returning brandishing their unicycles shouting "yes I do, yes I do."

It is moments like these that, despite their oddities, the children of Japan reduce me to tears. Call it a slip of the frosty exterior, but even on the mornings when I feel like death is nigh, the moment I see their excited faces, carrying their enormous schoolbags, reducing them to no more than human snails, I realise why I get out of bed.

I went to school today and geek chic male was wearing a denim skirt and lace leggings. And the first sign of sunshine and the fat, initially intimidating sixth grade boy, was sporting a pink T-shirt and breasts.

With summer comes some startling surprises.

A Close Encounter of Japankind

Although the Japanese countryside may predominantly be as ignorant to all things modern as a Dickensian hobo, a visit to the doctor's at the weekend brought an exception to the rule to my attention.

The appointment was for a routine cervical smear, or “fanny scrape” as my gay refers to it, not being one to beat around the bush, although the doctor most certainly did, examining more things than I would deem necessary.

From the waiting room I’m ushered through by a very friendly nurse, who duly introduces me to a doctor who speaks on pidgin English to complement my diabolical grasp of Japanese. I explain, using graphic gestures, as best I can that I just need a smear.

"Ovary……examination?" he asks, loud and clear.

“No, no, just smear, cervical cancer check, routine,” I attempt.

“Ah, okay, understand,” he says, before falling back in a ramble of Japanese, which sees the young nurse reappearing and leading me further into the depths of the doctor’s area.

She stops at a curtain, which she lifts and beckons me behind, pointing at my clothes and a large chair before dropping the curtain and scurrying away. So I strip and sit as instructed, awaiting her return and the usual run of events.

From this point it’s all very fast paced as I hear the excitable doctor wittering away at the other side of the curtain, which is forming a protective barrier around my modesty.

The rising intonation in his voice suggests he is asking me question after question so I chance it and reply “hai, hai hai,” (yes, yes, yes) until the rambling ceases.

And as it does, the chair does a swift 90 degree turn, shoots back, plummeting my lower body into the air before the stirrups spring open, causing irreparable damage to my thigh muscles in the process. The bottom half of my body is now one the other side of the curtain with the doctor, who proceeds to deliver a fast paced, enthusiastic running commentary, reminiscent of any stereotypical Japanese television programme. I think he has conducted a smear but I cannot be sure, it all happens so quickly.

But it doesn’t end there, another implement gets involved. As I’m pulling all manner of confused, yet surprised, faces behind the protection of the curtain, a hand appears, waving my eyes in the direction of a television monitor displaying my insides.

He is giving me a guided tour.

The hand moves, pointing at various areas of my baby making facilities as I hear high pitched Japanese speckled with sporadic use of English, like an excited football commentator when his team is about to score the winning goal.

It is how I would imagine an ultrasound scan on a pregnant woman to be, minus the foetus, so needless to say I find it somewhat difficult to feign enthusiasm.

The entire process lasts no longer than a teenaged boy's first sexual encounter.

A nation of hypochondriacs, Japanese people make visits to the hospital for an array of ailments, ranging from stubbed toes to full blown AIDS.

In training week, I received an F, the lowest grade, on the routine medical due to a swollen gland in my neck. Clean living Japanese doctors simply couldn’t comprehend that too much sake and no sleep since England was the direct cause of this insignificant inflammation, I was not dying and most certainly not in need of a trip to the hospital.

Grave concern was etched on the face of the lady taking my blood pressure that same day. Sleep depraved, living on adrenalin, suffering from hangover sweats and being in direct line of vision of the phlebotomist draining the blood from the arm of my friend, knowing I was next in line, may have accounted for my blood pressure rocketing to inconceivable levels.

Getting back to my most recent ordeal, the results came this evening, translated, as promised, into English. You would think this would make it as simple as “all clear” or “please make a further appointment.”

But what on earth Nichibo Category Class II, Ika Category NILM, (Bethesda System) means, I don’t think even a fully trained medic would like to hazard a guess.

Brief Encounter - the remake

Wherever I may be in the world I seem to have an unwanted inbuilt magnetic pull towards the elderly, infirm and downright deluded when travelling on public transport.

Nam veterans, the frothy mouthed hillbilly who decided the Santa Cruz Greyhound queue was a perfect moment to declare he has AIDS to a total stranger. The Glaswegian soothsayer’s failed attempts to convince me that Armageddon is nigh, the aged Mexican who invited us to his bachelor pad, with hammocks full of bikini clad Page 3 models and the priest who tried to convert me to the wonderful world of Christianity.

Japan is no different.

Travelling back from Shikoku, little more than the remains of a lavish mosquito banquet, I slowly edge my swollen body into a seat.

Having paid more than double the price of the outbound journey, due to inadvertently hopping aboard an “express service,” shaving a mere 25 minutes off the total journey time, I take solace from the fact that at least I’m settled in a relatively clean, cartoon theme carriage with legroom and an empty seat alongside.

This rare moment of solitude is cut short as the train guard approaches and proceeds to talk gibberish, gesturing wildly, until I can act stupid no longer and am forced to move to economy class. Struggling with my backpack down the jostly, narrow aisled carriage, custom made for tiny framed hobbit-sized Japanese people, my sores scrape against all manner of wayward objects en route. Arriving further down the train in cattle grade, puss oozing freely from my now gaping wounds, the train-guard frantically nods encouragingly for me to sit down.

Scoping the crowded carriage, I breathe a sigh of relief upon clocking a free seat a little further along, a relief fast replaced by sheer horror as I clap eyes on my travelling companion. False teeth in hand, he invites me to sit, grinning a wide and gummy grin before taking a swig of whisky from a can.

The stench of alcohol and stale fish hits me as he leans over, nudging at my elbow and breathing in my face.

Quickly I discover his base English is “No English, happy, Thank you!” which he utters repeatedly while nodding with an enormous sense of pride. Using my best Japanese I discover he is 60 years old, hails from Osaka, is unemployed and, on first impressions, is unemployable.

A short and awkward silence ensues as he sighs and giggles, evidently trying to think of a way to continue the conversation, despite this most unfortunate language barrier, until a light bulb pings in his whiskey addled head. Leaning down, he rummages in a carrier bag and resurfaces with a beige, floppy looking substance, which he hands me, displaying gnarled hands and blackened fingernails.

Not wanting to offend, I accept the mystery substance with false gratitude and he encourages me to eat.

A look of revelation washes over his face, as he pulls a fifth word from the depths of his surviving grey matter.

“Feeshh, feeeesh, feeesh," he declares, nodding and smiling contentedly at his own achievement.

Of all the English words to spring to mind, he really doesn’t need to tell me it is fish.

The smell is unbearable as I stare dubiously at the warm, greasy substance poised precariously between my fingertips. This is the point of no return so, taking the plunge, I nibble the edge as he looks on in eager anticipation.

Since coming to Japan I have made a pact with myself to eat anything and everything which is set before me. So far this has included whole fish, dead eyes and gaping mouths included, chicken backbone, tentacles, raw chicken and even chicken ovary, all of which has been surprisingly palatable.

However, this mystery fodder invokes an involuntary gag reflux. Crunchy yet greasy, the food connoisseur in me detects lard, mixed with crunched up fish bones, gelatin, and finished with a dash more lard.

One - and only one - word can describe it – inedible. Technically then I am not breaking my self-imposed food pact when the diurectic effects of the whiskey see him making a dash for the toilet, squat toilet, I hasten to add.

In his absence, I am forced to sacrifice a CD cover from a friend’s band we’d seen earlier in the day, to surreptitiously wrap the remainder of the unidentifiable snack and stow it in my handbag. Gummy returns and nothing more of it is mentioned.

An awkward silence resumes, broken only by my 60-year-old toothless train buddy’s sporadic sighs and twitches as he thinks of a way to fill it.

So I get out my exercise book to show him all the Japanese words I can say as well as my writing practice. Blinkered from the wide and varied vocabulary I have picked up in the past three months, his eyes hone straight in on “dokushin”, the word for “single,” at which he points and laughs hysterically.

Seemingly, he takes my little display as a come-on and pulls out his own notepad, pointing and making writing motions with his hands as he shouts; “adderessu, denwa bango!” meaning can I have your address and phone number.

Older, wiser and less afraid to offend than I once was, I ignore his persistence, maintaining that I don’t understand until he eventually tires and puts his book away.

For the remainder of the journey he mutters, "happy happy thank you" every so often and pats my arm with his grubby, and now possibly urine drenched hands, right on my weeping bites.

As the train pulls into Okayama, I make my getaway faster than you can say “Ellie caught leprosy from a Japanese hobo.”

Oriental Bog Blog

My bog blog

Before coming to Japan, there was a slight apprehension as to how I could possibly cope amid such a technologically advanced culture. Bearing in mind I still own a walkman, box full of cassette tapes and am incapable of navigating my way around a washing machine dial.

In reality, being dumped in the middle of the mountains on a Japanese road to nowhere, there is an over-riding ignorance to all things cyber.

For example in school last week I explained the concept of speaking to my parents over Skype. All eyes were glued as teachers and students alike looked on with awe as Ellie the Messiah, prophesised of a future not yet known to Japan-kind.

Internet modems take preference over wireless and it takes three months and five home visits to establish a connection. And my modem has an irritating and inexplicable tendency to wish me good morning at 5.30 every day, weekends and bank holidays inclusive.

They were fucking good mornings before I was rudely awakened by an overly zealous Japanese woman with a suspect helium addiction. However the situation has now been rectified by pulling the plug on these rude awakenings before retiring onto my sweat-stained futon.

A cash culture, there's no pay by card option and most machines charge the equivalent of a pint of lager to draw out my not so hard earned cash. Except for the sporadically available free machines, which close for the majority of the weekend, when the beer piggy bank is at its driest.

Despite all this, the one thing which I find completely unfathomable is the toilets.

Holes in the ground, more commonly known as “squat toilets” are a popular choice for the Japanese. Attempting to balance precariously, while weeing and wiping is a task only accomplishable by those with the stamina of an Olympic gymnast and years of target practice. And wiping front to back is an issue us western girls battle with daily.

Toilet slippers are mandatory in most indoor venues including bars, restaurants and schools.

Having made a vow to never, under any circumstances whatsoever, set foot in a pair of Crocs, I was left greatly disparaged after being forced to break this oath with a urine soaked pair of the offensive items.

Sadly it seems this diabolical choice of footwear has monopolised squatters Japan-wide and a trip to the toilet has, for me, become little more than foot rape.

At a festival back in April, a squatting virgin, slightly beer addled and kitted out in tan pleather boots, I reemerged from a trip to relieve myself with visible flashback.

Worse came for my friend Lucy who peed all over her trousers at school first thing in the morning. Forced to spend the rest of the day smelling like a Wetherspoons regular, she now removes her trousers and socks before tackling the squatter.

After a close encounter with a mosquito, my knees and ankles swelled up to catastrophic proportions, forcing me to move around like a wind up robot for more than three days. This led to nil by mouth at school after a failed attempt to squat saw me making like a dog, weeing sideways on, and almost ripping the plumbing clean off the wall in an attempt to hoist myself upright.

At the other end of the spectrum, there is a range of Western toilets making an appearance in hotels, supermarkets and the occasional school. These are far from ordinary. Mostly located next door to their poo-stained predecessors, they are a sight to behold and predominantly cause, out of nowhere, a chorus of angels to flit into my head and sing hallelujah in harmony.

Sporting heated seats, bum washes, and a “how to use” diagram of a satisfied cherub, taking full advantage of a power jet clean straight up his microscopic bumhole, pasted alongside, they are work of sheer genius.

In training week, we all had our own unique experiences with these washes. Scott, who claims to be good at pretty much everything, perfected it first time. I got the pressure and heat very wrong, burnt my backside and splashed a copious amount of water up the hotel mirror and Lucy stood up before the jet had stopped, soaking the bathroom entirely.

In one school, excitedly, a teacher came running up to me with great news of a revelation she had made since my last visit. She proceeded to lead me by the hand to a western toilet that she had stumbled upon by chance, in a happening on a par with the moment Lucy discovers the magical powers of the wardbrobe in the Chronicles of Narnia. Even better there were no wee-stained crocs lined up outside. I never thought it would make my day to be introduced to a WC.

But sometimes the Japanese do get it very wrong. I was shown to one futuristic loo, which was crammed into a room so small that it was impossible to sit down, or hover. On the verge of having an accident, I tried my best but couldn’t avoid the inevitable as wee splashed all down my thighs. Thank goodness for the inbuilt power hose.

However, there is a flaw in the design mechanism of these gifts from the heavens.

With no visible off-switch, the seats stay heated 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. In summer, it can get very hot and going to the toilet is no longer a pleasant experience but more akin to walking straight into the fiery pits of hell. Especially if someone who has had a heavy night on the beer, has deposited their load before you.

Providing no insulation, the houses are made out of little more than paper, there is no central heating, people insulate their homes with bubble-wrap and winters in the mountains can see more than a metre of snow falling and settling for many weeks.

The only refuge is the heated toilet and entire families have duly been known to close the lid, pop on a table cloth and eat dinner around it.

In classrooms children and teachers sit shivering, aching and awaiting the first stages of pneumonia, followed by almost certain death.

Yet the toilets are as warm as a newborn cow.

The mind truly BOGgles. See what I did there?

Children of Japan

During my first three months teaching in Japan, a lot of lessons have been learnt.

First and foremost, elementary school children are primarily gender non-specific and have an ability to cry on demand.

I have made the mistake not once, not twice but three times of miscalculating what I thought was an equal boy-girl divide in the classroom. Splitting students into two teams, in a clever move I assumed would heighten the childish competitive streak and encourage the little dears to try harder to achieve the target language of the day.

Astonishingly in all three instances, my orders saw an overriding girl majority huddled together in comradeship in one corner of the classroom and, on one occasion, a solitary and tearful boy looking rather confused as to why he had been so brutally singled out.

I blame the bowl haircuts which, reminiscent of young lads in wartime Britain, seem to grace all heads of children aged between three and 12 living in the Japanese countryside.

One of my favourite boys, who bears an uncanny resemblance to The Simpson's Martin, if Martin was Japanese, turned up wearing a pinafore dress last week. This screwed with everything I have ever known and, after 12 weeks of talking to him about football and other such boy-based subjects, a great deal of effort was exerted on my part to mask my amazement after being confronted with this unexpected revelation.

In Japanese schools there are no losers, as I quickly found out. If a child should lose at a game there will be tears. The other students will swarm round the devastated tot and this entire sequence of events will have a detrimental effect on the remainder of my lesson. In my opinion it is a selfish act and something which, being Northern, I cannot even begin to condone.

Tears are also a daily occurrence in the playground. A game of football with the first graders was brought to an abrupt end when I accidentally missed the goal, instead kicking the ball smack bang wallop into the middle of a four-year-old boy’s (who incidentally also turned out to be a girl’s) face.

She screamed like a dying banshee.

And screamed

And screamed.

No amount of “summimasenning” could calm her inconsolable sobs until eventually I gave up trying, aborted mission and resumed the match.

A short while later I spied said child picking all manner of flowery weeds from the embankments bordering the school grounds, which she proudly presented to me at the end of lunch time. Presumably by way of apology for perforating my eardrums with her high-pitched wails.

Despite this need to harden the fuck up, the majority of elementary students are, and I hate to admit it, a lot better than me at pretty much everything. Arm wrestling an eight-year-old in the lunchroom, I was annihilated.

And I was trying.

Really trying.

The same applies to thumb wars.

Worse still, a four-year-old, and possibly the smallest four-year-old I have ever come into contact with, can outrun me on the football pitch, leaving me gasping for breath and defeated.

In one Kindergarten class I had planned for, as I had mistakenly heard, a class of 18. Imagine my horror when I walked in, not to a manageable 18 but an overwhelming 80 toddlers, who can barely speak Japanese let alone English.

A distinct aroma of pooh slowly emanating the room, I tried teaching animal flash cards while encouraging the children to mimic my impressions of ducks, horses, monkeys and whatnot. Initially a fun pursuit, it soon escalated into full-scale warfare as bowl cut-haired boys and girls alike started twatting the shit out of each, all bar one who had his hand up my skirt and firmly attached to my bottom.

So followed feeble attempts to regain control while perched on a windowsill at the far end of the room in my best efforts to deter his wandering hands.

In another school there is a special 45-minute session set aside whereby the children have an opportunity to question me about all things English.

Such as, “Did you see a big monster fish in England?” and “Do you cook fish and chips in your house?” I tried to explain that the Loch Ness Monster in fact hails from the Scottish Highlands, however I had once spotted him holidaying by Lake Windemere.

It was lost in translation.

Next the children asked me to stand and sing the English national anthem. Not one to refuse this golden opportunity, and hopefully amuse the students in the process, I obliged and sang with gusto.

Worryingly I was the only person stifling the laughs during my out of tune, out of time own special rendition of God Save the Queen. This painful five minutes was made worse by the fact that I don’t actually know the words.

Explaining that I am a “bad singer,” they disagreed in unison, insisting that I have a "beautiful voice."

If there's one word that cannot describe my vocal skills it is 'beautiful." Vomit inducing would be far nearer the mark.

The class then sang the Japanese national anthem, afterwards asking what I thought of the English translation. Forced to think on the spot I claimed it “a most beautiful song, which really reflects just how proud Japanese people are of their country.”

I am sure one boy wretched.

On the subject of royalty, like the queen, I am bowed at by students wherever I pass. This still takes me aback and my impulse reaction is to curtsey back.

I have no idea why.

Next week the students are going to sing God Save the Queen with me. I must go now and learn the words.

Sunset falls on a fearless youth

With less than three months before the impending doom of the big 3-0 is upon me, the invincibility of youth is dissipating, and fast.

An up close and personal encounter with a fox earlier this week, which less than a year ago I would have openly encouraged, now saw the 29 years on this mortal rock flash before my eyes.

Shadowing my every move, the creature stalked my footsteps along the street, interweaving in and out of gardens and gateways, making eye contact at every possible opportunity, seemingly aware of sheer fear I emanated from my core. This continued until terror took control seeing me bellow “fuck off” in his furry face and sprinting across the street, as the unmoving beast observed before nonchalantly trotting off in the opposite direction.

With my i-pod blaring this curse was far more audible than intended, leaving me laughing hysterically at my own idiocy, like one of the many lunatics frequenting the streets of South East London.

This near miss with death is the latest in a stream of inexplicable cowardice that is taking hold on a former hedonistic wild child.

Crossing the road to avoid the wrath of White Lightning-swigging youths has, I’m ashamed to admit, become commonplace. And not so long ago the joy of being an habitually rubbish, yet fearless ice-skater was knocked on the head when I spent the best part of an hour clinging on to the side of the rink for dear life, despite pleading words of encouragement from a group of Spaniards half my age.

Gone are the days of waking up in stranger’s living rooms, burnt out cigarette in mouth and no idea, nor caring, which direction home is, replaced by the incessant panic that an all-nighter on Saturday will leave me in a zombie-like state for the entirety of the following week, taking the edge off what was once a bloody good time.

Granted it happens to us all in the end, yet still I attempt to battle against the inevitable. Maybe it’s time to give up the ghost and begin to at least attempt to embrace what is the dawn of the age of growing old gracefully.

After all, the alternative is still attempting to live it large at the grand old age of 40 while teens, with complexions as fresh as spring morning dew, look on with a mix of pity and fear that, one day, it could be them.

Model chic is inspired by the undead

One dark and bitter winter’s night on All Hallows Eve many moons ago, in a desolate graveyard where only the mutilated corpses of thieves and beggars were laid to rest, came a faint murmuring from a tombstone dating back to the 443 AD.

A tiny crack appeared in the frozen soil, which quickly branched into several cracks until, like a mole, a withered hand emerged from beneath.

Clawing at the snowy ground the hand was followed by an arm, a shoulder, another hand and finally, a face so startling it would turn Medusa to stone.

With a manic glint in its eye the figure stared up at the full moon and yowled a piercing yowl before sprinting off into the darkness.

The very next day Dave, the graveyard caretaker, popped in to check everything was in good nick. Engrossed by the plight of a robin redbreast wrestling a squirrel for an acorn, Dave failed to see the gaping chasm where the corpse once lay and, tripping over the piles of soil that remained, fell in with a gargantuan thud, creating a mudslide so dense it buried him alive.

Poor Dave. No one ever discovered the evil that occurred that fateful day because the rotting corpse, whose grave it was, had witnessed the entire event.

Spying this too-good-to miss opportunity, the corpse hopped aboard the 121 bus and nipped down to the high street. There she begged together enough pennies to purchase a khaki boiler suit and a pair of steel-toe-cap Doctor Martens, which has always been the bog-standard dress code of graveyard caretakers, even in 443 AD.

Wearing the outfit later that day, the corpse ran from the graveyard and hurtled herself off a nearby cliff. Several eyewitness accounts reported the body of Dave smashing against the rocks below, before being engulfed by a Tsunami sized wave and carried out to sea.

Journalists had a field day, interviewing colleagues, acquaintances and his wife, Gillian, all of who said: “He was a simple sort who kept himself to himself. “

This made for a pretty boring story and the newspapers instead wrote about a turnip farm, which had just opened up down the road. And so Dave became a distant memory before he was even cold in the corpse’s grave.

For years and years the corpse lived a feral life, eating the brains of various wild animals as well as the odd poodle, which had escaped from its owner. It was about 1,576 years later, which seems nothing to the average dead person, that the boredom of such a low standard of living drove her near stir crazy. Craving human company, a plot formed in her decayed mind.

We’ve all seen, reader, the magazine articles encouraging people to starve themselves to gravely malnourished yet “In Vogue” proportions. And the zombie was no different. Flicking through these magazines had helped her realise that she had “the look to die for”, quite literally, and that this would most certainly allow her to create an army of followers so large she would be able blend into the crowd – no questions asked. At last she would be able to move into a house, maybe get a cat, and go to such social events as Tupperware parties, Pilates and knit and natter sessions down her local W.I.

The possibilities were endless!

And so, naming herself after Dave’s wife, Gillian McKeith soon became a teatime sensation. People settled down with their microwave ready meals to observe the faeces of the morbidly obese being scrutinised and all but nuts and cabbage seized from their homes.

That friends, is the long sought after proof that Gillian, as we know her today, is in fact a zombie. With the death-span of Adolf Hitler, Elvis Presley, Henry VIII, James Corden (we can but dream), and countless others put together, she is something of a medical phenomenon.

Now that we know the truth Miss Mckeith must be captured immediately before she devours the brains of her little-heard-of jungle dwelling comrades, leaving incoherent Stacey Solomon to be crowned Queen.