We wish you naked baths, earthquakes and a Happy New Year

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.

Turning Japanese? I really think not..

As the months I stay in Japan draw on and I grow more and more acclimatized to the country’s cultural and behavioural differences, the thought of returning to the UK fills me with dread ever more.

I have developed a tendency to make strange noises for no particular reason, curtsey in the corner shop and cheer over enthusiastically at the simplest of conquests, like button bashing my way to success with a photocopier. What have come to be involuntary responses to daily situations would see me lose the respect of family, friends and colleagues back in Blighty.

While on the orient, it is perfectly acceptable for grown men to attend weekend cooking events kitted out in homemade, personalized Hello Kitty aprons and maintain excitement levels telling of borderline retardation at all times - in England even the Queens of Soho would disown them.

Yet as they jump up and down, cheering emphatically as I dice an apple, I find their enthusiasm utterly endearing.

The situation intensifies as we move on to the gymnasium for a spot of ping pong. No matter how bad our serves and how many points are scored against us, they cheer like monkeys on ecstasy, shouting phrases of encouragement such as; “you are magic serve” and “bat job good.”

The excitement of exploring new cities is accelerated by the very fact that, being white, everyone wants to be your friend. Children point at us in shops while adults openly stare for extended periods of time.

Unaware of their subliminal racism, no matter how unnerving it may be, it is difficult to be offended. Especially when nipping into a bar for a swift pint turns into an evening of free drinks and banter with locals who want to know everything about you and a conversation cobbled together through a pocketsize phrasebook.

Many westerners miss out on these experiences. In true American style, why stray from what you know? Arriving in new cities, their immediate reaction is to seek out the Western bar for a burger and a pint, passing up a whole array of culturally superior venues where strangers remain friends they will never meet.

These so-called Gaijin bars are the equivalent of scooping up all those waifs and strays still lingering as the day-glo lights rise at 3am in the seediest clubs along Blackpool seafront in the vain hope of finding a someone to take home to riddle with every venereal disease known to man – as well as some that aren’t – and dumping them together in one sticky, smoke stained room.

Musical preference in these venues is similar to what blared from the blacked out windows of souped up Pergeouts owned by 18 –year-old motorists who frequented the kerbsides outside English high schools circa 1992.

This bargain bin meat market is not as appealing as fraternizing with the locals, which is the reason I wrongly assumed people came to Japan in the first place.

It pains me that such a wonderfully diverse and patriotic culture, paved with traditionality and pride can be totally wasted on the stereotypical lager swilling Westerner abroad.

Slugs and snails and pregnant fish

Considered one of the most highly acclaimed cuisines globally, Japanese fodder had a lot to live up to if it was going to rank anywhere close to the extravagantly lavish concoctions conjured up by my own mother – who is capable of recreating any meal she’s ever enjoyed worldwide by the memory of taste alone.

An overrunning habit from a misspent youth, surviving solely on beer and anything vaguely edible to provide sustenance (including kebab meat salvaged from biffa bins and freeze dried milk by the spoonful), during the Withanail and I-esque student days means I can stomach most things.

And after eight months living in this country, I can vouch that there is nothing wrong with the food. It’s perfectly palatable, even the pregnant fish served up at lunchtime, eyeballs and all, are actually not that bad.

But slapping a whole fish on a plate does not exert any degree of effort. And here we unearth a running theme.

Slicing up a live squid or a fillet of raw fish and assembling it in a pretty(ish) formation on a polystyrene tray does not constitute cooking and, therefore, cannot put the country’s “chefs” in the same league as our very own pig faced Jamie Oliver’s three page guide to making the perfect fish finger sandwich.

Invited to a cookery class in my Junior High School, a student was to teach me a traditional, and very old, recipe using sweet potatoes. Honoured to be let into a culinary secret of a land so far from home, my disappointment upon discovering that the entire process involved boiling the potato whole, slicing it into discs and leaving it on a baking tray over the weekend to dry in the sunlit bug fuelled air, was difficult to mask.

Asking if any seasoning was involved I was told, in no uncertain terms; “No Ellie-sensei, we like to eat natural.”

Which is fine, but don’t label this feral practice a recipe. In the same vein, I cook every morning when I peel my banana.

In preparation for a family party, one of my colleagues explained the foods she would prepare – rice, rice, more rice, and – the piece de resistance - gyoza dumplings.

By the Japanese standards I had encountered so far, I was impressed, until she continued to explain that she would be buying premade Gyoza, because it is “very difficult” to extract a ready-made dumpling sheet from a packet, spoon on lumps of minced meat and fold it over into little pasties.

From a generation hell bent against waste, my grandmother would overcome this great barrier of difficulty to do similar with left over pastry and a bag of raisins.

Attending a cooking class this weekend, we were the entertainment, as the unsung Japanese masterchefs observed us cubing apples to stew before spooning into circles of packet-bought puff pastry. Rightly they were flabbergasted at our outstanding proficiency with a knife and a chopping board, which saw their enthusiasm soaring to unforeseen heights.

We also made chocolate fondue, with dipping products including dried squid, fishy cheese, carrots and cherry tomatoes, which were annihilated by the locals like a pack of sugar addicted rabbits.

Most weekends, as I’m off for visits to various towns and prefectures across the country, fellow teachers will religiously, and without fail, pipe up – “You must try the udon.”

Kagawa, Okayama, Kobe, Kochi, pretty much everywhere is allegedly “very famous for its udon,” possibly one of the most used phrases in the Japanese vocabulary.

For those of you who aren’t familiar, udon is an oriental artform, and a lengthy and difficult process to master.

Take a bowl of water, add a stock cube and some thick noodles, simmer for two minutes and pour into a bowl. If you’re lucky you get a raw egg to crack over the top.

Another highly regarded dish is tempura. We treated ourselves to a pricey and lavish tempura meal in Hiroshima at a top end restaurant to celebrate the forming of new friendships during training week.

There’s not much scope to make a clear differentiation between cheap and expensively deep-fried microscopic slithers of vegetable, doused in enough batter to encapsulate a small child.

Needless to say we were left both lighter in the purse and terribly disappointed.

It is also frowned upon to err from what is expected when eating the poor man’s fish and chips. There is a strict regimental technique to devouring this delicacy. Rumour has it that dipping your food into condiments in the wrong order was once punishable by death.

Raw fish, pregnant fish, fly ridden spuds, I would choose a British Fry Up every time.

Slurping my way to success - almost

Following our dice with death at October’s Danjiri, it was uncertain as to how this month’s traditional oddities of the orient could exceed expectations.

Yubara’s annual noodle eating contest certainly did its best.

Invited to enlist by one of my teachers, presumably to provide some “white person” comedy value, I gladly obliged.

A proudly patriotic country, Japanese people are stereotypically under the belief that no one else can do as they do. Non-Japanese infiltrating local life are instantly assumed idiotic and taken pity on.

Congratulated by genuinely surprised locals on a daily basis for my chopstick using prowess, as well as tasks as menial as wiping a tray or flushing a toilet, in rural Japan closing a sliding door warrants a standing ovation.

On occasion this can work to your advantage. Sunday’s competition was just one of these occasions.

Arriving early, the tension in the air was high, nerves were shaking and contestants sombre faced at the prospect of the challenge which lay ahead.

Last on the list, we had to wait for realms of children and men to compete in the soba slurp off.

A natural born winner, this time was not wasted.

Instead I assessed tactics.

First up were two of my larger, to be more precise morbidly obese, students who return for a minimum of third helpings during a typical school lunch time, and one featherweight child.

As the unlikely trio assumed their positions, chopsticks poised, I predicted the pecking order; fattest kid first, less fat but still of gastronomical proportions second, and whippet legs third.

Sadly the future heart attack victims, who didn’t use the dipping sauce provided, began regurgitating noodles into their palms, retching and on the verge of developing lack of oxygen induced brain damage. Meanwhile the wimpy kid took the lead, becoming the clear winner.

This scenario was repeated time and time again as tensions grew fast.

Another fat child learnt by the error of his peers’ ways, adopting the dip-slurp method, leading him to unprecedented victory.

The judges called our names and I took my place behind 500 grams of stone cold soba noodles, cracking the chopsticks and ready for action.

Quietly confident, no one was aware of my secret weapon, a mouth large enough to accommodate 20 grapes or a clenched fist.

The whistle sounded.

Despite getting off to a sloppy start due to an incident with the chopsticks, I gathered speed. Using tactics gleamed from earlier competitors, I crammed to the sound of a kindergarten child, who had earlier attempted to flog me an enormous jar of her Grandfather’s overpriced honey under the guise that she loved me, squawking her good luck wishes, which induced a fit of hysterics.

Determination took a hold and I powered through regardless.

Hearing the commentator repeating my name, I knew I must be nearing success so began stuffing handfuls of noodles which had slopped onto the table into my mouth, throwing my hands into the air to signal I’d finished to the sound of the cheering crowd, chanting my name.

Waiting for my opponents to catch up, I eyed dip-slurp fat kid tucking into a family sized polyester tray of Yakisoba, visibly eager to maintain his portly physique.

Finishing first with a time of 2minutes 53seconds, the next group in our heat was called to the table.

Sending out negative brainwaves throughout their round, I willed no one to beat my time.

One wizened, five-stone grandmother, immune to my magical powers, finished with a time of 2minutes 15seconds, putting her in first place and demoting me to a sloppy second.

Unaware what her secret weapon was, she clearly needed the food to insulate her frail bones against the Siberian winter currently travelling to the valleys of Yubara. But I still felt a sense of defeat. A feeling I can only assume is experienced by those straight A* students when they disgrace their overly ambitious parents as well as the entire extended family when they fail and get an A in General Studies, suicide being the only admirable action to be taken in such an eventuality.

Luckily I had good friends around to pull me through one of the darkest hours of my life so far.

More positively, we have gained local celebrity status. White people entering a noodle contest has been the talk of the town. At the hairdresser’s on Monday the owner disappeared, re-emerging seconds later with the newspaper, overtly excited that he was in the presence of such a local hero.

Next time, I will win.

Death becomes them

Late October, the season of the village Danjiri festival, which takes place in rural locations throughout Japan.

Grown men don headbands, cloaks, skinny jeans and frog boots and, in 20-strong teams, ram into each other with enormous wooden floats, simultaneously growing paralytic as the sun sets.

My initial reaction, this sounds incredibly dangerous, especially after a fellow teacher mentioned in passing, and remaining completely blasé:

“Ellie sensei, a man died at the festival two years ago.”

Such a tragedy hitting England would have seen a blanket ban on Danjiris from that day forward. However in Japan the childhood oblivion to recognize danger seemingly stems into adulthood.

The front of the floats, decorated with willow sprigs and flags representing the nations of the world, are carved to a sharp point to intensify impact. But the drunker the contestants get, the lesser their judgement, leading to a heightened number of hair-raising moments.

Our closest comparison is the village gala in which visiting queens wave at each other, engaging in a vicious smile off as they parade each other’s habitat. While the biggest risk being the threat of multiple face spasms, the Japanese Danjiri competitors may well die.

They also take their sport very seriously, with a number of full blown fisticuffs resulting from instances of failure to adhere to the rules.

Each float contains young boys beating bells and drums as well as a few fighting veterans, and future whiplash victims, who sit on the front, waving fire lit lanterns around, and banging each other on the head as the sake tightens its grasp.

Most of these older teammates are either drunk or hint that they’ve been released from geriatric care homes for one-night only to attend the sporting event, at which they sit with vacant glints in their eyes similar to that of a confused toddler.

As the tonne-weight floats collide they swing sideways, straight into the path of roadside spectators, who are saved only by a one-man deep wall of strapping festival scouts.

In a closing ceremony, the floats unite and contestants climb onto the roofs. In England we would scrabble for sweets or chocolate at this point.

In Japan, a tasteless rock hard substance called Mochi which, the first time I came across I mistook for novelty soap, is distributed to the masses. Upon discovering it was edible, I popped it in the cupboard with a view to working out what to do with it on my return from a fortnight away. By this time it was covered in green fur, the solution was obvious, and I flung it into the bin in disgust.

It transpires it should have been put it in the microwave, transforming into a red hot gloop, which can only be compared to munching on a soft boiled Pritt-Stick. And so it transpires that the original plan of allowing it to grow mold before disposing of it is a far more palatable option.

Yet the Japanese scrabble to their knees to collect as much of the multi-coloured crap as possible.

Again, the oblivion to danger is highlighted as the mochi is not just thrown but propelled from mini rocket launchers along with streamers, lulling me into a false sense of security as I stare at the pretty colours before being smacked on the head with force one not just one but three lumps, which have been sent airborne with the power of a cannon.

No law suits, no event bans, the Japanese mentality is that if you attend, you are liable for the fate that becomes you. It would be great to see this ethos infiltrating the degenerative streets of outback America, where they think it legitimate to claim against McDonalds for scalding their legs when attempting to drink hot coffee while driving, and worryingly winning the case.

We only have ourselves to blame if the next our parents hear is that their offspring has been steamrolled to death by a giant wooden cart containing 20 inebriated men.

With the language barrier, this would probably be lost in translation and they would never actually find out how we met our end, rather draw the conclusion that the company had sold us into Kyoto’s Geisha industry for a tidy sum of 100 Yen a piece.

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.