Dismount your moral horse and listen to Lumley

Joanna Lumley walked into the firing line this week after spouting advice which could severely reduce the risk of vulnerable young women falling prey to the gratification of sexual predators.

Yet from the ashes of the Suffragettes bras blossomed a growing trend of women with a penchant for swigging beer to the point of projectile vomiting down their minimalistic attires. Women who stick two fingers up to these deviants lurking in the depths of darkened alleyways.

Pankhurst would be pleased to see her efforts to liberate woman-kind being, quite literally, pissed up the wall with the surge of a generation of grotesque ladettes favouring belching and farting over voting and working.

In much the same way that no-one would leave their wallet on the table in a crowded bar while they nipped for a cigarette and expect it to still be there on their return, a woman wouldn't walk down an isolated street by herself if there was a rapist crouching in wait behind a Biffa bin. It's all about self preservation.

Yes it's a sad world when opportunist thieves will dip into the easy access handbags of innocent tube-dwellers, a man will get beaten to a pulp as he fiddles on the latest I-phone on its release day on an isolated bridge at midnight, or that vulnerable women can't go out dressed like a slutty Katie Price without the risk of abuse being ever present.

In any of these cases the victim is not to blame. Yet hold your bag closer to your chest, keep your phone in your pocket, put a coat on and order a cab and you can slash your chances of falling into the hands of the less morally astute.

Over the years I've put myself in some terrible potentially compromising situations, including nipping over the border to Mexico at one in the morning with a group of people I'd met hours previously (sorry mum). Thankfully I survived unscathed but will remain ever grateful having put myself in such grave danger.

In a column slating Lumley's advice The Independent's Victoria Wright makes the bold statement: "We can wear whatever we like, including vomit, and I can walk home alone at night if I wish."

This Ibiza-esque attitude is depressingly the stereotype a minority of Brits has gained us throughout Europe and beyond.

As the public mounts its moral horse, it continues to laugh at social degenerates going before the cameras on budget victim television shows from Jeremy Kyle to Blackpool 999.

Risk aside, we shouldn't stagger round with vomit dribbling down our fronts and skirts so short that the intricacies of our every crevice are displayed to all who glance in our direction. No backside looks good in skin tight Lycra, cellulite riddled or not.

It's trashy and it gives our country a bad name.

Jabba the Slut against the world

An inexplicable phenomenon is overtaking redneck America. That phenomenon comes in the form of one miniature, yet vastly porcine, individual who goes by the name “Honey Boo.”

This six-year-old beauty pageant winner, whose success is inarguably down to having eaten the competition, is gracing the television screens of buck-toothed hillbillies trailer wide.

She appears alongside confusingly related co-stars, including a 17-year-old cousin-sister, who Honey lovingly describes as “the pregnantest” member of her abhorrent tribe, and a mother suggestive that someone not so far down the line indulged in an extra-marital affair with Jabba the Hut.

                                   

You get the gist. 

Witnessing this atrocity last night on a countdown show of “the best and worst of 2012,” saw returning to the forefront of my mind a theory that is now posing a present and real threat to the future of humanity.

Darwin’s theory of evolution is reversing, devolution is rife, and there’s NOTHING we can do to stop it.

While the intelligent are waiting longer to ensure their offspring are conceived with an adequate prospective partner, the likes of Honey Boo and other DNA test chat-show fodder are presenting themselves to anything sporting a penis and a bottle of super strength cider from the moment they can toddle.

Big cities are still relatively safe but stray out into any seaside town north of London and it is possible to see devolution in its irreversible throws.

Recently taking the train from Preston in the general direction of Blackpool was a harrowing experience.

Not even lunchtime on a weekday and I’m confronted with scantily lycra-clad forty-something’s sporting glitzy cowboy hats and enough overhang to catch in their six-inch white patent stilettos. Each clutching a bottle of blue WKD.

Boarding the train I enter a scene I imagine not dissimilar to the waiting room for contestants seeking their five minutes of fame on the Jeremy Kyle Show.

My annual duty visit to the Brighton of the North is like taking a time machine to the Neanderthal age and beyond. Pyjama clad mothers sporting greased hair, mouths that naturally hang open and skin suggestive of a 40-a-day super-strength cigarette addiction waddle along using pushchairs, containing their eight-year-old Gregg’s pasty munching offspring, as walking aids.

Congregating outside the DSS office, magistrates’ court, Poundland and other local hotspots, there is little point to their existence.

And cult TV show: “Blackpool 999 what’s your emergency?” showcases those headed to the next extreme, including one nicotine-stained being, gender undisclosed, which never leaves it bed.

Soon there’ll be no professionals, no labourers, there won’t be any workers at all. Just a stream of zombies queuing up at midnight to collect their giro from a bank of money borrowed from fuck knows where.

But how could Darwin possibly have known that years down the line a steadily rising population would opt to spend the entirety of their existence slowly moulding into a sofa, eating additive riddled ready meals and obliterating what little gray matter remains with cut-price vodka and reality TV?

Compulsory euthanasia versus sterilisation? Let the debate begin.

Shopping for love leads to unwanted impulse buys

Internet dating sites pave the way for even the most socially awkward singles to portray themselves as the ultimate catch to a sea of women on the prowl for their, or rather 'a' one.  

Through a combination of carefully executed messages and flattering camera angles, they are able to falsely advertise their way to a drink and inevitable demise. Oddly so many of these hopefuls are oblivious to the fact that, when the 6 ft witty adonis they claim to be is actually 5ft five with a limp, a lisp and the grace of a pre-pubescent teen, it is inevitably going to go badly.

My recent date with Hans from Sweden is a prime example of the dangers of shopping for love. Over messages Hans almost made me ROFL so was definitely worth a drink. 

Arranging to meet at stereotypical first date venue, Gordon's Wine Bar, Hans flicks through the menu with panic etched across his face.

I ask if he's okay.

"Yes, I just try to find something that is not wine," he replies.

Having arranged to meet in a wine bar I would have thought it a logical assumption to jump to that they would serve predominantly wine. 

"Don't you like wine?" I ask, to which he responds, in a very Swedish and very loud voice with dramatic up-speak.

"No because zen I wooood has a giiiiirrrlfrieeend".

We're off to a good start. 

Several minutes of faffing later and Hans settles for a glass of house red and the bar tender pours two glasses to the very brim. I sense he senses my pain.

"Oh zey are veeerrry full no," he exclaims, turning to me and shouting: "Vaaaat ver you theenking ordering red vine in a bizzi vine bar?????" in my face before whisking the drinks high above his head, addressing the room as he makes his exit with the words:

"Scuse me viine coming through viiine coming through."

We are followed by every eye in the room. 

As we sit down and try to hold a conversation Hans is twitchy and his eyes keep darting to the side. I ask him if he's okay and he confesses that, being multi-lingual and suffering from ADD, he cannot concentrate on what I am saying because of the Russians sat at the next table and demands we move to  where a young girl is reading quietly. 

We begin to talk again and he tells me about people's lack of respect for pens, all the while harking back to the good old days when people took pride in their ballpoints.

Before long a girl comes and sits down, reading girl closes her book and they begin to talk, as people generally do in busy wine bars. 

Colour draining from his cheeks, ashen Hans' face is grave: "oh no, eet is appening again," he exclaims.

As I long for the comfort of my bed the bad situation continues to get worse and I am most certainly not seeing the funny side. 

Escaping to the toilet to compose myself I return to find Hans lecturing the girls at the next table about women's rights in the workplace. He springs up when he notices me and dashes off to get more drinks, leaving three girls and an awkward silence lingering behind. 

Incapable of lying Hans relays a woeful tale of how his application for life insurance was turned down when he was asked if he had ever dabbled with drugs.

"I said yes, I smoked the herb once, but it was nine years ago. The lady on the phone, she say to mee, if you say it was 10 years ago then we can insure you. Nine years? You are classified drug addict, I can pretend that I never heard what you just said." 

He paused pensively, before adding: "But I cannot lie, so I did not get life insurance."

I drank my drink, yawned dramatically, exclaimed "goodness is that the time," complained about having to be up early and went home.

The following week I met up with social networking manager Rob, who ironically possessed no social skills yet complained that people applying for roles in his company were too socially awkward.

He was not impressed by the waiter automatically serving me a large wine, commenting, "goodness, I'm glad I ordered beer now." Even less impressed by me teaching my nephew the term "pooh head," he spent the vast majority of the date banging on about marriage, babies and how he's a natural with children. 

Thankfully he made the decision to call it a night at 9.30 and, having been led to believe that there was a definite mutual unattraction, I breathed a sigh of relief. 

At the tube I gave him an awkward hug farewell, turning my face just in time as the kiss he intended to plant on my mouth slurped across my cheek with a dissatisfying smack. Sadly I think this uneventfully mediocre date was probably about as eventful as social networking manager Rob's life ever gets.    

There's those that don't even warrant a date. An 18 year old, a man offering to sire my children and provide financial stability in return for regular extra-marital affairs and a pleasant young gent who's only photos were of his penis, around which he sported a tattoo of Pinocchio's face, and a woman being spit roasted.  

And the forward men either offering 'discreet' fun or demanding blow jobs:

Him: "Will you give me a blow job."

Me: "Only if I can use teeth."

Him: "Oooooh kinky, what else will you do?"

And finally those without a shred of humour, such as this bland chap:

Him: "You do know you have "dogging" as an interest don't you?"

Me: "Of course. And basket weaving and tractor pulling, they're heavily underrated pursuits."

Him: "Just so we're clear, this is my understanding of the term dogging (link to wikipedia)."

Picking up a copy of Time Out and turning to the "strange conversations you've overheard this week" section, someone had texted in about disrespect for pens. 

A Not-so-Brief Encounter with David Bumblebridge

David Bumblebridge loved trains.  
 

A paperboy by trade, if he wasn’t spreading the news he was lurking in the depths of railway stations from Lands End to John O’Groats. Camera poised, eagerly awaiting the arrival of those not-yet spotted locomotives, he would pounce at the final moment to snap what he referred to as the "money shots." 

Yet it was unlikely anyone would ever pay cash for David's bog standard photographs of bog standard trains. 

With a thinning comb-over, nostril hair moustache, trousers abruptly stopping just short of half mast, bottle-bottom spectacles and jacket better suited to someone with much shorter arms, David was a looker. 

The thirty-two-and-a-half-year-old (David insisted the half was very important) lived in a house filled from top to toe with railway memorabilia. Spotting books, calendars, toys and photo albums bursting with snapshots of trains which all looked the same (but David insisted were very different).

Partially deaf, surgeons had fitted him with a supersonic hearing implant, which had given him a less muffled awareness of his surroundings and the confidence to approach women via internet chat rooms.  

Six months later David finally met who he described as his “perfect match,” Sylvia, who was partially sighted and loved buses. 

The future Mrs. Bumblebridge had a particular penchant for London double-deckers. She liked the way the vivid red stood out against the hazy world she had long since grown accustomed to.  

Within a fortnight smitten David popped the question, presenting his intended bride-to-be with a sparkly red ring to which she reacted with a squeak of delighted acceptance. 

David found the fact a catch like five-foot Sylvia, who could carry off a tangerine lipstick, floral print and pin-stripe combo with all the elegance of a supermodel, could fall for someone like him unfathomable. He was the luckiest man alive. 

Full of joy and blinded by love David announced the engagement to all his family and friends, inviting them to his local watering hole, the Stinking Turnip, to celebrate immediately.

Later that evening he returned from the bar with a round for the party; a pint of lager for his father and school friend Malcolm, half a shandy for himself and a bowl of water for Malcolm's pet whippet, Rover, all balanced precariously on a small tray. 

But David, who didn't usually drink was drunk. He had already had three halves of bitter shandy and, declaring "I can't take it anymore", he toppled like a felled tree, the tray of drinks smashing all around. 

On a rainy summer's day the couple wed, spending their honeymoon on a train journey to Bognor Regis where they stayed in a B&B before travelling back the next day by bus. It was "all about compromise” they exclaimed, when proudly showing their holiday snaps to anyone who happened to knock at their door.

To everyone's disbelief the couple copulated at least twice. With the birth of each of their sons, the couple had argued over whether they would share David's love of trains or Sylvia’s passion for buses. 

Sadly neither showed a fascination for either. First born Freddie was obsessed with his mother's make-up collection while sibling, Tony, had no interest in anything at all. Instead he sat banging his head against the floor, drooling and wailing inconsolably until someone fed him. Two doting but inept parents meant Tony grew very fat.  

Despite the blow of two transport non-enthusiast offspring, David claimed he was still "living the dream" and sought out ways to satiate his solitary love affair with trains.  

Attending everything from locomotive namings to special rail events and steam train trips, nothing quite cut the mustard. Until one day he was reading about a very interesting record on the world-wide-web where a girl had collected every single nail clipping she had ever clipped, illustrated with a photograph of the treasures falling like snowflakes over her head.  

At that precise moment David Bumblebridge had a light-bulb pingingly brilliant idea.   

"A first of its kind train world record!" he cried, awaking Sylvia from a dream about riding a London open top bus with none other than Her Royal Highness, Her Majesty the Queen of England. 

Initially disgruntled at having been woken in such an untimely fashion, she soon weakened as David divulged his stellar plan as it unfolded in his mind and flopped straight out of his mouth right then and there.  

Determined to make his mark on the world, David had come up with a foolproof record attempt, which would be lapped up by the nation, even if he did say so himself.

And so he did. 

 “It’s a foolproof record plan, which will be lapped up by the nation, even I do say so myself,” he said to Sylvia, who had already fallen back to sleep so didn’t hear him. 

Next morning Sylvia was supportive, despite suggesting that replacing trains with buses would make for a far better story. 

The plan was to cover the most rail track, UK wide, in three days precisely.  Chugging off at 9am on Monday morning, which was, according to David, “the best time to start anything,” he would travel solidly, plotting out his route to achieve maximum coverage until precisely 9am on Thursday.  

He rang around the local media, pitching his idea to all who would listen long enough, which wasn’t all that many people at all. However it was a particularly slow news day at weekly publication, The Horrabridge Herald. So when editor Devin Dickens, who was a comical yet callous man, received an excited call from David Bumblebridge, his voice lit up with glee.

As David delightedly explained to Devin, there was an “added catch,” which would make the challenge “even more exciting.” He wasn’t allowed to cover even an inch of the same track twice during the three day period. 

Pencilling David’s record attempt into the events diary, he bade his farewell, promising to be in touch shortly. 

Hanging up, David realised that he really should have mentioned he was a paperboy by trade, a fact he was sure would have impressed someone as important as Devin Dickens while simultaneously adding great weight to his story. He could see the headline now: 

“PAPERBOY RAIL ENTHUSIAST DELIVERS HIS OWN RECORD TO RESIDENTS.”

A punchy headline if he did say so himself. Although this time there was no one around to listen, so he just thought it instead.  

When junior reporter, Liz Littlefare, arrived at work the next morning, she discovered a note to call David Bumblebridge “urgently” stuck to her computer screen. 

Despite her protests Devin insisted it was a scoop, making promises she would get her first front page story.  

Less that a week later Liz, armed with an extra strong coffee, set off to meet David Bumblebridge at Dungy Head train station, where she was to accompany him on his challenge. 

From that moment Liz’s life was never the same.  

“I didn’t know Dungy Head even had a train station,” Liz exclaimed upon meeting David, embracing him in a customary handshake. 

“Well this is an education for you. Not many people do,” declared David with a knowledgeable nod.

“There’s a reason for that,” muttered Liz, scanning the lack of view. 

Sat on the train, David got a little over excited as the engine kicked into motion. He jumped up and down in his seat, blinking emphatically and sticking his tongue out as far as it would go.  

“I always get like this,” he explained.

It was going to be a long three days.  

Excited David had brought along a stack of books and photographs that he just knew would interest Liz. When the picture of his wife was produced, Liz masked her disbelief.  

“Oh, how long have you been married?” she asked a little too enthusiastically.

When the images of his children came out, Liz choked a little on her coffee. 

"Do your children like trains?" she asked as David proudly presented a studio shot of dress wearing Freddie and big fat Tony. 

"Of course, they have me as a father," said David, lying.  

As the drinks trolley rumbled past, David ordered a malted milk.

“We don’t sell it,” muttered the spotty trolley boy.  

“It’s a very good drink Dom,” retorted David, eyeing Dom's name-badge; “you should go and tell your train manager to stock up on it. People like malted milk very much.” 

“I’ll make a note of it,” said Dom, trundling off.  

Arriving into their first destination David’s ears pricked up and, leaving Liz, he disappeared along the platform after a non-stop service as it whizzed past at great speed. 

"That was the first train I ever spotted," shouted David.

"Wow! How do you know?" asked unenthusiastic Liz, enthusiastically. 

"Practice," he announced, nodding proudly. 

The next train they boarded was a sleeper service all the way up to the Scottish Highlands, at which point David got all jittery. Sticking his tongue out, he licked his lips all round before smacking them tight shut and strutting his neck forward like a chicken.  

“Just wait until you see our room,” he squealed.

 Liz looked shocked. 

“I’m sorry they didn’t tell you we were sharing,” said David as they crossed over the threshold into a bunk-bed room a few minutes later; "you can borrow my spare pyjamas if you like. Sylvia packed them in case I spill anything down my front, but it doesn't matter,” he added, pulling them from his knapsack along with a huge biscuit tin.

“I'll be fine thanks," assured Liz, hesitating as she looked for a way to change the subject before pointing at the newly produced biscuit tin; "what’s in there?”

“A midnight feast. We’re going to have so much fun,” he said, opening it to reveal a stash of malted milk sachets, fig rolls and lemon puffs. 

“Oooh how exciting,” she squeaked sarcastically, clapping her hands like a seal.  

“It gets better,” he squealed, slowly producing a Great Train Journey DVD from the depths of his bag, “it’s my favourite film.” 

Before long David was in his all-in-one train pyjamas and eating fig rolls on the top bunk, which they’d rock paper scissored for and he had won “fair and square.” 

Squeezed down below Liz tried very hard to ignore David, a mission impossible as he tirelessly offered her biscuits and mugs of malt. 

It didn’t help that the volume on the DVD was turned up to full whack and they’d already had two complaints from the residents of neighbouring cabins. 

By 10.30pm David Bumblebridge was snoring to the soothing sounds of his prized film. 

“So much for a midnight feast,” sighed Liz, switching off the television. 

The next two days were spent travelling through the Great British countryside with David pointing out famous railway bridges, particularly green hedgerows, aeroplanes flying a fraction lower than the norm, track-side puddles, leaves, cows, pretty much everything of no interest to long-suffering Liz. 

Taking the opportunity to make suggestions for ways to improve the service to every rail employee that passed them by, he had ideas for everything from rose-tinted windows to separate sections for dog owners, blind or not. Dog phobic David had denied wife Sylvia of a Labrador guide on account of his fear, which had stemmed from an incident with a poodle when he was six. Instead she relied on instinct and the kindness of strangers.

Occasionally he would remember about his record attempt, shouting something along the lines of, "I get so excited about the trains that I keep forgetting that I'm going to be a world record holder. It's a bit like the World Cup isn't it?" to Liz, who agreed through forced smiles although failed to make the connection.  

By Wednesday evening Liz had had enough. Gouging nail marks into her shins, tugging at bunches of her hair, she had tried everything to alleviate the pain but David Bumblebridge had destroyed a notable chunk of her soul. Much to her delight the challenge was drawing to a close. 

But unbeknown to Liz worse was yet to come. Disaster struck as the last train made its approach into their final station, Kings Cross, and with it David's record achieving enthusiasm faltered fast. 

Studying his phone intently, David discovered that two of the rarest of the rare not-yet-spotted locomotives were due to arrive into and depart from Kings Cross at exactly the same time. This would have been wonderful news for any spotter, especially someone of David’s caliber. But there was a catch. The trains were scheduled at opposite ends of the station.

“Noooooooooooooo,” wailed David, awakening lobotomised Liz from her day-coma, which is a bit like a day-dream but much more serious.

“What?” she asked.

Explaining his predicament Liz responded with what, to most people, would seem like a foolproof plan.

“Well, why don’t I go and snap one of the trains for you?” she asked.

But David Bumblebridge wasn't most people and so thought about this for a very long time.

“Well it’s not ideal. It doesn’t really count if I don’t see them myself, but it’s better than nothing,” he said, ungratefully. 

Arriving into the station David ran for platform 14, ordering Liz to platform 3.

As he arrived he heard over the tannoy: “We are sorry to announce the train from platform 14 is running five minutes late.”

For the first time in his spotting career David was thankful that the British rail system had let the nation down. 

He could make it!

There was still time! 

Running over to Liz he shouted, "I can photograph it myself," camera held to his eye.

“You'll be hard pressed. It's just left, look,” said Liz, pointing after the long sought after locomotive, which was now nothing more than a blob on the horizon.

“Don’t look so disheartened, I got you a picture.”

David spent so long examining Liz's “shoddy photography” that he forgot entirely about his other much desired train.

When Liz managed to calm him down long enough to remind him, he ran as fast as he could, which wasn't very fast at all, reaching the platform in time to witness the last of its fumes disappearing into the distance. 

Crumbling to the floor, David put his head in his hands and cried.  All these years he'd been waiting to spot that particular train. The country's inability to run anything to time, that he had for once rejoiced in, had cost him not one but two money shots.

Strolling into view, Liz offered him a supportive pat on the back.

“There there, there’ll be other chances,” she said, soothingly.

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!!!” David screamed, uncharacteristically, rising to his feet.

Crowds gathered to observe as inconsolable David span round and round in circles so much so that he strayed to the platform's edge, lost his footing and toppled onto the track and straight into the path of a non-stop high speed train as a "please keep behind the yellow line" announcement blared throughout the station. 

Liz Littlefare looked on in shocked relief. She could not muster any sorrow for poor dead David. Instead she felt a rising excitement. This would definitely make the front page. It was doubtful anyone would offer the obligatory "he was such a wonderful family man who kept himself to himself," quote. 

“No bother,” she thought, “I can make one up." 

And so it came to pass that David Bumblebridge was killed by the very thing he loved the most. And Liz Littlefare finally got her first front page. 

Anti-social networking is the death of society

The inauguration into my fourth decade brings with it a premature and escalating sense of existential panic.

Living in the full depths of a recession, every lost work day - due to anything from snow and tube strikes to dead dogs and doctor's trips, deals another almost fatal blow to our finances.

When the city-dwelling office workers, just managing to keep the economy alive on a fast fraying shoestring, do manage to drag themselves out of bed, ply themselves with enough coffee to rouse Paul McCartney from the dead (we can but dream) and draw their swivel chairs up to their desks, how do they utilise their working day?

Tweeting, updating statuses and stalking photo-diaries of acquaintances so vague they fall outside six degrees of separation.

Facebook, the world's largest voyeuristic phenomenon, has infiltrated the workplace like a virus, costing employers billions - $28,000,000,000, in fact, in lost productivity every year according to one piece of US research.

And it doesn't stop here. The rise of the i-phone empire has infiltrated the soul of many a socially active human, reducing them to a shell, lobotomised to the air around them. Instead of socialising with friends in pubs, bars, up mountainsides and on holiday, they consult the shiny box of dreams to tell to all the people they don't know how much "fun" they are having with all the people they do know. 

There are the lego-haired city boys who, giving credit where credit's due, do work hard. And late. Yet an unrequited love of their desks can mean an unrequited marriage. They crunch numbers and seal deals to feather their nests, unaware those nests will be filled with the bastard children of milkmen, salsa teachers and nimble-fingered gynaecologists.

Back to social networking. It's now socially acceptable to ignore your friends and liaise with strangers an ocean away. But it's seemingly unacceptable to strike up conversation with the person sat next to you on the bus. Such archaic behaviour is met with disapproving tuts and speculation over mental stability.

Ignoring stigma, and choosing to embrace this outdated medium of interaction, I recently stopped for an hour-long chat with a Red Cross worker in central London. A young girl who had spent the past two years nursing sick children in Somalia, and who regularly sacrificed her last pennies to buy a sandwich for one or another of the street-dwellers in the city that's paved with the homeless.

Earlier that day a businessman had roared obscenities in her direction, telling her to get a "real job" before scurrying off to work while his wife conceived their first born with the gardener.

The same girl told me of an experiment where a man faked a heart-attack. Collapsing in the middle of rush-hour human traffic, it took 45 minutes until a stranger finally stopped to assist. And who was it? A Red Cross worker on his day off.

Presumably everyone else was too busy tweeting or thinking about what to tweet as they rushed off to log into the nearest computer.

All this leaves me thinking, what the fuck is it all about?

The unnatural helpfulness of the Japanese

As an independent pure blooded northerner, being overly mothered is not something I am accustomed, or ever wish to grow accustomed to.

Having been warned that Japanese people are helpful, sometimes too helpful, I was on my guard.

Nothing could prepare me for the general public’s innate impulsion to offer their assistance with pretty much everything, to levels incomprehensible to those back on home turf.

Having spent the previous two years living in London, where the extent of friendliness stemmed to the man in Starbucks begrudgingly making me a new coffee after shouting at me because he'd botched up my order in the first place, I was taken aback by this unfathomable desire to assist.   

Alighting the bus in Hiroshima city centre in my first hour on the Orient, laden with a rucksack and two suitcases large enough to conceal a family of evacuees, the proceeding course of events set the precedence for the year to come.

Accompanied by Scott and Lucy, who I had met in the customs queue, an unfamiliar trio was stranded at an unfamiliar bus stop with no idea which way to head. Lost in a sprawling non-English speaking metropolis, our collaborated mental Japanese phrasebook was limited and incoherent to the various city dwellers who did their best to assist regardless.

Beginning to fear a night, if not longer, co-habiting the doorway of McDonalds with the Hiroshima homeless, it was in our hour of need that a miracle occurred.

A businessman, accompanied by his three drunken employees appeared to us.

Putting their collective beer tinted grasp of English together, they decoded what others had found un-decodable to realize our plight.

We had been saved.

Expecting at most a hand-drawn map, we were surprised to find three of the quartet slink away, waving enthusiastically at their remaining colleague and our nominated Samaritan for the night. The plight of the foreigners had become a shackle around his neck.

Ignoring my objections, he took the heaviest of my suitcases, trundling off down the street, with us following hot on his heels.

Anywhere else in the world wandering off down dark alleyways with a stranger, who has possession of half of your vital belongings for the coming year, may be viewed as slightly irresponsible. In Japan, wisely or not, we felt no threat.

A good 20 minutes later the Comfort Hotel appeared on the horizon. We thanked him graciously, making failed attempts to retrieve my suitcase, but he soldiered on, right up to the entrance before bowing countless times. As we edged into the building he continued to smile and wave.

Japanese hotel lifts are not custom made for three suitcase laden westerners. Despite our best attempts to board, the doors slammed repeatedly, squashing our bags, various body parts and at one point almost decapitating Scott, which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.

All the while the Samaritan continued to observe, still smiling and waving with the same level of unnatural enthusiasm.

After watching our ridiculous display for a minute or so longer, he ceased waving and entered the hotel lobby to assist, mastering the art of packing westerners into a claustrophobic lift remarkably well.

As the doors closed, he continued to wave and cheer through the glass until we were safely out of sight and mind.

This first impression is typical of Japanese culture. Despite their best efforts, the more I tell them I don’t understand what they’re saying, the more animated and fast paced their Japanese becomes, utterly oblivious to my growing confusion.

In restaurants I try my best and order something I can pronounce. But their need to ensure what is served up is exactly what the customer asks for usually has detrimental results.

And so as they continue to ask question after question, with the speed of a speed addict, my coping mechanism is to say “Hai,” (yes) to everything until the gibberish ceases.

“Hai-ing” to everything invariably saw the Udon, pizza, gyoza, tempura, sushi, whatever it was I thought I was ordering transforming into fried chicken.

Always fried chicken.

Another time I pointed at a delicious looking stir-fry a lady on another table was eating. With a nod of acknowledgement, the waitress trotted off and ten minutes later, I’m served fried chicken.

Sometimes upon spying a foreigner restaurant staff are so eager to please that they develop an unnerving ability to appear out of nowhere, eyes like saucers and milimetres from your face before you’ve even had chance to sit down. They sit in wait, despite it being glaringly obvious that you haven’t opened the menu, let alone attempted to decode the gibberish that lies within.

Before learning how to say “wait a minute”, this saw us falling into a wild and panicked frenzy, pointing randomly at the menu and hoping for the best.

And the best was always fried chicken.

After a month the day came when I felt confident to put my Hiragana and Katana into practice. Excited to try out my newfound ability, I proudly ordered us a pepperoni pizza.

I had never felt so liberated.

Reading the Japanese alphabets had opened up endless possibilities.

We were served garlic pasta.

At least it was a variation on fried chicken.

A prime example of their inability to comprehend that we don’t comprehend was my first expedition on the toll road.

With no barrier I was unaware that I had to stop and collect a ticket at the start of the journey. This lead to an unfortunate encounter at the end as the ticket guard smiled and spoke at rapid rates. I shook my head and repeated “Watashi wa Nihongo ga wakarimasen” (I don’t understand Japanese). But still he continued, gesturing wildly and smiling like a man possessed.

A coping mechanism at times of immense frustration like these is to respond in English, uttering all sorts of socially unacceptable phrases, lessening the blows of frustration and allowing the perpetrator to survive their brief encounter with Ellie May unscathed.

On a night out in Osaka we stumbled out of a karaoke bar at around midnight. With the night still young on our first visit to one of the most popular Japanese cities, we collared an unsuspecting couple, asking them if they could recommend a good place to go.

Again no maps, no directions, they insisted: “We will take you somewhere.”

Ten minutes later we’re sat in their friend's bar, drinking cocktails and playing cards as we muddle through stilted conversation, an ability greatly assisted by the streams of free alcohol.

Already full from an earlier meal of chicken parts, ovary, liver (which was decidedly fluffy) and unidentifiable entrails, we had no stomach for the tray of octopus balls covered in a sweet, tar-like substance that the chef kindly cooked up as a free treat for his new western friends.

And so Lucy’s handbag became a smuggling vessel for inedible fish parts.

Out for a bite to eat in my friend Johnny's non-entity of a town, Hokubo, it transpired that 7 o’clock on a Friday evening was an unreasonable time to expect to find an open restaurant. Not helped by the fact that, as neither of us can read Kanji, attempts to walk into somewhere which ‘looks’ like it might be a restaurant could well see us charged with breaking and entering, followed by inevitable deportation.

However we did manage to spy through the curtains of one shop and took the plunge. Entering an empty restaurant we were greeted by a couple who defied the laws of death by old age. The wise pair stared and gibbered as we asked what time they closed and made eating gestures.

In return the man, living proof that Yoda does exist, scurried off into the back room. He re-emerged brandishing two large oranges and, handing us one each, showed us out of the door while making wild eating and driving gestures.

And so we drove.

And drove

And drove

For half and hour or more before deciding to abort mission and u-turn home. It was at this turning point that, like the moment Mary and Joseph were accepted at the stable, it appeared. A lowly shack standing proud and erect amid a mountainous wasteland.

Excitement overcame us. We parked, entered, and, with a floor like a teenaged rock club, struggled to the nearest table with shoes intact. Sitting down the tables were no better, years of grease and spilt beer forming a sticky varnish-like coating.

The waitress approached immediately, staring at us expectantly as we prised open the menu. When we thought things couldn’t possibly get better, out of nowhere a guardian angel appeared by Johnny's shoulder.

“Johnny?” he asked.

With Johnny too embarrassed to ask who the friendly stranger was, we allowed him to help us order and engaged him conversation for quite some time until beer allowed us to confirm his identity.

He was in fact the rent-a-car assistant who had delivered Johnny’s set of wheels a few days earlier.

I cannot remember the names of my fellow teachers, the students or even some of my closest friends. Yet this man, who’s name ironically escapes me, can remember Johnny following a quick exchange of keys.

And so our evening was saved by a man I cannot remember and his idiot friend, Honda, who’s only knowledge of the English language was to shout,

“My name is Honda” every so often and do an impression of a motorbike.

The kindly angel even ordered us a taxi home so we could both drink. But it didn’t stop there, he got in the cab with us to direct the way back to Johnny’s apartment before finally wishing us a goodnight.

In my final week on the orient the taxi driver taking me home from school for the last time searched his front seat in excitement before sacrificing his can of coffee as a leaving present from him to me.

Wiping a tear from my eye I reflected on not just the kindness of this stranger but the entire nation his small but selfless act represented. 

A nation it is impossible not to fall in love with.  

Muddy Waters

Japan is a society structured around conservatism and a universal refusal to break from the collective mold. Group exercise and regimented parallel parking is the norm and dining requires a legal almanac all of its own.

Serving up individual meal components in separate vessels, those who dare to mix are ostracised from society, doomed to spend eternity in solitary exile.

And using the wrong sauce is punishable by death. Gyoza poised in Ramen Family, the Oriental equivalent of a Blackpool seafront pre-smoking ban greasy spoon, the waitress scurried over to remove the pot of sauce I had just poured. Handing me a clean dish she pointed frantically at another bottle of an identical looking condiment at the end of the table. I was left with no alternative other than to do as instructed.

Putting anything in your rice bowl is more taboo than showing a video of anal-prolapse porn to a class of four-year-olds. After a year I have plucked up enough courage to sneak other food-stuffs into my rice when no one is looking but the guilt I feel burns me to the core, outweighing any level of satisfaction.

While sauce etiquette can be a very risky business, it is perfectly acceptable to make more noise than a pig suffocating on its own swill when eating your noodles.

The maths teacher in my Junior High School, who has taken the country's infamous 'noodle slurp' to a whole new level. Defying the laws of science, he manages to slurp cake, crackers and sticky rice with the same wet desperation of an attention seeking St Bernard.

I digress.

Despite all this, and much much more, the Japanese do have a childish streak and burning desire to find an excuse to celebrate pretty much everything.

Cherry blossoms trees blossom, they sit beneath the branches and get drunk off Sake.

Fireflies hatch, they sit by the river and get drunk off sake.

Spring “Setsubun”, they make sushi and get drunk of sake.

Rainy season comes, it’s time to plant the rice, they climb into a water-filled muddy paddy field to play ‘Mud Olympics,’ and get drunk off sake.

There seems to be a running theme here.

Returning to the mud athletics which, nine months down the line, still ranks as one of my favourite events on the Japanese calendar.

From the second I could focus my one passion has been mud. This led to a tirelessly angry mother, who spent too many years ordering her grotty swamp monster to strip at the doorstep, before hosing it down and ushering it into the bathroom.

With no disapproving mother on the horizon I took full advantage of the annual mud event in a rice paddy just outside of Tsuyama.

Events at what transpired to be a more vicious version of Takeshi’s Castle included wheelbarrow races, flag dashes and a three legged-race with granny stockings yanked over the flour doused heads of the losers, inevitably the less able foreigners.

Other events, including the hop, skip and jump and an ultimate cycling challenge, resulted in the disappearance of countless contestants, claimed by the paddy field swamp monster as they landed in the shin-deep slime.

As the Croc was sucked from the foot of one friend, a manual dredge ensued. It was I who unearthed the missing footwear, holding it high for all to see as the crowd cheered in awe and admiration. For some reason saving such an abhorrent article is cause for celebration, and excuse to drink even more sake.

In a grande finale we were handed water pistols, paper targets strapped to our heads, and set lose in the muddy waters, engaged in an every-man-for-himself battle to the death.

The fire brigade was on hand to power-hose down the mud-drenched survivors, and the sausage a colleague from California had salvaged from a puddle of mud, reinforcing the commonly known fact, among the Japanese massive, that all westerners are idiots.

Being the only female Western participant, the event commentator took great joy in referring to me as “Shexy Ellie" throughout the course of the day.

With marginal male attention in weeks, flour coated, muddy and bite-riddled knees, which had swollen up to the size of very old trees, I felt as far removed from “shexy” as someone who has turned up to a fancy dress party dressed as Myra Hindley.

What’s wrong with these people?