Sleepless in Sapporo

Hachinohe, a bland expanse of a place as dull as the Queens Christmas speech was the departure point for a weekend that had so much promise. Whale watching, white water rafting and bungee jumping were all part of a meticulously planned itinerary that the most ardent of timetablers would’ve been proud of. Needless to say due to the fact that I am Me and the circle in which I travel are as together as Humpty Dumpty after his calamitous, and fatal, fall we saw a total of zero whales, not one steaming rapid nor one adrenaline inducing bungee platform.

The first half of the group gathered in Hachinohe a hefty 9 hours before we were due to be ferried across the channel to Hokkaido. Nomihodi was on the cards and we thought we’d found the ideal haunt in the shape of a reggae bar not dissimilar to Slam. With no sand on the floor and a dreadless non-rastafarian pouring the Meyers behind the bar this place oozed too much class to allow booze hungry gaijin drink away his profits and miss his pristine toilet bowl while peeing. Horrendously spicy tortillas, that would have steam whistling out of Salma Hayeks Hispanic ears, were carted over to us to accompany our beers. With a severe lack of atmosphere sucking the life out of us we promptly called for the bill and surprise surprise the beers were over-priced and the tortillas came in at about 1,000yen each. Bumrush. Onto the Izakaya for the nomihodi, and food, it was and we soon made friends with the adjacent locals after offering them our unwanted squid balls which they accepted with oh-so-way-over-the-top cheer. In return for our kindness they sent over sake, what a swap. With integration of gaijin and locals now fully complete we boozed away for the two hours of nomi bliss while Nick, of course, passed out on the table.

Hachinohes finest nightclub was the next party we would crash, although it seemed as if the party had been scheduled for a later date as we were the only people in the entire place. Group D began to dance manically and made full use of the empty dancefloor while Nick occasionally went over to kop a feel off Iwate’s favourite jive talking wigger. Myself and Jacques were content to dance with the random dog that had somehow gained entry to the club, I’m almost certain he made out with the pooch while I wasn’t looking. I don’t really care what der Fuhrer was doing.

We hit the ferry port just after sunrise to be greeted by the second half of our group who were a little shocked at the state of us even before we’d set off on our journey. Some horsing around with the cattle truck being led onto the ferry resulted in a cow pebble-dashing me with a sticky wet turd, I now smelled of cow poo and booze. Once on board it was back to boozin and we soon found our way on the top deck of the ship. Full steam ahead and with Hokkaido’s shores our next port of call and it was all good. An idiotic climb to the radar tower, which was turning at a frightening pace, resulted in the first mate escorting us to the galley and out of harms way.

My inability to sleep on public transport was no different on the ship and I had a couple of uneasy hours repose on the carpeted floor. On waking up I ran to the deck to count the whales and dolphins that I expected to have littered the waters only to see a few mangy seagulls scrounging about for unwanted yaki-tori and oil covered shrimp. Muroran was our docking point although the mono-chromatic grey tones of each and every building, tree and person gave it a shade of Pyongyang and I was half expecting Team America to go blazing by chasing a Durkdurkistani. Disappointment number one was afoot. With our accompanying translator, Alan, finding out from the tour operators that the conditions were too difficult to risk a whale trip we had no choice but to head towards Sapporo. (Troubled waters…certainly an omen for the future on this trip) The day certainly wasn’t going according to plan as we also had to wait a couple of hours at the train station, which was an alarmingly desolate place. Group D was busy with some projectile vomiting to the disgust of the high school football team waiting for their train home. Sitting outside on the crinkly grass we soon noticed the flocking crows surrounding us and their eerie caws definitely had a sinister edge. Had we somehow travelled back through time to 1960’s Pyongyang and accidentally fallen upon the set of ‘The Birds’?

People. People everywhere. Sapporo station was bustling with activity as big city people went about their big city lives without stopping and staring at the foreigners. How refreshing not to be ogled at and to be among people. I can’t stress it enough. I was a face in the crowd again, slightly taller, way better looking but still a face to whom nobody passed remark on. After a quick beautification session at the hostel and some friendly words from our ‘friendly’ hostel owner we set off for the streets of Sapporo. An average Indian meal, complete with authentic Indians mind you, was followed by a none-too exciting karaoke session which was forced upon us by the whining Group D. Booty club was flanked by dodgy looking Russian skanks who would probably have sucked a toe for a dollar and a vodka. I.D. checking gigantors stood between us and the hip-hop beats pulsing from inside the club. Being gaijin there were no problems and soon it was sambucas ahoy and drunk dancing in the sweat pit that is Booty. Somehow I managed to charm a young local into getting up close and personal with me on the dance floor while Nick pulled a Goose on it and took one for the team. At some point someone handed me a tequila. We all have a nemesis, tequila is certainly the Hitler to my Churchill and soon my misogynistic nihilistic rants were free-flowing from my mouth. ‘I hate you, you’re pathetic, what are you doing here?’ was something along the line that Maasa (my new lady friend) had to endure while all others in the group suffered a similar berating. Of course I’d like to place sole blame on the Mexican worm poison I swallowed for my ranting, but they had it coming to them.

Post-Booty found myself and Nick in another watering hole. I was at hate factor 10 at this stage mumbling a torrent of abuse at my glass and occasionally offering a filthy look at passers by. Somehow Maasa was still by my side as the four of us clambered into a taxi and tried to remember where our hostel was. Eventually finding it we waltzed on in with the ladies in tow. 8 seconds later and Nick was asleep and as I was getting ready to lay the head the hostel clerk came busting through the door. Judging by his stance and the fact he was screaming non-sensically, well in Japanese, at me I sensed he wasn’t happy with something. I soon gathered it had something to do with our nice, charming and respectable lady friends that were sleeping in out beds. We weren’t so much asked kindly to vacate the premises as forced out by the sheer angst in his voice shaking me out the door. 0700 in the morning, raining and stinking drunk I politely asked for my money back for non-fulfilment of hostel services. He said no. I said call the police. He said okay. That bluff didn’t quite pay off so I decided to cut my losses and leave. Maasa was a little distressed after being subject to an inordinate amount of abuse from the ‘friendly’ hostel owner. Slut, whore and prostitute were amongst the choice terms used by our nice ‘friendly’ hostel owner.

Now homeless and miserable we had to seek new accommodation and soon hit the love hotel district. With no room at any Inn we were losing faith until we came across one room at about 0800hrs. Maasa and I took the available room and what a room it was! Decked out in ruby red velure and velvet on every fitting in the room it was certainly worth the 2800yen for two hours of masochism, especially as on the bed lay a disturbingly large dildo. The bed also came equipped with two 45˚ poles protruding from the bedside complete with neck chokers, handcuffs and other wonderfully sadistic sex toys for those adventurous enough to make use of them. I passed out as soon as hit the bed, so the sexual adventure that took place was in my head and boy was I good. She wept, I screamed like an Indian followed by one armed push-ups on her back whilst covered head-to-toe in lube and singing Cat Stevens ‘Father & Son’ for the duration of my time there.

Meeting with the rest of the group and now definitely not being able to make it to the rafting centre we were a little miffed but still managed to laugh it off. Myself and Nick thought were hostel enemy number 1 until we heard Group D’s story. To sum it up: Group D got drunk, very drunk in fact, and was carried over Jacques shoulder back to the hostel. She managed to crawl into the wrong bed and fall out of it (they were bunk beds) and decided she might need to go for a shower. Finding the shower she instantly passed out only to be awoken by a horrified hostel owner screaming and shouting at her throbbing head. Somehow she managed to shit all over the shower and its peripherals during the course of her stay there. Having to clean it up must have been bad but having an itemised bill for what you crapped on and have to replace is just not funny, well hilarious really. 7 towels, one basket and some other bathroom accessories were amongst the invoice for $150 our crap-happy friend had to pay out for.

Sunday night paled in significance to the previous night’s marathon session but we still managed to hit Sapporo beer factory for some all you can eat meat and beer. Maasa and Yumi still seemed happy to remain in our company for the evening and did bring us to a cosy little izakaya for some relaxing all you-can-drink and a good send off from Sapporo. With an awkward public embrace on the cards the dashing Nick Boardman and myself grasped our gals swept them back and sent in the saliva. Gushing with embarrassment the girls waved as we set off in our taxi off into the distance and eventually home.

Exhaustion reigned supreme as we all boarded the ferry early on Monday morning back to Hachinohe. Again my insomnia kicked in and I had to endure looking at everyone’s calm bodies recuperate from a hectic weekend of mayhem and mischief. Sapporo is a strange place nestled as far north as Japan goes and its bright lights seem to have had an affect on the lot of us. Dazzled into a dizzy spin we may have spun out of control and as our mini-typhoon raged through the streets maiming nobody and breaking nothing we definitely left a mark, of sorts, in Sapporo.

When Iwate socked it to 'em

Nagano played host to the inter-prefecture all-JET soccer (football) tournament last weekend. The Yanks continue to push on with the highly irritable term ‘soccer’, if they had their way we’d have eight quarters, 57 time-outs per team, 115 men squads, cheerleaders, statistics to knock the census bureau for six and a guy named Chad commentating on every game. Thank goodness they haven’t imposed there burger bellies on this most sacred of past-times, yet. Excuse that initial rant.


Iwate had assembled a team of belligerent inebriates delusional with fatigue from a severe liver threatening two month booze odyssey for the games. Playing under the imaginatively titled ‘Iwate Redsocks’, complete with red socks, the team had zero rateable assets apart from their communal spirit and Nick Boardman’s’ fluorescent wristbands. Preparation is the key to success in most fields of endeavour from rice cropping to wife-sharing and Iwate were unashamedly without even one training session or team meeting prior to the first kick-off. Having arrived via a 9 hour epic journey through God knows how many prefectures in a ramshackle caravan of four cars everyone was exhausted and we had only one hour to unpack and head toward the field of play. I also had to combat the mental infection of listening to the Fuhrers hate manifesto being force fed down my gullet for the majority of the time, boy does that guy need some help. Two hours repose by the side of a toilet in the middle of nowhere was all that we could afford and it most likely contributed to the heavy defeat in the first game, the fact we were shit also had something to do with it. Although upon awakening I was pleasantly surprised, as was Suzanne, to see my enormous boner taking a sniff at the fresh Nagano air for the time it took to reach the hotel from our stop off.


A last minute scatter around whatever the name of the mountain retreat we were staying in to pick up some vital kit accessories such as gloves for our keeper (how about that preparation eh?) and we were ‘ready’ to face our first opponents. A brief ‘warm-up’ and introductions to those who hadn’t previously acquainted was when I suddenly came over all funny. There she was, fresh as a Sakura in spring, gliding about with a luminousness not of the mortal realm. Becky the hippie stood before me radiating a spirit so free and joyful that the grass began to curl around her sensuous ankles in an effort to grow greener. Having no idea whose car she came in I just assumed she’d taken the first rainbow from Iwate whilst sprinkling happiness to cynical bipeds on terra firma below. Love at first sight would be the obvious way to describe my feelings, but I could have been Helen Keller’s equally challenged twin brother and taken an instant attraction to this anomaly of sheer beauty.


With the whistle blown and the first game in full swing it quickly became clear to all that we were in for the beating of a lifetime. Goal after goal seeped in via a dishevelled defensive line and eventually past the raging Crusher between the posts. Thoughts of many notable ‘against all odds’ movies such as Mighty Ducks and Dodgeball were racing though my mind, and even in that short period Saitama managed to score a goal. William Wallace and his blue-faced, bare-assed, kinsmen couldn’t have distracted this team of shitbags who became instantly hated, not revered, around the stadium. While everyone else congregated around the sidelines and had the banter, this group of buffoons continued with drills and strategy talks on the far side of the pitch during the other games. Not one endearing facet to their team, and this was all accentuated by some Nancy boy who stuck his fingers up at me as if to throw me off my game midway through the second half. When the final whistle blew the score was negligible as Shitama had shown themselves to be a group of charmless wankballs.

A mildly closer affair in the second game with one fleeting chance just evading my beautiful feet left us a little disheartened as we momentarily felt we could’ve stuck it out, but it wasn’t to be. The game did offer the crowds the chance to see dazzling penetrative runs from me, solid midfield work from Nick Boardman and other notable performances from Alison and der Fuhrer at the back, Becky in the midfield and the Corpse on the sideline. A similar affair in our third outing resulted in 4-0 defeat, but at this stage we firmly had the crowd on our sides cheering us on with the delightful pun ‘Ganbawate’. As fate would have it we were drawn up against Shitama in our final game. With about five minutes left to play, and Shitama leading by about 10-0, Nick Boardman threaded a sublime pass through their well organised defence right to my feet. Having been thrown to the ground each time I skipped past two or three of their players I was determined to send the ball to the back of the net. A deft side shuffle past one, a drag back and swivel left the next moron for dead and just as the third tackle was coming in I was at the edge of the box with the keeper rushing towards me. Instinct was firmly in the drivers’ seat as the inside of my left foot gracefully wrapped around the ball and slotted the ball into the back of the net. Instant euphoria and group elation led to mass hysteria and a 30 man pile up on my waif of a frame. Sideline cheerers, opposing teams and even Shitama were among the jubilant celebrants taking part in the pile up. 11-1 was the final score and it was the Redsocks who walked off the pitch with heads held highest as Shitama went off for another training session.

With every bone in everybody’s bodies aching, bleeding and in some cases terminally useless it was off to the 19th hole for some liquid refurbishment. A quick game of ‘I’ve never’ revealed some disturbing stories from the likes of Tinker and Tysoe and I’ve no doubt the Beaver and Suzanne will never sleep with any of us as a result of that game, especially Tinker. My first drink at the bar happens to be the last I remember as the barman’s idea of a single whiskey was a cupful of nighty-nighty juice. I’m fairly certain that Shitama managed to somehow spike my drink at some point as all I remember is: asking the black model if it’s annoying being ‘that’ beautiful, chatting to the Irish outside the toilets, being wooed by an adoring fan, dancing to euro-pop and sending mind messages to Becky. Next thing I know I’m awake between two beds, one arm on the Fuhrer, and calling out ‘give me a fuckin bucket’. Said bucket didn’t arrive quickly enough and I had to suffer the humiliation of spewing my lifetime quota of bile onto my hand as I didn’t even have the strength, nor the will, to pull it out of the way. I’m reliably told that I did manage to gang-bang an entire girl’s team whilst reciting Paradise Lost to the adoring harem, so I suppose I had a good night.

I’ve since been informed that the team did me proud on Sunday morning by scoring four goals, still being defeated mind you, with some help of a rather lenient referee. The journey home was twice as long as the voyage there and offered some time for silent contemplation to all the Redsocks. Destiny comes knocking but once in your life and those who embrace it bask in its glory for a lifetime. Destiny still has to find its way to the Redsocks and until then they’ll gleefully revel in the relative obscurity of life in northern Japan.