The Onsen Twins

Alarm bells rang one quiet day in the 'Apple Of My Eye' Enterprisees factory located in the St. Peters Gate district of Heaven. One of the patented 'baby-plopamatics' had produced an unnervingly beautiful baby to be born unto the world. Management had immediate crisis talks as to the possibility of actually allowing such a specimen to roam amongst the rest of the sinners. It was decided that the baby be split in two, the resulting offspring still remarkably beautiful.

20 years later and the two have become billionaire temptresses pouting there bony visages on the cover of magazines worldwide. Icons and idols of the modern era. In an effort to escape the heat of the spotlight the two sought refuge in the backwaters of Japan. Taking solace in the sulphur of the hotsprings and handing out sexual favours for back rubs.

Their travelogue will soon be available for the world, or just me, to read about. Sake, butt plugs and sushi rolls is a low scale description of what this spliced beauty got upo to on it's Kerouacian adventure (minus the lack of cash and bennie's).

Lawsons Creek

Last weekend was the first full on weekend I have spent in the Nohe since arriving on this sorry archipelago 8 months ago. It wasn’t so bad.

My grieving over the loss of LadySnapper et al has now been completed. I sought female companionship to help me move on from this grievous time. Friday night I’d arranged a date with the KatakanaKid and her friends. Having never met the KatakanaKid in the flesh, whilst sober, we’ve developed a strange email-a-minute relationship where by Friday she had already confessed her love for me. Added to this she is definitely the pearl on the Ninohe seabed. A miniscule little thing as deft as a spring sapling but graced with a voluptuous full on look-of-a-lady. Her particular look is that of ‘I’m gonna gargle the alphabet, the katakana one, with your salty discharge. After that you’re gonna read to me from the works of the Marquis De Sade while I give horse lips to your rim’; I like her look. She looks like the type of girl that would head butt you for cumming too quickly and demand all night service from you till you’re dried out like a Gizan mummy. Looks, can of course, be deceiving so I’m playing it by ear until all of the above actually does come to fruition.

My new outlook on dating the pink-loving, mephitic, menstrual mephisto’s is that they are just like Christmas presents, in particular the Yamaha DX-7 keyboard. Everyone at some point wanted a keyboard. You wait and wait and wait, occasionally visiting paedo pseudo-Santa’s showing them your list of one-item, and one item only, that you demand he brings otherwise you’ll piss in his Guinness the following year. You smile for the photo, accept your 8-piece Lego set, swear not to bully anyone and most importantly promise to be good. Finally Christmas Eve comes, your parents think you may need an exorcism you’re so ecstatic and drug you with one and a half paracetemol. You’re out like a light but wake up magically at 1 in the morning and try to sneak down to collect your prize. Your parents have set up an all-night watch to ensure they ruin Christmas for you and you retreat back to the bedroom. You wake up at 6 and find you’re stockings been stuffed, you arm yourself with mandarins just in case a parent is on watch. It’s there. It takes 20 mins to unpack and assemble. You are in complete guffaw at the amount of tweaky buttons on it, you are perplexed but in sheer awe. You flick a switch and suddenly the Copacabana comes on, another switch adds bossanova mode, whatever that is, one more switch and your keyboard is suddenly a saxophone. You’re now Kenny G duetting with Barry Manilow on the beach in Rio, to the delight of your parents. You soon master Doe A Deer and feel as if you could take on David Hefgott in a key-off; if Beethoven had ears he’d weep. Two days later and the dream is over, you've lost all interest, and you’re back to the Lego after being recruited by Optimus Prime and Matt Tracker to be chief weapons engineer in the fight against StarScream and Skeletors evil minions.

The KatakanKid drove her pimped out cube-mobile up to my apartment. She had no friend in tow. I had BrassBalls for company. Mental Note: Don’t bring a 6ft 2in good looking black guy on a first date with a cock-munchin, hip-hop loving ‘never met a foreigner in my life’ Japanese girl, it’s just a bad idea. There we were, all three of us on my first date. We listened to some Jurassic 5 as we headed towards the cinema in Hachinohe. BrassBalls wasn’t even dancing but his shoulders were doin their thang-a-lang. KatakanaKid bounced around with her touchy feely hands oozing all over BrassBalls’ shoulders. I was having a great time. We bought our tickets for the movie, on me, and went for steak dinner, on me, before heading off for a print club session. The movie, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, ranks as one of the top five worst films I’ve ever seen. KatakanaKid was petrified, it may have had something to do with the musky hue coming from my t-shirt. She hid behind the rim of the large popcorn, which was on me, for most of the film. I’d look over and catch her eyes from time to time. Amidst the darkness of the theatre she looked like a freshly rescued seal pup from an oil spill. Her eyes, big and brown longed for attention. Her hair long and sleek looked like it would clump with sweat after round of back to basics loving. I maintained a stiffy throughout the entire showing.

My 20 pre-prepared date questions went down well as did the cheesy chat-up lines I’d gotten from my colleagues. She particularly liked ‘zutto isshoni itai’ (I want to be together forever) worked well and I could slowly sensing she was turning her back on the darkness and heading toward the light i.e. she found out BrassBalls has a girlfriend. My goodbye was ruined by the length of BrassBalls machinery. His station wagon couldn’t reverse out of my little nook of Japan unless KatakanaKids neon cube on wheels backed out. A darling handshake and a giggly goodbye and she was off, only to text five minutes later telling me she loved me. Although this time there were no ears so that has to be a good sign.

Saturday was hangover free. I had no idea what to do. I woke up and sinned the balls off myself, fell asleep and then woke up again to yet again sin the balls off myself. Not a bad day so far. I headed toward the Ninohe hills to kill the time. Had I known it was going to be filled with snakes and that Sheepman creature from Murakami’s ‘A Wild Sheep Chase’ I would never have gone. I saw a red and black snake that wouldv’e had Steve Irwin adding a spot of dark brown to his patented beige shorts. RuralSlut later told me about the people that regularly get killed in the hills by those black and red snakes and other non-urban paraphernalia that dwell beyond the forests lines. Danger is my middle name, I AM FUCKING MAD.

That night was another horrendous nomihodai-till-I-die session with MarbleMouth, and her friend DoubleFistJapan heading on out for her debut in the Nohe. I thought SexyMenopause had a filthy mouth. This girl was talking of sex in the hundreds; bringing herself to the masses and loving it. She even claimed to be one of the rare few who have been double fisted. I know of only one person who can truly make that claim. A good friend of mine, a lawyer in fact, was renowned for having the wettest gash on the Isle of Ios where men could dive off rooves and slip in head first to her innard-confines only to crawl out of an earlobe a week later. It’s reputed that she still has an Italian named Giuseppe still stuffed between her colon and her oesophagus. Her Japanese counterpart talked the talk but in my experience Willow couldn’t even get a thumb in the Jap clam, never mind a fist. MarbleMouth was stociously drunk and we shared a short smooch while she massaged my happyspecialplace. She also gave the same treatment to the VeniceHustle, it seemed she was in a giving mood. DoubleFistJapan also threw a smooch my way and ended heading back to RuralSluts 4 tatami wonder pad, for a fisting session I presume. We -insert method of transportation here- on up to the Pool Bar and raped the karaoke list as usual. I have no idea leaving and all I remember is waking up at about 2 on Sunday thinking Ninohe is a dangerous fucking place to be.

Everybody might know your name and your business and what you shit out before breakfast, but here in Lawsons Creek my year long soap is drawing to an end so let them poke in by non-sorted rubbish and ogle over my grocery shopping. I have four months left to endure so I’m hoping the KatakanaKid will live up to her promise and impress me with her ventriloquism act. If not I've got blankie and Jason Van DerGeek to woo over.

The Eulogy Series #4: Jaki-Tori (and his penis)

Jacques, much like Japan, is bound in sharp contrasts. At times he is the peaceful yin enveloped by harmony, nature and pure Zen. At other times, mostly in the company of anything with an axe-wound, he’s the yang with the bang.

Jacques was the first of the group whom I teamed up with engaging on a 72hr horrendous boozing session in Tokyo at the initial orientation. We missed every single of the seminars and ended up in yakuza territory most nights, we even managed to lose CrazyIrish to the hands of a credit card stealing whore in Tokyo’s worst nightclub. As luck would have it Jacques was placed in the town next to my city and since August we’ve practically done everything together. We went in search of surf in Taneichi, bats in some caves, monkeys in Kinkasan and bitches in Sendai on our first road trip with BrassBalls, IThinkImAPear and CumGuzzler. All were fruitless endeavours; nevertheless it was a solid bonding mission.

Jacques looks like he could be the fourth husband of a deranged crack whore appearing on Jerry Springer, but don’t let his unrivalled hickness fool you. In Thailand after a few too many drinks he would open up Jacques land and tell all of his love for dolphins, how he categorises his favourite animals(aquatic, mammal, airborne), how he believes that when certain music is played backwards it reveals wondrous recipes fit for the table of The King of Sweden. One of my favourite of Jacques traits is his child like eagerness for everything he takes on. His eyes bulge to show every last iota of his eyeball and his mouth grins from ear to ear. He can offer opinions on all topics and show unbound enthusiasm such is his knowledge of all things economic and philosophical. He is a human statistic factory with more than one stat for every occasion.

Whenever I think of Jacques I’ll think of Cocaine, his signature tune in the karaoke booths (AnonymousSuzan…relax), and the perfect country tones matching his hillbilly persona, usually a trucker hat, saggy denims and tee-shirt. I know that we would have been friends regardless of where we met, in fact I could say the same for all the recently departed.

Jacques enthusiasm and obvious free spirit was well admired by his co-workers and community alike. You just have to look at the parting gifts and the warm praises he received as he headed off to the great Trailer Park in the sky. Jacques flew the internationalisation flag higher than most, most times it was aimed towards developing Canadai-Asian carnal relations, but he always had time for everyone. He probably has everybody’s phone number and email that he’s ever been in contact with and he’s not afraid to use them. You’re instantly counted as one of his buddies, and he’s sincere too.

Jacques has helped to completely nullify the poor picture that’s being painted by some of the Canadian goons in the prefecture, most notably the QueenOfCruft. He wouldn’t be alive today were it not for me saving his life in a daring sea rescue amid perilous waves and razor sharp coral, I’m not looking for anything in return. I’m just glad he’s still around.

I’ll miss the stories of him decapitating chickens in Manitobas wildest plains, his ideological ranting and the general insanity that was his life before we met up. There’s only one way to describe how it’s been to hang out with Jacques, and his penis: It’s been awesome.

I wrote you a song/poem to remember your time here in Iwate:

Deep inside the forest there's a door into another land.
Here is our life and home.
We are staying here forever in the beauty of this place all alone.
We keep on hoping.
Maybe there's a world where we don't have to run.
Maybe there's a time we'll call our own, living free in harmony and majesty.
Take me home. Take me home

Take care Jacques, see you soon
Gochisousamadeshita

The Eulogy Series #3: Group D

I was higher than a kite when I first met Group D (O’Brien and Inner-Party please read on before you take that as reference to something nefarious and rip my contract up)close to the summit of Mount Iwate. The last batch of JET’s in Iwate was the one, and only, M Pizzy; most famously known as Group D. She completed this seasons All-Star line-up in Iwate.

She first popped her head up on Iwate-san looking cute, innocent and slightly deranged. We got the deranged part right. In trying to initially speak with her in the cabin at 2,000m all we got was some sort of indecipherable high-pitched Michigan wigger squeak that was causing sonar disarray to fleets of bats around the mountain. Z’s are substituted for an inordinate amount of vowels and consonant's, thus rendering herself almost indecipherable as well as your ears bleeding within a 10m radius of the missing Hanson brother (it’s a little known fact the Hansons were originally a quartet). She had instant charms and agreed to join us in Sapporo for a weekend of the madness.

Sapporo will go down in the annals of time, in her case the anal of time, as being a real life shitstorm. Myself and LadySnapper were thrown out of the hostel by its lesbian nutbag owner at 6 in the morning for bringing back some tired and weary ladies to let them rest their pretty little heads. We thought we had the story to tell until we met M Pizzy Pmeister the next day. Carried home by JohnnyAwestruck from the club she somehow managed to fuddle her way out of the bunk-bed and into the shower in which she unleashed her faecal rage, like Gismo eating chicken after midnight popping out gremlins everywhere, she coated everything in shit. She got an itemised bill for the shitting. I took a photo of it; it’s my favourite photo of all time.

I’ve seen her camel-toe in Tokyo toilets, Bangkok crappers and just while she sits next to me in a bar…she refuses to wear underwear. She went missing in Thailand to later reveal that she’d fallen into a sewer and been recovered by a German speaking Swedish goober who she hung out with all night smoking herbal cigarettes with (inner-party and O’Brien, you thought you were onto something there didn’t you?). Her karaoke performances should come with a ‘you are about to piss yourself’ warning and she dances like one of those spring action Jesus’s you see on car dashboards. Maniac doesn’t even begin to describe my favourite female on the JET programme so it’s kind of fitting that one loved-up smurf-like maniac would end up in the clutches of the genocidal anti-Semitic maniac that is Der Fuhrer, isn’t it? Their relationship blossomed on sheer euphoria in a Tokyo nightclub and progressed, or degressed, to handjobs in stairwells at the mid-year conference and hand-jobs on the RumSmokingScotsman’s living room floor. Shame is not something she suffers from, hence her relationship with the scum machine.

She has more energy than the Duracell Bunny dabbing speed in the dressing room between takes and I have no doubt that her unique view on life shone through in her teaching endeavours. Her co-workers and students will no doubtedly be wondering what is going on with the selection programme when the Quaker shows up at some of D’s schools to take over her classes. She is going to be sorely missed, by everyone.

She’s been there on all the adventures, and she’s given me enough fuel to waste over emails and calls back home. She’s sweet, sincere and reminds me of my favourite carton when I was a kid. She’ll always have you laughing; she’ll always laugh with you. She’s infectious, just like AID’s.

Best of luck in whatever it is that you are doing. I know I’ll see you soon.

Kiwotsuketene, you fuckin chode.

Poru

I also wrote you a song/poem:

Now, the world don't move to the beat of just one drum,
What might be right for you, may not be right for some.
A man is born, he's a man of means.
Then along come two, they got nothing but their jeans.
But they got, Diff'rent Strokes.
It takes, Diff'rent Strokes.
It takes, Diff'rent Strokes to move the world.
Everybody's got a special kind of story
Everybody finds a way to shine,
It don't matter that you got not alot
So what,
They'll have theirs, and you'll have yours, and I'll have mine.
And together we'll be fine....
Because it takes, Diff'rent Strokes to move the world.
Yes it does.
It takes, Diff'rent Strokes to move the world.

p.s. We’ll miss Housie, too. xx

The Eulogy Series #2: Der Fuhrer

Straight from the womb and into the frat house this 14yr old genocidal maniac, pogrom loving, race hating scum machine has finally packed up his belongings and shipped the panzer on out. Invariably every story that Der Fuhrer told would begin with “there was this one kid who went to our school” and then finish with “then we stole a pig and left it in the deans’ office” but you got used to that, just in the same way you got used to having him around.

He showed his ridiculously coiffed head in Iwate weeks after everyone had settled in to Iwate life. He latched on to me at orientation in a pathetic manner, a manner that would become his trademark during his time. I felt sorry for him so took him under my wing and thought that maybe I could help this lost, deranged, soul find some meaning to his paltry existence.

Initially we toyed with the idea of Group C, due to his late arrival, but it was at a height of 2038m atop Iwate-santhat he would reveal his true self to the world and give birth to his more renowned title: Der Fuhrer. A simple conversation about Japanese culture beginning with chopsticks usage and finishing with Hiroshima seemed innocuous enough, that is until Hate had the last word. He went on to describe, in a vigorous tone and with a chilling glint in his eye, how Hiroshima was a blessing for the Japanese and aroused a social renaissance spurring them on to better things. If any of us know anything about the ways of the world it is that we truly don’t realise what terrible people we are until 300,000 of our countrymen are nuked. Most of us slept with one eye open that night and a night watch was set up around GhettoChic as we feared for her Nubian saferty. Since his stomach wrenching revelations atop Iwate-san he has gone on to burn the entire contents of Kamaishii High School library, wear as much Nazi paraphernalia as possible, drive a Panzer and rape a smurf. Not a bad couple of months work.

The same adventures were shared with Der Fuhrer as with LadySnapper, and like the others he’s helped make this experience pleasurable. His agoraphobia, claustrophobia, xenophobia, arachnophobia, christianophobia, homophobia, transphobia, ephebeophobia, anti-semitism, anti-Japanese sentiment, anti-zionism, islamophobia and constant worrying about absolutely anything has been the source of constant amusement. I’ll never forget the expanse of his smile as we visited the Killing Fields, the look on his face when he first fiddled with his miniscule blue lover or just the look of his face when any photo is ever taken of him, as hideous on the outside as he is putrid on the inside.

Again, much in the same vein as LadySnapper, Der Fuhrer offered more than the run-of-the-mill JET, and apart from his extremist views, he managed to assimilate well into his community. His heart beats for all to see on his cuffs and collars and you could rely on him for almost anything. He’s the ideal man to sit down and shoot the breeze with while drinking beers and annihilating in a game of Dead Man’s Rummy. I always get a kick out of any of the stories from his frat days, all three of them, and I hope now that our link has been somewhat severed, that I will be remembered as ‘there’s this one kid I know out of Ireland’. An unfortunate set of personal circumstances has taken Der Fuhrer away from me, while again the Inner Party are more than happy not to recognise how essential it is for the JET program to have people like Der Fuhrer out there in the schools and towns rather than the manga reading goons and losers they have scattered around the place.

I’m going to miss Der Fuhrer like the residents of Auschwitz miss shower night, but I know I’ll see him soon. All joking aside Der Fuhrer did have his good points. If anybody can think of any please leave them in the comment box.

Ganbate you hate filled scum demon. Someday you’ll allow love to fill your empty, black, heart. But if you ask me, you're perfect just the way you are. xx

I also wrote you a song/poem:

Who do you think you are kidding Mr. Hitler, if you think we're on the run?
We are the boys who will stop your little game.
We are the boys who will make you think again.
'Cus who do you think you are kidding Mr. Hitler, if you think old England's done?

Mr. Brown goes off to town on the 8:21.
But he comes home each evening and he's ready with his gun.

So watch out Mr. Hitler: You have met your match in us.
If you think you can push us we're afraid you've missed the bus.
'Cos who do you think you are kidding Mr. Hitler, if you think old England's done?

Otsukamasara deshita

Helen Hunt has a big hairy...

Why can’t I have quiet and relaxing weekends where I sit about reading, sipping wine and listening to Westlife’s greatest hits?

LadySnappers farewell "one-drink only ‘cos I have to get the first shinkansen in the morning" session kicked off in Tsubohachi. WeirdGirl, RuralSlut, MarbleMouth & friend, SexyMenopause had joined us for the "one-drink ‘cos LadySnapper has to get the first shinkansen in the morning". Five minutes into our first drink and SexyMenopause, who’s family own Ninohe, had a word with the manager and we were entering the land of nomihodai.

SexyMenopause was looking, well, sexy. Beautiful at 42 years old and with a tongue so sharp it’d rip your dick to shreds, she is just a joy to be with. Every second word out of her mouth was ‘cunt’ as she recounted her days on an Australian homestay back in the 70’s when she must have been the most sought after accessory by all of Ninohe. She eventually moved on to Tokyo then transferred to London, working in corporate banking and earning a fortune, and bolstering her sexual appendix. We learnt atleast three new sexual postions from her on Friday night. Needless to say the plan was for LadySnapper to woo her back to his House of Shame and have debauch acts of a sexual nature inflicted on his chestnut freckled corps. Needless to say that we got beyond drunk and nothing of the sort happened. I have four months left to work on it though. She is a recent divorcee, mad to be pumped like an oil well that’s just hit a new batch of crude and she enjoys my company. Boo ya.

After some phallus photos on our mobiles we headed off to The Pool Bar, neither swimming pool nor pool table to be found, for some karaoke and skanky company. LadySnapper had picked up some hopeless heifer outside of Tsubohachi and waddled her on up with us. The clientele at Pool Bar are the dregs of Ninohe and we’ve become familiar faces there. More drinks were swallowed and WeirdGirl had burst a water main leaking her salty discharge all over the smelly tables. Something got stuck in my eye and I shed half of what resembled a tear. HopelessHeifer caught the bug and start blabbering too. LadySnapper had to leave, he tried to swoozle HopelessHeifer back with him but she wasn’t having any of it. It took three goodbyes before he finally left, each one more heartfelt than the last. At this point there were two patrons left at the bar and I wasn’t about to halve those numbers. I continued on talking with the waitress, whom I’m convinced touched me, about her kids and work etc. I mixed the pleasant chit-chat up with some heartfelt karaoke tributes to Nick, peaking at Mariah Carey’s “I can’t live” before crawling home to my futon at 7 in the morning.

I woke close on half past five and let the contents of last nights party out in the toilet, from what I saw it looked like a good night. I had to now somehow spruce myself up in preparation for my meeting with HeartStopper at FantasticHuggers Saturday night get together. I had a serious case of the shakes and decided to have some orange juice to quench the thirst, bad idea. No sooner had I put the box down I was racing to the toilet as a new breed of fire poo thrust out my anal cavity. There was no way I was going to recover by the time I met up with everyone. I massacred my face with my shaky hands as I tried to shave with a blunt mach 3. Eventually I summoned up the courage to face the open air and limped towards the train station.

Radiant in black and pink she was sporting a tee-shirt I’d recommended she buy, this was going to be a piece of cake. We headed off en masse to a local restaurant where apparently they had no menu and you could order anything you like. They must have been out of steak and potatoes so I let the locals do the ordering. I couldn’t eat one thing that was put in front of me, bar the vinegared pig. Why must all Japanese food be slimy and have the aesthetic value of open day at a morgue? I battled through and then splurged out on junk food at the supermarket as we headed back for a movie and drinking. Nobody was drinking; RedLeopard poured me a wine, complete with strawberry. HeartStopper had a can of pink vodka cocktail and was hammered; this was definitely going to be a piece of cake. We fooled around with a non-drinking drinking game for a couple of hours. HeartStopper was staying the night at FantasticHuggers, this couldn’t have been made any easier for me.

She watched the movie as I concentrated on weaving my fingers through her film strip like hair and imagined all the romances we would endure together in the future. A comforting snuggle in spoon formation helped the hours wilt away. FantasticHugger sought repose and so I set up the futons in the spare room for my night alongside pure beauty. She was sleepy and had that sexy tired hum about her; I was alert and mobile exuding the virility of an Athenian on marathon day. Gentle scratches following the course of her spine over to the hip and then encircling her naval were well received with that sexy tired hum. The moon was filtering a creamy glow through the paper screens and the shadows were keeping their distance from our shared futon. There was enough light to see her textures and contours; she was a picture perfect silhouette out shining all other shadows cast in the room. My heart was beating somewhere close to 200bpm, and had also relocated to my stomach. If I wasn’t going to kiss her soon and quell the nerves I was surely going to spue all over her. Option A seemed better so I let rip. I can’t remember how long it lasted, I blacked out. I remember the sensation of colour pulsing and beating like when you close your eyes after seeing a bright light. Reds, greens, purples etc chugging about in different formations. It was bliss.

Post-saliva exchange the room got colder, instantly. My allergy to the one-eyed cat kicked in and I was wheezing like TB was back in fashion. My eyes had puffed up, too. She didn’t say anything, but then again she didn’t have to as she took hold of Winnie The Pooh and tried to fall asleep. She tried to explain that the kiss was okay but that there was not going to be a repeat performance. Apparently she didn’t realise I liked her in that way. OH REALLY?! All those heart filled messages painfully constructed in kanji and the reciprocated with heart, and the occasional ear, filled message and she didn’t get it. OH REALLY?! I was lost for words and unable to focus as the allergy grew in intensity.

She woke and left early with an awkward goodbye sneaking out into the cold morning leaving my broken heart melting into the tatami. FantasticHugger and RedLeopard were all ears in anticipation of my story of the night’s events. They were as shocked as I was, overcome in disbelief and ashamed, I hope, of yet another dirty trick being played on an innocent male by a deceitful wench. I let my guard down on this one deciding to follow misguided heartbeats and boners only to end up looking like a fool. I haven’t really been so strongly attracted to anything in a long time, embittered and scarred by wenches before HeartStopper. This week also saw strained relations with TrueLove, who is just as scarred as I am citing me as being the reason why she is now like me and having difficulties with her new relationship. Anyhow, a doomed week on the love front. I don’t usually go into the whole poetry quoting thing but there has always been one line, by Patrick Kavanagh, that has stuck in my head and it seems apt now: “her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue”, try rueing it every day Patrick.

A return to misogyny would be all too easy and a little bit defeatist, especially now that I’ve rekindled a liking for sex. The sweet smelling opposite sex with their many holes and indecipherable thought processes continue to be the ultimate cause of perplexion for me. As much as every one of them is different, they are ultimately the same in the end. The next time I take a sniff of a rose I’ll be sure to have weed spray close by.

p.s. I got the full reasoning behind the rejection. She has boyf in Tokyo, not goin so well. Needed space, loved my attention. Going no further ‘cos she’s confused.

The Eulogy Series. #1. Saint Nickoras

You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family is what they say. It would have been all too easy to become friends just for the sake of it considering we were the only two male foreigners in town, making the best of the situation and sitting it out. In Nick, though, I found a true friend.

With Nick having left sharply and suddenly it’s come as a large shock to both me and everyone else. I feel enveloped by total, absolute, darkness. I can’t distinguish any one shape or thing. I can’t get the sense of anything out there. I’m in a great black vacuum. Now I have reduced to just pure concept, my flesh has dissolved; my form dissipated. I’m now adrift in a void, somewhere across the line separating nightmare and reality. Well that’s obviously a little over-the-top, but you get the point. I’ll miss him. The inner sanctums of the Inner Party led by WigosaurusRex, and fronted by their scapegoat-cum-two faced heap of turd O’Brien, were relatively blasé as to his departure. If they don’t miss him, or the contributions he made during his tenure on the programme then I think they seriously have to re-evaluate their approach to the JET programme. Well, this isn’t a rant at the Inner Party it’s a eulogy to the dearly departed Nick. Nick, to me, brought all the characteristics of what a good JET participant should have.

He came here with his mysterious ginger locks which sent the Japanese ladies into a frenzy. Apart from being a true Ambassador of Love and touching the hearts, and other places, of as many native beauties, and foreign, as he possibly could he also touched me and the community. Most JET’s that come here rely on their gaijin (foreigner) status to garner respect and build ‘friendships’ on that. Nick went out and dug in refusing to fall into the Captain Charisma trap. With most JETS’s lacking in social skills, and devoid of personality, Nick was able to utilise his enthusiasm and character to develop genuine relationships with his co-workers, and students, alike.

Apart from Ninohe saying farewell to Nick, so do I. A better friend I couldn’t have asked for; Tokyo, Sapporo, Sendai, Bangkok, Angkor Wot, snowborading, The PAUL & nick show and many many more, all memories that add to my experience here in Japan. For me the memories of a travelling experience aren’t the shrines you posed outside of or the food you ate; it’s the people you meet along the way. When I look back on Ninohe, or Japan, it’s Nick, Jacques, Martha and Mark I’ll think of. The nomihodai’s, the trips and the nutmeg will all be secondary to them. The JET programme is tough enough as it is and having a close group of friends has been the making of my experience here. So Nick, best of luck in what you’re doing and don’t worry about the PAUL & nick show, it’s in safe hands.

I wrote you a poem/song: “Thank You”
Thank you for being a friend
Travelled down the road and back again
Your heart is true your a pal and a confidant.
And if you through a party
Invited everyone you ever knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me
And the card attached would say thank you for being a friend.

Ganbate Nick. Otsukarasama deshita
p.s. you complete me