staffs travelling diary

The B of the Bang

2009-03-18T21:49:00.002+09:00

Bangkok, the catalyst for many a thing and first off was the squirts. There must be some Pavlovian mechanism built into my stomach because no sooner as I had landed in Bangkok airport my bowels were rumbling. Frantically rushing to the toilet I let out one of three nuclear fuelled slush puppies into South East Asia's sewage system.

I'd planned on hitting up a hotel and taking it easy for the first couple of days. Three minutes after unpacking and lying on my bed, semi naked, the walls drew closer until the only thing to do was fall onto the Koh San road before I was squashed by loneliness.

Apart from being incredibly well hung, black and lightening quick myself and Linford Christie share one other quality. He used to say that to get the best possible start when racing you have to go on the 'B of the Bang' when the starter fires his gun. Taking that on board Chang #1 was swiftly ordered, my name chalked up on the pool table and ten hours later I was in an all night hummus bar drinking Chang with a Finnish Goth and an Ethiopian singing 'Feed The World' (Meleke had never even heard of Bob Geldof...). Three hours after that I was retcing up hummus on my bedroom floor. Night two followed a similar theme this time with more people in tow: two gay Canadians who've offered me a place to stay in their villa in Bali, a Nicaraguan who was drinking so much red bull his heart was actually beating on the table next to him, a German-Austrian combo complete with white tank tops and matching bandanna's and a toothless Scot, also wearing a bandanna. Chang and techno don't quite mix, nor do buckets of vodka and techno but it seemed like a better idea to goober dance with a sand bucket in my hand. The Fritzl brothers were busy prodding their semis into anything with an A-cup and bigger with little success until a group of Aussie chicks showed interest. At this stage I couldn't tell left from wrong and started on an Air Hump odyssey which caught on like a fire in the Melbourne botanical gardens. I Air Humped back to the hotel when the sun came up to fall asleep fully clothed on the floor and then gracefully woken up by the cleaning lady at check out time.

Leaving Bangkok behind wasn't an easy decision, it was the only option. Changovers corrode your brain with each drop of Changover sweat dripping from your brow acidicly hitting the floor. Chang-Mai, that was it. Culture time. I'm on my own and time to soak it all up like the culture sponge I am. Check in at the hotel, the walls drawing closer...same same, but different. Drinking buckets ringside at the Muay-Thai with a group of randomers til my first Irish encounter of the trip dropped his pasty head through the doors. A Corkonian with a chip as large as the rotating one at the entrance to Silicon Valley his opener was 'I hate meeting Irish people when I'm traveling', well don't travel then you ginger fuckwit and stay on your own side of the Lee. He followed this up with a Northside - Southside rant and how he can't get over the fact that when Irish are away they make drunken messes of themselves. He then proceeded to climb into the ring and 'robot' dance, i.e. he wobbled around like someone had taken control of the remote to Stephen Hawkins wheelchair before his shorts fell around his red ankles revealing Dunnes Stores finest y-fronts for all to see. I suppose he has a point though about the Irish making drunken messes of themselves. For his closing routine he introduced himself to an Irish guy who showed up at the end who'd been training in the local Muay-Thai gym. This guy was about 6-6" covered in tatts and clearly out of his mind on some sort of yabba-esque amphetamine. After finding out he was from Walkinstown (he also used to work in the Hemp store on Capel street during the mushroom period) he asked was he a knacker and where was his gun. At this point Johnny Cork was taken to the side by his traveling buddies and carried away. Hopefully he got knocked down by a tuk-tuk and molested by a swarm of ladyboys.

It was to the jungle for my first taste of culture since arriving in Thailand 4 days earlier. Jungles in hot season are more like apocalyptic wastelands, trees bare, not a green leaf in sight and cracked red earth all round. First up was the elephant trek where I was plonkled on top of one of the stinky beast’s heads having to put up with elephant mucus being snotted on me every two seconds for about an hour. The group was easy going with a dainty little Swiss Miss to keep me company. Unfortunately she was only doing one night in the jungle so if I was going to pounce I need to find a source of Chang somewhere in the village we were staying in. Luckily the villagers sold ethnic Chang, Lays and Snickers bars. My plan was coming together until she passed out after three beers. Operation fiddly-fiddly was a no go so I let it be. A new day, a new-group. This time a more adventurous booze loving sort including The Faroe Islands gayest man named Hanus, pronounced Anus. I think I am the only one who found that funny. It's the little things. BBQ'd frogs and grubs followed by Changs and tat nig and soon we were out of the jungle, a highlight free trek and a cultural disappointment.

Rendezvousing with the new group that night was a messy affair. Dancing shoeless in a sand filled reggae bar listening to Thailand’s greatest reggae cover band before heading to another all night goober filled techno bar had a hint of deja-vous about it. I did manage to meet the worlds stupidest Canadians who believed that Ireland had just sold Dublin to recoup some of its recessionary losses over the past six months. Nice girls though. With no idea how I got home I woke up again fully clothed, and with about ten mins to pack before heading to Laos. Somehow I had manged to lose my bank cards during the previous night and only had about 1000baht to my name. Western Union had to come to my rescue and a night’s breather was afforded due to me being unable to afford anything other than a spring roll.

For those thinking of going to Laos, DO NOT TAKE THE SLOW BOAT! Two days of ass torturing hell it was if the land was passing us while we remained still. I was sitting beside a Japanese guy more interested in taking pictures girl’s asses than the smattering of Mekong villages on the river bank. He did get some good shots though; I have to give him that. No boat trip would be complete without some resident Dutch goobers all day boozing whist dancing to hyper techno. Two of them happy as Gary Glitter in a crèche goobering away both days with headphones the size of soup bowls over their ears. Night one on the trip saw us sleep over in some random village filled with hookers, weed and opium. I went for two out of the tree. Nothing like a nice cup of opium tea to accompany a joint.

Eventually we reached Luang Prabang and my ass could take some respite on something more comfortable than teak for the following days.

Laos is another chapter in the journey, so I'll leave it there for now.

As a sneak preview to what went on in Laos all I'll say is one word: MUSHROOMS.

home run

2006-08-04T10:52:00.000+09:00

The final days of the Japanese sojourn are here and soon I'll be back there, home.

How can a year have flown by so quickly? From the moment I boarded the plane to Tokyo semi-drunk and semi-stoned it's been a bleary eyed adventure to say the least. Tokyo presented itself as a miscreant insomniac from the first night out in the hardly infamous Tokyo Loose nightclub. Hooking up with JohnnyAwesome and TheImmigrant I had a good feeling about the year ahead. Then I met the rest of the JETs. People who are beyond description with romantic views of ancient Japan, people obsessed with manga, people who can't talk with other people, people who thought they would change the world starting at the worlds second largest economy, in short people who are bland entities corrupted by self help books, Linux operating systems, comic books and the hope of latching on to a wife.

Controversy has clouded the year here from the very beginning with the rice-wrestling party and the Sapporo adventure. Privacy doesn’t exist and a network of gossipers ensured every time you missed the bowl when taking a piss it would get back to the Inner-Party. As such the gossipers created skewed images of who I am. I've been described as evil by one person, although I'm sure more share the same opinion.

Nights out have been the highlight of the days spent here. The winter being the most mentally challenging time I've ever endured. Boredom took on unprecedented levels as I watched and re-watched Ferris Beullers Day Off and The Bourne Supremacy. I need zero erotic images to flip into masturbation mode and can almost cum at will now. Blankie became a confidante and a friend always by my side and there for me when I needed somebody the most.

A year starved of stimuli and motivation would be a little harsh. It was only the working days that were the bulk of the void. When I look back on the year that was in years to come I'll think of the moments, that grafted together, make one of the fullest years to date. Like one of those cheesy end-of-year montages on TV I'll play over the songs that meant the most and underlie them with the moments that compile the brief flirtation with Madame Japan.

The nightclub TV steal, Sleepless in Sapporo, in another world at Womb, nomihodai (countless), off-piste jumps, mushrooms and valium and weed and booze and sun and mopeds and waterfalls and hammocks and saving JohnnyAwesomes life and firing an ak-47 and sea-urchins and LadySnapper pissing on me and Group D passing out in a sewer and TheFuhrers smile at the killing Fields all in Thailand and Cambodia, internet dating, dating in general, dating a model (won’t harp on about that though), being a radio star, enemas, foursomes, twosomes, O’Brien and TheInnerParty, outdoor sex, indoor sex, free ketamine, over-priced cocaine, dodgy pill things, strippers, hostesses, kudos, the students, the teachers, RuralSlut, MarbleMouth, FuckingSalarieMan, nutmeg and most of all Lawson’s cheesecake. These images and more will pass by in a flash with Everyone Has Aids being sung over them followed by Making Plans For Nigel.

It's time now to call it a day on Japan and continue the search for the Golden Toffees elsewhere. London seems the obvious choice as I can file thought the countless documents in academic, and laymen’s, halls on my quest for the Toffees. In London I can also start making the plight of the Iwate 4 known to the outside world and the oppressive state in which they were exiled from.

Freedom, I can taste it. Rice-free.

To those who loved me, I love you back.

To those who've loathed me, as my mother always says "you can please some of the people some of the time, but you can't please all of the people all the time.

TheRunningMan is now on the run again.

Sayonara, you've been great, I've been wonderful.

done

2006-07-21T14:46:00.000+09:00

Well. Well. This is the last hour here at school. Not a whole lot to say really. Been crying like a girl for three days now. Have received more love letters in three days than Gareth Gates does in a year. Bunches of flowers, home made ornaments, marriage proposals, pictures, picture frames to put them in, phone straps, sweets, hugs and more. It's been a little overwhelming. As much as I didn't work here this year I certainly have gotten to know the students as best I could, and my fellow teachers (Except Cunt-Sensei who is an absolute cunt). Familiarity and routine have certainly dug in and built up any emotional attachment I have to the recently earthquake-proofed walls of the school. There are so many things and people I could talk about concerning these years’ endeavors. Japanese education is just bewildering. It's so bad in so many ways it's beyond a joke. Pressure is immense on students to gain access to top universities, even a regular university for that matter, ' day weeks and 12 hour days are normal. Forced to join a club they have no interest in. For the most disciplined students every night and every weekend is spent at juku (grind school) having their little heads filled with exam-passing information. It’s all learned by rote, not deduction. If you ever ask a Japanese student to use initiative you get a startled look and a ten-minute panic of uhms and aw's while they try and figure out how to express themselves. They don't even write essays in Japanese class. Imagination is suffocated from very early on, it’s a wonder they haven’t all gone mad. There is no doubt that the Japanese are united in a consensus that education is essential for social cohesion, economic prosperity and prestige in international affairs. But unfortunately, like I said, form and rote take precedence over function and knowledge. The students aren't taught to analyze but rather only 'essential' information needed to pass the exams for their entry onto the next educational stage. And there are exams for primary school, junior high and senior high. And then the exams for university, the whole point of life up to this point. Schools also act as a discipline factory and hammer down the nails that stick out. From the first days of schooling the educational system focuses on developing such basic Japanese values as harmonious relations with others and establishing group identity through membership in a limited number of social and vocational groups. It's their way of life. I could go on only I'm not articulate enough nor bothered enough to ramble on about points that everyone already knows, and I've got a party to attend which is full of horny teenage girls. I actually think I may be in love with one of the students. Easily the best looking person I’ve ever seen. During the course of tapping away at this drivvle she brought me a photo of herself and a letter looking to rendezvous in Tokyo. 17 is okay, isn't it? Well, I'll just wait till she graduates. Eh...moving swiftly along. Lat post as a JET. I'm sure I'll flick one up here before the next stage of the search for the Golden Toffees, they7re out there somewhere. I know it. I won't give up. A year of contrasts, much like Japan is a country of contrasts. Charged with the duty of internationalisation I7ve never had problems with the Japanese, it’s been the internationalisers that have poses the greatest headache. I've gonna on about them before, no need to rehash now.
The Jet year, teaching wise is over.

Nothing more to say really.

What's in a day?

2006-07-19T16:02:00.000+09:00

The end is drawing ever nearer, the curtains about to be pulled over or at least over here the paper screen will soon slide over for the last time.

My successor has inundated me with questions about life, snakes, cheese and more. His vitality reminds me of my excitement as I prepared to become part of the JET set. He just sent me a mail asking me what my daily routine is like here in the Nohe. I didn't know how to answer that question. If I'm totally honest he'll probably resign from his new post before boarding the flight to Tokyo, then again if I'm not he may wonder why I held things back from him about life in the Nohe. My final draft was a little from column A and a little from column B. I also realised that I've never told any of you back home what I actually do at work, or what my daily routine is. So, here you have it. A day in the life of RunningMan Sensei.

4a.m. and the sun raids my bedroom like NARCs in a crack-house. Immediately I wake and curse the lack of daylight savings time while trying to wipe the layers of sweat from my sexy body. Three hours of uneasiness follow with the humidity growing in intensity alongside the sun reaching an optimum angle at which to attack me from.

7 bells is greeted by a Japanese love-song-cum-alarm-call and the local tannoy announcing the days weather and traffic report, “it will be incredibly hot, sticky, rain for 2hours (torrentially) and there will be 4 cars on the road, PLEASE BE CAREFUL”. Everything in Japan conspires against a good nights sleep. I take note of her warning and am partially alive at 0730, when she repeats it. I now find that there's nothing like a bowl of rice in the morning to get you on your way. Throw in an apple pie and a yoghurt and nothing can get in the way of full contact internationalisation. A gentle dab of wax in my hair, more for the ladies than for me, and a quick mental reminder that I am the man and it's off to ‘work’ having had 18mins 42secs of sleep.

22ft from the house and I'm caked in a new film of sweat. The humidity is like a New Delhi street urchin, it just won’t leave you alone. I Indiana Jones my way through the thousands of spider webs cast from branch to branch invariably getting caught in about 47 of them every morning. These days I have to watch my step for the morning rush hour of tennis ball sized albino snails drooling across the path. Occasionally, a crow the size of a small dog will swoop to a fence post and death stare me as I walk on by. At least two times per week at the end of the wood's there's a retiree taking a piss with a seemingly never ending cigarette wilting away in his mouth. He doesn’t say hello.

With the leafy cover behind me the sun starts to remind me that it’s not just my sleep it intends on ruining. My first encounters with routine work-goers are in three categories type 1 greets me with a friendly herrrro, type 2 overts their eyes any where possible, switches to the opposite side of the path and raises a shoulder in a defensive position in case I might want to beat the shit out of him and type 3 looks at you as if they are laying eyes on E.T. in a business suit ( I usually stare type 3 right in the eye to make them feel like they should convert to being type 2). The park looms fifty feet below on my right with swarms of 140-somethings out playing petanque. Petanque being the only sport/activity that these right-angled great-grannies are suited to playing other than sitting.

It’s at this point where the students and I cross paths. The usual exchange being “good morning Lunning Man Sensei” and I follow up with a good morning how are you type thing and usually the group, in unison, will rattle off ‘I am fine thank you’, giggle then run. The girls just giggle; in fact I think giggling is a form of communication amongst female kind over here. I walk past and then hear the kawaii’s (cute) accompanied by the giggling, it’s a little different from passing Dublin schoolgirls who’d probably flick a cigarette butt at you, call you a faggot, threaten to kick lumps out of you and steal your wallet. The traffic warden makes a point of stopping whatever he’s doing to come shake my hands. As there is no traffic to protect people against its okay that he stops whatever it is he is doing. The final assault on the school is a 20% incline for about 400m just to ensure that I’ve sweat out at least 4litres before I start ‘work’.

I arrive at ‘work’ sweating like a rapist, red-faced and wheezing. Fitness has taken a back seat of late. The brass band is in full swing having being practicing since sunrise, as have most of the other clubs. When arriving at a Japanese office the protocol is to make sure everyone is aware of your arrival by giving one loud ‘good morning’ and 62 follow-ups before sitting down. We have two morning meetings, both of which I have no clue what’s being said. Then I usually find that my two scheduled classes for the day, that’s a total of 80mins work, have either been cancelled, timetabled together or they have an important test that must be taken today in order for them to gain access to university because if they don’t get to university their lives are essentially ruined and over and done with and they can only stick to menial tasks, well at least that’s’ what they’re told at my school. It used to really irritate me but in the past couple of months I’ve just grown used to it and accepted it. So usually I now log on to gmail and start chatting with whomever, well mostly FlirtyShoulders, for a solid 8hours. I’ll scan over the news and read as much about North Korea as I can find (one day, one day I’ll make it there).

If I am fortunate enough to have a class to attend I’ll be a human tape recorder for the second years. “Repeat after me” or “Listen carefully to Question 1, 2, 3 etc” is possibly the worst thing you can imagine doing, ever. Even worse than living in an American suburb. My first-year classes are a little more exciting where I get to follow the course book to the letter and occasionally play a game of my choosing. My school is incredibly academic and students are subjected to an inordinate amount of testing. Before every class they have a short test for ten minutes which basically involves them learning obsolete English phrases such as ‘to err is human, to forgive divine’, they’ll come in real handy on the streets of NYC when they’re lost in the Bronx and asking some homie the way to the nearest ATM machine.

The day passes at varying a varying pace depending on the standard of conversation going on on gmail. Of course there are the usual brushes with students and teaching staff, mostly though they, i.e. everybody, is too busy to notice if I was barebacked and covered in swastikas. The one thing that has saved me from sitting at a desk with a chopstick up each nostril and then head-butting the desk has been kyudo. For those ignorant in the ways of the samurai, I am now training to be a killer. Most probably I’ll be deployed by the Emperors special secret ninja guard team on worldwide missions of national importance seducing women, occasionally men, and fighting anti-Nippon guerillas charged by powerful world leaders and CEO’s of global steel and oil companies. the kyudo team have been my best source of street-level Japanese. They are all having sex, lots of sex, and mostly with the kids from the local technical school which is full of j-gangstas, or at least the laughable attempts of gansgtas that they are. Word.

Training lasts for about 2 hours after which my hand is so limp that I can’t even contemplate showering Blankie with love for at least three hours. Weekdays are mixed between DVD’s, futsal, hanging out with RuralSlut and more DVD’s. Yes, they are that exciting. There is not even a coffee shop in the fair ‘city’ I live in. People don’t walk the streets and all the shops are empty, I have no idea what they are doing. There is one ALT who has students round to its house on a regular basis but to me that’s just wrong wrong wrong. Would I, would anybody, in a teaching position, have students round after hours for video games and cooking? I’m not saying anything below-the-belt is happening but it does send out certain messages to students about foreigners, teacher relationships and the attitudes of some JETs, albeit well meaning, but misplaced egos and distorted views and opinions on Japaneses society and culture. Anyway, it’s just something I think about a lot. Japan is not a third world country, it does not need help from outsiders. Sure, it needs a Sumo size kick up the ass in regards to its attitudes and relationships with westerners but they can only themselves instigate the change, should they want to that is.

So the day ends after a meal of epic proportions. I have taken haute cuisine to new levels this year, all without an oven. Rice as a staple has been prominent throughout and kimchi has been welcomed into my life with open arms, and a semi. I’ve given up on Haruki Murakami after he failed to live up to the potential of A Wild Sheep Chase in his latter and earlier offerings, although I haven’t read Norwegian Wood yet. Japanese history is what sends me to sleep before it all starts again.

Working to live or living to work, well neither applies to me as I do neither. You can see that the walk to school is where the day peaks before troughing at ‘work’ and peaking again, momentarily, before troughing again. Up, down, up down. It’s all been about the weekends over here. That’s about 100days in all, mostly all good with tales of debauchery that have been shared and tales of another kind, such as last weekends cliffside adventure and perverted Japanese day-trippers with zoom lenses, that have been locked behind closed blogs. All in all days have gone by. One after another, days have gone by.

Saving Nepal, single handedly

2006-07-05T10:21:00.000+09:00

The thought of children not having the opportunity to receive an education in a bricks and mortar venue inspired this post. Word of a fundraising quiz had filtered its way into my inbox, I duly obliged.

Apart from helping the poor, unfortunate and badly dressed children of Nepal it was a chance to run a sociological survey, of sorts, over the inmates of neighbouring wards, oh and get hammered.

The weekend kicked off on Friday evening with T, TheCorpse and TheImmigrant making the trek to the Nohe although it was almost Saturday morning after T's sense of direction almost led him to downtown Okinawa. BrassBalls joined us, too. The plan was to nomihodai our faces off and then back to mine for the World Cup quarter-final. The retards arrived so late we had no choice but to shove two hours worth of nomihodai into just under an hour. We gave it our best shot. I spray puked the bathroom. TheImmigrant dithered over every drink. We were on a full tank of hops and sugar when we reached the Pool Bar, last time I was there I had bawled my eyes out and crawled out at 7 in the morning shunning the advances of SluttyWaitress. As we walked in I got a nice 'Hey, RunningMan'(makin your way in the world today sure does take a lot, taking away from all your worries sure would help a lot, wouldn't you like to get away...sometimes you gotta go where everyboooody knows your naaaaaame, and they’re always glad you caaaame. I miss cheers) from GlassEyedBarman and a cheeky smile from SluttyWaitress. We set about watching the game with TheCorpse immediately passing out. We turned around at one point to catch two of the barfly's group groping SluttyWaitress's breasts; BrassBalls was deeply disappointed at having missed out on it. The match ended but the group had well fizzled out long before and we set about returning back to sleep with Blankie.

After picking up PrivateScouser from the shink station we set about taking the longest way possible to the quiz venue by Lake Towada, Aomori prefecture. I was eager to get there as quickly as possible so I could help the Nepalese kids. The hotel smelled of incontinent grannies, but if I was helping the Nepalese children it didn't matter where I'd be resting my head. We teamed up with the rest of the RedSocks: TheFlamingTits, BlondeAndBlue, CongenialScot and TheCunningLinguist. CongenialScot was looking a tad like TheImmigrant sporting a bling Jesus round his neck, TheImmigrant was understandably jealous of the $5 accessory CongenialScot had been given by a student. Dinner was relatively edible, in the sense that I now take 10% as being a good figure of what I can eat on a Japanese plate. I met a few familiar faces and one in particular who I'd been waiting to meet for a while; BeligerentCountryman. I hadn't seen him since the beaches of Thailand where we were high, as kites, on life (sit down there O'Brien) and listening to JohnnyAwesome teach us all about his favourite land, sea and air animals.

BeligerentCountryman had similar stories of Tokyo, and beyond, to share and an even more vented opinion on JET life than I did, nice and refreshing. Post-dinner we volunteered for the traditional dance that was organised. We got kitted out in the usual attire and made our way to the lobby for the performance. I spotted a wheelchair, which I took and sat in. We walked out hand in hand; well I was wheeled out, for the gathered mass. The non-PC tone of my act was evident in the faces of many, others laughed but everyone realised I was there to help save the children of Nepal so it was all good. I wiggled on wheels to the taiko beats being doled out by the 4year old drummer boy.

In any quiz I've been at I've found that having a Japanese person or a Japan-freak is a marked advantage, e.g. WeirdestManOnThePlanetAndNotInAGoodWayOhMyGodHeIsSuchAFreak
IAmScaredAtHis PotentialToSpawnAndKeepHisGenePoolAlive, although having the latter on our team the last time proved no use as he ran off only to phone us telling us he was wearing no pants. Anyway, we were three points down in every round as a result of being sans Jap 'cos the first bonus question was a Japanese question. Not that I'm making excuses or anything but we probably would've won had it not been for those questions and the non-quiz like bonus rounds where people had to ridiculuos, but funny, tasks such as draw Homer Simpson with a crayon in their mouth or wrestle someone with their legs, quiz my ass. But I was helping to build a school in Nepal and that's what really counts. Our team had a healthy, knowledgeable cast and was certainly not missing the cocky sways of FlirtyShoulders who obviously suffers from the Lake Wobegon effect. Well, she was missed for one question about her homeland, and maybe by a certain party in the team but other than that she was missed like a British farmer misses foot-and-mouth.

At times the atmosphere in the quiz hall was like a freshman frat party, being led by one absolute hideous creation of an American. A walking Abercrombie&Fitch advertisement, minus any of the good looks, he high-fived all and sundry and said “dude” quite a lot. I should have put everyone out of their misery and killed him with a butter knife but TheFlamingTits somehow seems to think he is quite different whilst sober. He got lucky, this time. BeligerentCountryman was busy abusing people and walking around with smoke in mouth, wine in left hand and water pistol in right hand. Eventually everybody at the quiz was pissed. T had passed out on TheCorpses lap and when we tried to wake him he directed a full force karate chop towards his dead girlfriend’s jugular. Made certain to mental note that one; 'do not wake T up whilst sleeping as he is liable to kill his own mother’. The quiz ended I think, as I have no real recollection of events from this point on. I know we didn't get to do our group performance which was hands down going to win. A series of bare asses with 'vote for us please' scrawled on them, there was no way we could lose if the clap-o-meter was judging. We'll just never know.

We made it just in time for the England game kick-off. On the way to the 'soccer room' we bumped into some blatant whore who's hoovered more cum out of penises than vacuum cleaners have floor lint. She stopped us and asked where we were from, we told her Iwate, and she said "You guys are from Iiiiiiiiiiiwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate? Oooooooooooooooh". It's good to know our good reputation has traveled well around the archipelago. You would never have guessed there was a World Cup quarter-final on in that room. People laid back and calm as if they were watching a documentary on the entrepreneurial wizard behind cocktail umbrellas. We tried to drum up some atmosphere until one of the girls in front of us asked us to stay quiet as she was concentrating on the game. I was lost for words. How do you respond to someone asking you to stay quiet during a football game? Obviously first thoughts were glass her and burn the body, but I've gotten accustomed to that sort of person here in Iwate and it was good to know that it wasn't only my prefecture that got stuck with absolute losers. The game passed as did England’s chances of the World Cup, and my chances of winning World Cup Dream Team as half myplayers said auf wiedersehen with the demise of Argentina and England.

Leaving the ecstatic, atmospherically charged, 'soccer room' we started looking for a party in some of the rooms but being the JET programme most people had gone to sleep early hoping that the next day would be a rainbow filled day of hap-hap-happy internationalisation and ego-buffering by parading around Japanese people and basking in the attention of being different. We raided enough rooms to realise nothing was gonna happen so we decided to take it back to our room. On the way back we met three stragglers from Aomori looking for something to do as well. One of them suggested mixed onsen. Two minutes later we were all naked boozing under the morning sun. The onsen was an over-sized bucket filled with tepid vaginal fluid by the looks of it. We’d most likely gotten in on the wrong end of some inter-JET copulation exchanging, and discharging, of prefectural juices. It also had a strange brown hue to it too, but the only floaters I noticed were TheFlamingTits breasts. Had she been aboard the Titanic it would now be doing pleasure cruises off of Southampton. Occasioanly my hands or elbows would brush against a breast, not purposely I might add, as it was extremley difficult to maintain balance in the small tub.

TheImmigrant was the first to get out which was a surprise since he is normally the last person to do anything. I've never seen anyone dither so much. He could actually dither in complete happiness on an infinite radial plane without it ever bothering him. We took our eye off him for two seconds in the Nohe train station and found him dithering by the shinkansen ticket dispenser for ten minutes, and he wasn't even getting on a train. In the small hours PrivateScouser got to engage in some field-ops on TheFlamingTits own landmines and crept into her foxhole from some deep, behind the lines, penetration. It had been 11months in the making for TheFlamingTits and in the morning she was on Cloud 9 praising the Lord, Jesus and anyone that crossed her gaze. It also turned out that we didn't finish last in the quiz, we finished second last. We can't even lose properly. Boo to us.

The next day we pulled a group dither around the lakeshore in the rain taking in the few attractions before we set off back on the road to Iwate. It was good to finally realise that Iwate is not just a unique case of a prefecture being over flooded with socially inept morons from Alberta and beyond and that others have had to suffer the same fate as the brave few here in the Iwate State Penitentiary. It was a successful night all round with some getting their bit, others pining for a bit, me prepared to wait for a bit and most-of all everyone doing their bit. Whatever fun we had that weekend we'll never be able to quantify against the happiness and profound changes we helped forge into the lives of Nepalese children.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

bai-bai paati

2006-06-28T10:40:00.000+09:00

A 6 cabin arc amidst south-Iwatean woods was the gathering point for the annual Sayonara party. Perfectly hidden from the British Embassy, and the Inner Party, so that a rice-fueled, flag-burning, chopsticks standing-rigid-in-the-rice orgy could take place. And did it ever.

AJET arrived with 8 tonnes of rice and Iwates biggest paddling pool available for rent, everybody had brought kerosene to ensure their flags would blaze instantly. I was naked and causing destruction, just like at last the rice party, but this time I had stolen 7 Japanese high-school students and tied them to a tree occasionally headbutting them and shouting 'China Is Number 1' in their faces. It was a cultural spectacular that O'Brien would have been licking WigoaurusRex's pasty head over. Eventually when the lube ran out and bones became weary we got down to some run of the mill hate rally stuff, but nothing worth blogging about, it certainly did miss DerFuhrers abilities of captivating the masses but we coped well enough.

Now O'Brien, you don't honestly think that's what happened. Do you?

More people than I'd expected showed up but then again it was certainly less than you would expect from the " JET community", indeed a gruff boo hummed around as news of another sayonara party also taking place that day was taking place. I guess it was just indicative, and the final rubber-stamping, on the attitudes and personalities endured whilst in the Iwate State Penitentiary.

The amount of booze available brought a tear to my eye. Kegs, tins and bottles; the three basic food types. More than a man could wish for as farewell lubricant. I started off the evening with a couple of draught beers before changing into my award-winning costume, which incidentally is still waiting on its award. Grrr. The pirate theme hadn't caught on like scurvy on Blackbeard’s ship but there was enough to stroike feeeeeeear unto the hearts of all landlubbers abaord the good ship AJET, aaaaaaargh. (Oh god) FlirtyShoulders as per usual tried to be a little to clever with her DVD-piracy theme while TittyBeavers outfit walked the plank and only HellaGhettos giant X an her ass hitting the spot. I'd come as an abducted leprechaun who'd managed to escape his pirate captors without revealing where me pot of gold was, tiddly-ay-dee-ay-dee-ay.

"AJET, make me a burger", was how I was fed thanks to the obedient T flipping the burgers but somehow I only managed one as my mind veered off course with the booze. Myself and ChainSmokinDub proceeded to make some highly innovative cocktails called 'Walk The Planks' which contained a little too much rum for even the most hardened of sea-pillager. They had an initial kick like a cannonball to the face but went down surprisingly well in the end. With the tiny beer cups just pissing me off I took charge of a bottle of rum and sat at the camp fire for the marshmallow roasting. A step down from the other type of roasting I attended last week, spit-roasting.

PalestGirlAlive was winner of most pissed person alive that night and decided to further with the letting of her ginger mane down by taking up chain smoking. A not-so-stylish lifestyle accessory as she coughed up at least a half a lung after her endeavors. I tried standing after about two hours of bench warming with the rum-straights and wobbled over to PalestGirlAlives gob and flushing an unhealthy instant dose of rum down her gullet before seeking the balanced sanctuary of a life sitting down.

Soon the party shifted to the cabin with only a few remaining by the fire. I had come full circle on sobriety-inebriation-sobriety and was alert enough to fear T's visiting mate from England who'd just done a tour of Afghanistan and delighted in telling me about his favourite guns. Wish he had of been all year round, would've swapped him for about 18 JET's in the area. It was decided that walking on fire be the next event of the night, so we did just that. Not the best idea running across dwindling embers at 6 in the morning, but something to kill time with nevertheless.

Everyone sought repose and some sought a little somethin' somethin'、well nothing more than an impromptu kiss. What I will say is, from what I heard, is that the both parties involved were rather surprised at the chemoistry and that this faintest of kisses was a little overdue as far as one party was concerned. One of the party’s consciences eventually kicked in and sabotaged the encounter, but that doesn't mean the encounter wasn't any less enjoyable, far from it from what I hear. One of the party's is really keen for a repeat performance while the other party is stewing over what happened and its consequences whilst not allowing spontaneity to have any influence whatsoever. One of the party's is now writing to major alcohol manufacturers to develop future products with a conscience nullifying agent to ride in tandem with the inhibition dousing agent that's already laced in most tasty alcoholic beverages.

While this took place most people were in boozy comas, in particular Sentence:Marriage who slept standing up and WeirdGirl who slept kneeling down after puking out mini cow patties all over the cabin.

The morning breezed by with AJET making me a bacon sandwich and then everyone blazing trails on home to their individual cells around the penitentiary. A few of us stragglers pulled a Stand By Me-like walk through the woods to the old waterfall where we had the pleasure of seeing FantasticHugger in her element. FantasticHugger is the human embodiment of nature and leapt straight in to Mother Nature’s bosom leaving us for dust in the secluded canyon. The Waterfall was colder than my last week’s reception with two JETs in Morioka station but a good time all the same, even FriendliestPersonInTheWorld got in for a fully clothed dip. FlirtyShoulders moped around with a hangover and TheCorpse is apparently allergic to the cold which might explain why she smells so bad given that you need to refrigerate a dead body to preserve it as best you can.

And so ended the first Sayonara party, after a 6 hour drive home, in Iwate amongst its disbanded 'community'. The Iwate 4 were missed and there was little emotion on show for a going away party. A strange placement where strange bonds have been formed out of locality and maintenance of sanity, would we all have hung out back home in uni or whatever? It's not yet time to summarise the year but to partly steal from the last line of Stand By Me: "I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was on JET. " A strange year, by far the strangest to date.

2's company...

2006-06-20T11:52:00.000+09:00

Birds do it, bee's do it even the Inner Party's O'Brien does it. And it seems that everyone was doing it last Friday night.

LadySnapper was fiddling with a Canadian/Japanese lady in an abandoned bus in the wooded hills of Nagano, JohnnyAwestruck was no doubtedly fucking/banging girl #749 in his 11months here, TheImmigrant was stashed away in the back corridors on the second floor of an almost derelict building with his new beau, BritRapper was being handcuffed by his kinky hostess, ForkDawg was spooning a different hostess, BrassBalls pummeled the life out of his waifish thin FUTURE WIFE, DerFuhrer pumped his hate missile into GroupD's passage to smurfdom, T committed his almost daily routine of necrophilia on TheCorpse and I'm sure even The QueenOfCruft was shoving a dismantled hard drive into her sloppy drive. There was a hint of lust in the air last Friday on the streets of Iwate, and beyond. Can any one of these couples claim to be in love, apart from the necrophiliac, with their disposable nail-painting, menstruating, hair-straightening milk-squirters? Not in the slightest and that's not being cynical in any shape or form. There's nothing wrong with wanting to release the goods into the opposition’s box whether it be indoors, up a tree or in a confession box. Everyone gets off on a different platform; I got off at a very different platform last Friday, along with some friends.

The World Cup parties were in full swing and myself, BritRapper, TheImmigrant and his latest lady, FuckingSalaryman, ImAFuckingSlaryManToo and Sentence:Marriage in one of the usual haunts. Five hours of nomihodai ensued as we shifted from one bar to another, skillfully avoiding a member of the Inner-party (PaintDryingBoreQueen) in the process. We lost the two salariemen to their weak Japanese livers and TheImmigrant to his Latin American passions blazing to the fore. It was three men blinded by the booze till the final whistle of the second game of the world cup. I've no idea leaving the bar but was reported to be playfully head-butting Sentence:Marriage outside while he bowed over in a 90degree droop. BritRappers hostess was mildly amused at the three heaps of poo that had assembled outside the izakaya she was in. BritRapper swiftly took her home for some S&M while Sentence:Marriage crawled to a bus-stop and slept there for the night while I tried to make it back to the FuckingSalaryman apartment.

When I called from outside his place he ran straight down to let me in, while he was naked and giggling like a school kid that's just tickled his first fanny. I thought that was a bit strange but put it down to the beer causing sever hallucinations and rode the elevator to his apartment. We actually ended up at ImAFuckingSalarieManToo's place where there was an amateur porno being made. CockSuckinSchoolNurse was atop ImAFuckingSalarieManToo’s Japanese manhood whilst FuckingSalaryman was shooting it at all angles with his digital camera before nudging in to nibble on her nipples. I was giggling like a guy who's just walked in on an amateur porno being shot for the first time.

Soon I was naked, too. Two Japanese guys, one Japanese girl and a hairy Gaijin internationalising at grass roots level. At one point she as atop ImAFuckingSalarieManToo's splooge stick with mine in her mouth and FuckingSalaryMan's in her hand, cocks everywhere. Photos to send home to the folks were being clicked off like a Prada fashion shoot, only classier. I have no idea how long this madness lasted for, but what I do know is that that girl has a bigger appetite for sex than DerFuhrer has for killing Jews. She flipped, moaned, groaned and gurgled and smiled for the cameras at every opportunity. In the morning she woke before everyone else and left to enjoy her day after being gang-banged by three guys.

I don't think it was ever on my list of things to do and I'd never have initiated it but having said that it was one of the funniest nights of my life. The giggles and grunts in that room won't leave my head for a long time, nor will the worrying image of the two Salary men’s penises in full battle mode.

My attitudes towards the ironically named 'fairer-sex' have changed drastically this year on JET. A spate of misogyny fueled by inner-conflicts and cynicism left me short on the lust stakes. I still have immense problems with their inner workings but have become more tolerant in allowing their glossy manes lure me into their slit-pits. Why can't I take notes, or keep a video diary, whilst sleeping with the enemy?

***NO TOUCHING OF EACH OTHERS PENISES TOOK PLACE, IF IT DID HAPPEN IT WAS MERELY ACCIDENTAL AND NO GAYNESS RESULTED FROM IT***

Roll Model

2006-06-15T11:24:00.000+09:00

I've decided to step away from the glamour of dangling a perfectly sculpted human being off of my arm. The catwalk soiree has come to an end and surely this has to be one of my cleanest break-ups in history, although I haven't actually gone thruogh with it yet. I can't believe I was with someone that long that I bore no attraction to, perhaps in the absence of LadySnapper I needed someway to whittle away the days. Although I did date an alcoholic mentalist for four months last year, she was very well connected, but that's another story. I'm hoping I don't get to see the mentalist side of the KatakanaKid.

Will I miss the conversations about why Gucci is her favourite word, the gazillion print club sessions, the sex in the dark under the blankets, the repitition of the word cute and the use of my least favourite phrase (I love you) on every encounter after date #2. I seriously doubt it as Blankie has come out of the closet and back into the fray.

Why did I ever leave Blankie?

If I've come to learn anything about my time here this year it's that a Blanket is a mans best friend, oh and Alberta Canada is a breeding place for absolute losers who should be firehosed, and meeting a SoccerMom in the flesh is a spine shivering glimpse into the future of America and that some people just don't get it.

Tokyo or bust

2006-06-13T12:00:00.000+09:00

The most important interview I've had to date, and probably my last, took place on the greyest day I've seen in Tokyo yet. I'm not a firm believer in signs but compared to the previous months interview preparations everything was going according to plan. Shoes were remembered, tie was decrinklified, Issey Miyake was found under my leprechaun suit and the night bus was ruled out as a means from A to B. My presentation was meticulously polished and buffed with the best font Word has to offer, there was going to be no stopping me.

I arrived on time, had a glass of water and re-read over my notes readying myself for the next hour or so. This time around I was faced with two interviewers, one from the previous effort and now joined by his co-director. The questions were rifled in at a dizzying pace. Repeated questions in different guises were thrown in to send me off balance and before long I'd finished the glass of water I'd been gulping down. My mouth was dryer than a German comedians stand-up routine and I hadn't gotten into my presentation yet. I was bubbling red under my sunburned skin and edges were beginning to fray away from my immaculate coif. With my tongue gluing itself to the roof of my mouth at the end of every sentence I zoomed through my piece as quickly as possible only stumbling when I mentioned the fact that I'd heard about their $50m embezzlement charges. That got 'em a little tetchy and in their opinion warranted an explanation, the room was heating up now. Every point was twiddled with and the slurry of questions continued to pour in. After a bruising hour where I'd been scorched under the spotlight in the hardest interview of my life my ideas seem to have been well received and I can neither say I feel positive or negative about the experience. IN a sadistic way I kind of enjoyed it, but I can't help feeling it's not going to go my way.

I headed for the freaks in Harajuku to veer the mind away from thinking too much about the interview. A couple of random purchases eased the pain like a hit of crack in the morning. I headed towards the station for the 2hr journey out to LadySnappers new abode. Tokyo rush hour is not for the claustrophobic as each train car looked like a scene from Where's Wally. Eventually the train emptied a little and I was face to face with some copper toned mid-40's cowboy boot wearing skank whore who scratched her fish net stockings whilst staring at me for the remaining hour or so of the journey out to LadySnappers slice of rural life. She ruined the taste of my strawberry cheesecake and fruit smoothie, the bitch.

LadySnapper rolled on up to the station in a box on wheels and proceeded to tell me the redeeming factors of his new abode. With a nationwide reputation for having the most hostess bars, that offer the widest range of services this town was famous for blow-jobs, hand-jobs, rim-jobs and beyond. We drove down one of the shadier streets where we were greeted by a line of bowing guys standing by corners who are basically pimps trying to get you in for a quick suck'n'fuck with one of their girls. Why can't the Nohe be a little more like that place? We soon ended up in the familiar position of nomihodai and karaoke in a sleazy bar with nicotine painted on the walls. FriendOrFoe was also out as well as some other key members of the GunmaCrew, including the Gunma1. If they Iwate 4 think they've had a bad time of it they should talk to this guy. Some crazy black skank that got bitter after he thrust one into her on a couple of occasions informed the police that he was on possession of some weed. They raided his house; he spent two months in jail with some yakuza types and a renegade Sri Lankan. He was on the TV news and in the newspapers, all for less weed than it takes to roll a joint. This country has serious issues. He was a bit sleazy though after he reveled in telling me how he fucked five whores in five nights in Bali, each to their own I suppose.

We ripped up that bar and mingled with the random Brazilians singing The Doors and the local fodder blurbing out Beatles tracks by the dozen. Soon after we found ourselves with the King of Sukebi (sleaze) in an empty izakaya which was more than happy to feed us some more booze. We were thrashed at sake drinking, darts flinging and arm wrestling by their posse but still left with our heads held high ion the morning sunshine. LadySnapper somehow drove us back to his place where I passed out till the next day.

The following night it was Tokyo highlife. We met up with RonnieRatsTail one of LadySnappers University buddies and headed in on the two hour express with beers in tow. Apparently the worlds 2nd best DJ was playing at worlds best club that night so there was no option on where we were going. I'd arranged to meet a girl I'd met in Osaka who'd put us on the guest list at the same place where they have a bikini party but blew her off after it was unanimously decided that we'd head to Womb. I had to endure the painfully boring England game in a crowd mildly enthused crowd of partisan supporters so managed to pour as much beer down my gullet as possible in two hours. After the goodbye to OsakanMentalist we headed for some cheap wine at the convenience store and swigged it down at the entrance to one of Shibuyas not so pristine love hotels.

I've written about Womb too many times for it to be worthy of another review, but this place for it's rectangular design and steely complexion wears a different dress every time it goes dancing and this time was no different. We were starving and hadn't eaten any cake so I decided to see if I could find some. The first person I asked if he knew if I could get anything to eat was looking like he was after having a little bit too much too eat and handed me a packet of chocolate coated M&M's...for free. Apples. It wasn't a full bag but we were hungry enough and it saved me going out to the store to buy some. We quickly became part of the dancing membrane that coated the floor under the pulsing lasers. Sweat rained on everyone as the beats competed with the crowd to be the most energetic presence. Maybe RonnieRatsTail had had a little too much to eat and had to sit down for a little while. LadySnapper and I got lost in ourselves and the crowd as the smoke enveloped all and left you isolated amongst the mass. Sweat poured out of every pore and I was completely drenched from head to toe and my legs felt like they each had a midget wrapped around them. LadySnapper had disappeared with some of the local fodder for an exchange of fluids and RonnieRatsTail was nowhere to be seen so at 6a.m. I called it a day and crawled from the womb into the light, gasping at the fresh air and stumbling towards the station. I somehow made it to the station before passing out and managed to exchange my ticket for the first train back home.

Back in the Nohe I started to wonder what was going to happen over the next couple of months. Teaching English holds as much appeal as smearing a q-tip in alcohol, lighting it on fire and then squeezing it into my japs eye. The interview result should be in by the end of this week and if nothing comes of it it looks like it's a return to homebase before devising the next plan of attack on another unsuspecting nation. It certainly is Tokyo or bust this time.

It's the small things

2006-05-30T11:02:00.000+09:00

I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET I WANT A MIDGET

Been playing softball recently in an effort to boost my skin tone from milky white to strawberry yoghurt pink and I've quickly realised that it is, in fact, the worst sport in the world, bar none. In a typical show of one-upmanship from the Yanks after realising that even though Baseball is horrendously bad it was not as bad as Cricket so they developed Softball. Mark Twain described golf as 'a good walk spoiled', I'd like to know what his opinion would be of this long stand on a dusty pitch. Underarm throwing, larger balls, smaller pitch and giant clown gloves making it impossible not to catch the ball this is a game for those who know they'll never succeed in sport. The only redeeming factor of my daily practice is the fact that I fancy two of the players, were it not for them I'd be playing the not-quite-as-shit-but-very-very-close soft tennis which is mind bogglingly boring and pointless. On the upside I'm sporting a farmers tan in a gentle fuchsia tone accentuated by a more crimson nose.

It seems back home there’s never a dull moment. Some of the lads went to Sweden for a weekend to visit one of their friends’ ex-fiancés and boozed from the moment they got off the plane till the moment they got back on it 72hours later. One of them however didn’t make it back on after getting into an argument over schnitzels in a shop and ended up sharing a cell for five days with some Sven type people. This is also the same guy who was arrested in Dublin when asked by a policeman who he was, for being drunk and disorderly; he replied John Rambo and ended up in front of a judge two days later. He also claims to have concentrated so hard that he ejaculated after three hours of intense focus.

Another friend whose million dollar parents bought him a million dollar apartment in the million dollar development in Dublin was disgusted to find out that the equally plush next door apartment was being used as a Brothel by some not so high class hookers for the past couple of months.

Sometimes I miss home.

I really want a midget, just to occasioanly cook and juggle

Three interviews and a lady

2006-05-24T13:25:00.000+09:00

As I am about to be released from the Iwate State Penitentiary I've been in over drive sorting out the next stop-off point in the search for the Golden Toffees. Last Friday I had three interviews scheduled in Tokyo, all at least one hour long.

I had planned on getting the shinkansen down the night before and staying in a hotel but Thursday was just one mishap after another. Got stuck in the hairdressers chatting to the girls for over an hour, had to walk to the other end of town to collect my dry cleaning then realised I had no shinkansen ticket yet so walked back the other end to the station and spent all my cash on the ticket then realised that I didn't have any cash and taking it out in Tokyo is a nightmare so walked back to the bank thinking it was closed whilst stressing to WeirdGirl on the phone before realising that I had forgotten my suit shoes at school and had no time to collect them so called BrassBalls for a lift who came and collected me from the station after I'd walked all the way back there and then having just a moment to cancel the ticket and take the night bus. Oh yeah, I did temporarily lose one of my shoes after BrassBalls dropped my off at my apaato. About 8mins sum total sleep on the night bus after the 4a.m. sun speared its way through the shaky bus curtains left me in a dazy state at Tokyo station. Check in at the hotel wasn't until 10a.m. which left me 4 hours of limbo in Tokyo rush-hour. Fuck that. I headed straight to the hostel and tried to pass out on the couch before some French git in a wooly scarf and bell-hat started hitting me with biographical questions no doubetldy for his croissant crumb filled journal, or journale as they say in France. I wish France and Greece would just go to war with each other and sizably reduce their populations oxygen intake by killing millions of each others shit monkey inhabitants. Just leaving enough to man the Eiffel Tower and Captain a few Dodecanese ferries to, and from Piraeus, will do fine.

By my first interview I was on my third cup of coffee that morning, and I don't drink coffee. Fidgeting like a gerbil with a bottle of poppers in it's ass I gave some Grade A jive talk about the importance of branding in modern society and why I sleep on four futons laid atop each other. He asked was I a genius, I laughed, said YES and stared him in the eye. Well, I laughed and said I probably was just as smart as he was. Damn those HR goons and their mind games. I was offered a second interview on the spot so Round 1 was a gentle spar.

My Seconds came in the shape of more coffee and food. I trudged through the swarms of Tokyoites to make it to the next interview. I sat down and had an espresso and a Tandoori sandwich. My anal region is not known for its charm and grace at the best of times, after 2hrs of iffy sleep and several coffees, choc bars and a Tandoori sambo it was time to let me know how it felt. I rushed to the toilet coated in sweat from the suffocating humidity and poured a chocolate slurpy into the bowl in 2 seconds flat. I sat there for another two mins just out of embarrassment. The next interview, with a financial services company, was one which I really had no interest in but I was genuinely surprised at what they had to offer. I’ve never considered a career in finance, but this is still on the marketing side with a lot of scope for maneuver and potential for a gazillion yen. The interviewer was smooth and well groomed and sported two piercing holes in his left ear which indicated he might be good craic to nomihodai with. Again I was offered a second interview on the spot and felt pretty good about the way things were going, regardless of the fact that my body was shutting down by the second.

I got hopelessly lost for Round 3 and soaking wet due to a pin pricked cloud emptying its entire contents out in 5 minutes. I squeezed in a frappucino and had brain freeze as a result, too. I was escorted to the top floor corner office in Shibuya and ogled at the pristine rooftop lawns coating the Shibuyan skyline. Some smug English twat came in first and asked why I was late, I honestly can't remember what I said to him but it was enough for him to rush through his questioning and send the next guy in. I've never been at a more intensely rude interview in my life. Granted I probably had bags the size babies heads under my eyes, I'd a stolen yellow umbrella that said 'come to the Maldives' by my leg and a soaked portfolio and other pamphlets collected from the previous two interviews by my other side, but nevertheless he didn't want to meet the inner me. His questions were sharp and I'd no time to answer. Cheap little rabbit punches ensued for the next five minutes while I tattled off generic response after generic response whilst thinking about how much fun it'd be to have a game of urban golf from the lawned roof tops. His eyes jutted from umbrella to portfolio to soaking attire to bagged eyes, I guess his attitude was supposed to pierce me in some way but I was in a daze and my nonchalance just infuriated him even more than my appearance. He cut the interview short and escorted me to the lift saying he'd be in touch; I laughed and thought about my next cup of coffee. Round 3 sent me to the floor, and I was glad just to lie there and take it.

Some motor mouth Otaku American girl invaded my ear space when I got back to the hostel rambling on about anthropological arguments made in the Exorcism of Emily Rose (worst film of all time), whether she should backpack around Japan, go to a sports event the following day, return to Kansas etc before I managed to finish my square Wendy's burger. When I finished it I left for my bunk for a couple of hours sleep only to have to put up with a couple having sex in the bunk beside me.

Eventually I hooked up with Der Fuhrer and his equally incompetent other half, Group D, as well as LadySnapper. MyDreamGirl also joined us (she's girl I met in Sapporo and got thrown out of hostel for bringing her back with me) as she was on a work training course in Tokyo for a month. I'll be honest: I think I love her. She is hands down beautiful, her eyes are wide as cheese burgers, her lips like ketchup coated fries and her skin as soft as a fresh tomato and white as mayonnaise. She’s the ultimate mouthwatering snack worthy of repeat purchases. She also exudes none of the traits of a typical Japanese person, but with just enough to give her oriental charm and with a carefree will that really doesn't bother with what’s going on around her, like I said...I Think I love Her.

We stormed through a karaoke nomihodai, that wasn't nomihodai, with some high pitched performances of some style from Group D, debaser from LadySnapper, Avril Lavigne from MyDreamGirl(everyone has their flaws) and an attempt at the Asian Dub Foundation from me. MyDreamGirl was more than tipsy as we hit the backstreets with some FIFA World Cup edition wine. Womb was next on the itinerary, it had been a while and Ｉ was a little nervous. There was no need really as it was in fine form. Packed to the seams with all manner of loons it was thumping with a smooth rhythm and mesmerising like watching a boxer practice on a speed bag. MyDreamGirl soon passed out on my lap, normally I would have thrown a lesser person to the side, e.g. Der Fuhrer, and gone back to the dancing but I was in Tokyo at Womb with one of the hottest all round girls I've ever met and with 3 of the Iwate 4. I think I was doing okay.

Eventually we crawled into a sand filled bar at about 5 called the Sex Bar, interesting pit-stop. Well, I say 'we' when I really mean myself, LadySnapper and MyDreamGirl while the other two misfits had another tear filled argument. Soon we were in the hostel and MyDreamGirl was resting in the covet of my fetal position. Bliss. In the morning we were rumbled by the Hostel manager but he was cool about it and let her staying over slide by.

MyDreamGirl hung out all day as we held hands, including her freakishly small half thumb, and went to see the Honda robot which was a waste of time. A sleep was in order and I got when we went to see the DaVinci Code, don’t get me started on how bad that film is. I’ve seen three films since I’ve been here, ‘the Exorcism of Emily Rose’ which is blatantly in the top 10 worst of all time, ‘Limit of Love’ I went to see with the KatakanaKid(who happens to be a model but let’s not bring that up) and was a remake of the Poseidon adventure with some elements of Baywatch, Shittanic and Days Of Our Lives all rolled in to one 2hr reel of misery and of course `the DaVinci Code` which actually would have haemmhoroids seeking a way out of your ass just to leave the screening. MyDreamGirl left after the movie with a promise of visiting me in the Iwate State Penitentiary before my release date, I hope she smuggles some cake with her.

I was stuck with two fuck-ups for the evening and while waiting for a subway train Group D and I were flashed by a dwarf wearing granny panties. He then ran off to repeat his performance else where. We got unashamedly drunk drinking wine in a quiet bar in a well-to-do area. D went off early while myself and Der Fuher chatted to the ex-Jet locals who had the same opinion of Jet as we do. It’s refreshing to know that there are good, honest normal folk out there beyond your SoccerMoms, QueenOfCrufts etc. On the crawl back to the hostel two very handsome guys, who looked very similar to us, were seen pissing all over the ridiculously priced French Restaurant that we momentarily sat in that afternoon. Good for those guys, I would’ve joined in but you never know what might get back to the Inner Party.

D puked everywhere the next day and took Der Fuehrer with her back to their new abode while I rambled around with my African Brothaz at Africa Fest 06 in Hibuya Park. Every sukebi (pimp/porno guy/drug dealer) had left Roppongi and donned their homeland robes for the day with food, music and tribal dancing keeping the inquisitive Japs occupied all day. Every African country was represented with a stall showing off national wares, except for Burkino Faso which had nothing except a MS Word printout over its stall and a hungry looking fellah sitting behind an empty table. Sounds like an exciting place.

That was that really as I met with SalarieMan on the shinkansen for a return to the Nohe. A resounding success which bodes well for the future coupled with a reunion with old friends and an object of desire. Tokyo here I come.

She's a model, so what

2006-05-17T14:16:00.000+09:00

Lot's of people have recently been asking me what it is like to be dating a Japanese model. I say to them, 'it's no different to dating any other model'. She has the dietary habits of a bulimic ethiopian and the intelligence of a labotomised yeti, but she is a fun loving little thing to have around your arm on the mean streets of the Nohe. Perhaps she is a mole working on behalf of the Inner-Party and is cataloguing my each and every move whilst reporting all and sundry to the malicious O'Brien; but probably not. back to the Kansai report, bulletpoint style.

next morning woke up with tongue stuck to roof of mouth. Phone rang at 10 on the button for my interview with a world reknowned, I'm not gonna tell who they are, company to work. Conversation: Interviewer "good morning, is this the Running Man?" Me "yeah" I "is it okay to go ahead with the interview in Japanese?" Me"I don't speak Japanese" I "uhm, okay. Let's continue in english" 30mins of chat followed with unmatched waffle flowing from my arid gob. Needless to say they emailsed me since saying they were sorry to say that although I havexcellent qualifications I unfortunately didn't meet their requirements. note to self: Don't get hammered before interviews and then stand on a balcony scratching your nuts with one hand and holding your phone iwth the other. Didn't wanna work for them anyway.
Went to Universal Studios. Fuhrer and Group D were breaking up every 10minutes. Johnny Awestruck invited a girl who he'd met whilst drunk in some Osaka sluch pit. She had some mad skin disease and caked in make-up which melted under the baking sun. Her friend and herself both sported fluroescent tie-die Havana style crinkle skirts and denim jackets, not drawing any attention to themselves at all.
Each ride took about 3hours to get on and lasted 4mins, pretty much my love life really.
E.T. was horseshit, the attraction must have been built pre-1982.
Spiderman spun an intricate web of mystery, suspense and thrills all roleld into one.
Highlight of the day was back To The Future. Sat in a Delorean and chased Biff through time and space, certainly didn't need roads where we went. Followed it up with two of the best purchases of my life. Back To The Future boxershorts and a Delorean mobile phone dangly accessory. Life complete.
That night ended up in transvestite district for a quiet drink.
Headed to the worlds largest wooden structure at Nara the next day with Johnny Awestrucks 'girlfriend' and her buddy. Naradef one of the highlights of Japan. Deershit everywhere, big Buddha more impressive than that relclining heap of shit in Bangkok. Tried to avoid Der Fuhrer and Griup D all day whilst they cuddled and fueded. Took in the sunset on the shit covered hill.
Horrendously drunk in the rasta bar that night with some of the best looking girls I have ever seen (the model I am dating would have still shone out through this cache of diamonds). Johnny awestruck brought another one of his buddies out. Group D dragged us to a hip-hop bar, manure served on a bed of pigeon droppings. I canoodled with the blind drunk accomplice of Johnny Awestrucks girl while JohnnyAwestrucks JapBuddy#87543, grabbed her hand all night. She touched my happy special place in broad daylight and in the subway station whilst telling me how lonely she was. I told her I was lonely too and sent in a digitary probe of my own.
Climbed the sky building and watched a random salsa perofrmance given by gimps.
That night ended up watching X-Press2 in some club. Prior to that went boozin and bowlin. I scored 62, a career low(Busted a 192 last firday in Hachinohe though), I blame the alochol and the over-waxed lanes. turned around during the second frame to find a random Jap sitting with us, or at least thats what I thought. It was another of Johnny Awestrucks good buddies joining us for the everning, JapBuddy#87544. This one was also speical; a entrprenurial bio-chemist specialising in developing lotions for ladies. It put's the lotion in the basket. Went to a classy shot bar for some nomihodai and learned how to say 'one frog jumped into the lake' in Japanese. Club was inhabited by neanderthol looking cage fighters who had a host of girls all over them. Fuhrer closelined a random guy for dancing with his beloved Smurf. Hungout with some lunatic J-Girls for a while and exchanged numbers.
Met with EnriqueJ-glesias next night foir more nomihodai before heading to Underlounge, my new favourite club in the world. D popped up on a speaker and wiggled her toosh whilst i stood on the adjacent one pointing to the lights for about 30mins whilst the J-Crowd followed each and every one of my actions. Got to the stage where i couldnt talk to anyone I was so drunk. Cracy J-Girls from previous night turned up and danced for a while. Der Fuhrer managed to keep his glok in his pants and the Midget cut down on the flirting.
WEnt stright from club to Tokyo on the shink and manged to avoid AnnoyingCanadianLesbian at the station while I transferred for the Nohe bound bullet trian. Why are so many of the Canadians such complete losers on this programme?

Anyway, an emotional reunion with the Iwate 4 and fun fun fun all round. JohnnyAwestruck is loving big city life whilst the Fuhrer and Group D pine for more attention from each other more than ever but end up over boiling the pot and scolding themselves. LadySnapper is not going out with a model, I am.

I'm dating a Japanese Model

2006-05-11T11:45:00.000+09:00

When you start dating a model, a Japanese one, it means that blogging becomes less and less important in your life. However, Golden Week was a return to the madness and I especially want to share this with my favourite PolishTwins.

FuckingSalaryman organised a ridiculously cheap go-where-you-like shinkansen ticket for me which basically meant I could hop-off and hop-on anywhere I chose. I used it twice. Still got more mileage for my Yen though. I was living in fear of bumping into SoccerMom, the QueenOfCruft or another of the hopeless losers I have served time with here in the Iwate State Penitentiary. Just one brief encounter could upset my unique balance into disarray and find me stuffing chopsticks up their noses then banging their heads off a table.

Right, so I arrived in Tokyo and hit Shibuya. My first time here whilst sober. If aliens are looking at us under a microscope from above they’ll surely think that this place is a genetic hotbed packed to the membrane with lively amoebas bouncing off one another. They wouldn’t be far wrong, too. The homogeneity of Japanese culture still shines through amongst the neon blasts of central Tokyo. There were more westerners here than I’d seen before and the one thing they shared in common with their Japanese counterparts was the rush to western lifestyles. Starbucks and McDonalds teemed with both; one trying to get a taste of home, the other trying to taste something different. Ad’s blinked on gigantic screens promoting all things American, fronted by ridiculously shiny Japanese personalities. I had my first Iwate Jet spot in the form of WeirdestManOnThePlanetAndNotInAGoodWayOhMyGodHeIsSuchAFreak
IAmScaredAtHisPotentialToSpawnAndKeepHisGenePoolAlive, this was not a good sign of things to come. I ducked behind a group of High Schoolers and managed not to be seen. I then waited for two hours for LadySnapper and FriendOrFoe to show up. I waited so long that my ass formed a groove in the stainless steel bar by the abstract dog/owl I was sitting beside.

We were immediately on to the path to boozeonia, under LadySnappers guidance. First docking port was some erratically styled niche bar, with a hermaphrodite waiter/ress, for a couple of tasty beverages. We chatted about where we would ultimately end up that night. We were still chatting about it when we got to the 7-Eleven when we bought three bottles of vinegar masquerading as wine. We walked the backstreets, crossed a bridge which LadySnapper decided to hang off of, still talking about it until we came across a new breed of Lawsons(the equivalent to Centra in Japan) called Natural Lawsons. This freaked us out so we went in and bought some beer, then left still talking about where to go.

We ended up at a bar in who knows where under FriendOrFoes direction. Dirty Vegas were supposed to be playing that night, they weren’t. The bar was full of western models, although my Japanese girlfriend who is a model wasn’t there, and one of those champagne pyramids by the bar. We left. We ended up in Roppongi, the root of all evil in Japan. We went to a cake shop and bought some cake. Vanilla bar played host to our next round of beers. Cheesy music, cheesier Americans and slutty Japanese girls embodied this waste of space. We left having not yet ate our three equal slices of cake. We ate our cake whilst walking down the street towards Unit, a new club for me was the last roll of the dice after traipsing across every ward of Tokyo, by foot, in one night. The cake was very delicious and gave us lots of energy to dance all night. I would recommend this type of cake to anybody who likes eating cake before going out.

The club wasn’t as raucous as Womb, but had an attractive edge to it. The people were a hybrid of ultra-trendy, ultra-hardcore Friday night revellers. I danced until the taste of the cake faded away then sat beside the cigarette machine with two sleeping beauties. They were immediately awoken and taken to the dance floor by myself and FriendOrFoe, who also has a Japanese girlfriend who but is not a model like my girlfriend. Rump to lump dancing was in full swing till I lost interest and left. Eventually we all left in the morning sun, exhausted and satisfied from the delicious cake we ate. Unit was a worthwhile experience but not as frenetic as I would have liked, but definitely worth a return.

I boarded the first shinkansen bound for Osaka, I think. I was wired and pretty much had no idea what was going on until I woke in Osaka five hours later; the journey should take two. I checked into the skank whore hotel where JohnnyAwestruck and BrassBalls had previously stayed and then set off on the tourist trail. I squeezed in the castle alongside, a mentalist ventriloquist, some live Chinese mentalist guitar players and some menatilist Japanese rope skippers. I was liking the theme, and the dirty streets, of Osaka so far. Having not eaten in about 24hours I settled on an English pub, just out of lack of desire for all things Japanese. Within five minutes of sitting down and enjoying my pint of Tetley’s with some fish’n’chips some fat yank sat down and asked could he join me, I said no so he left. Three hours later I left, a little tipsy and ended up solo in a Japanese rock/punk bar. I split back to the hotel and creamed the bed with some love paste for the next resident to soak up.

After a brief exchange of grunts with the elephantitis afflicted mongo on the pc next to me I headed to Kyoto for the day. This place has more temples than Charlie Sheen has had prostitutes, which is saying something. I came across a bike rental shop and decided to go for that option. After looking through what was available I opted for the all-terrain 17speed, 9 suspensioned, NASA designed, plutonium framed, ultra lightweight folds up in your pocket mountain bike. I opted not to take the helmet. The pristine concrete of Kyoto had no idea what was going on as my 27inch tyres glided in and out of the cars and buses. I stopped off at the palace, the something-or-other-gardens, the whatyoumaycallit gardens and some other zenned out places. My favourite pitstop was an antique book fair complete with a menagerie of scrolls and documents from when samurais didn’t look like Tom Cruise. Unfortunately I didn’t have a spare 100,000yen to splash out on an ancient war parchment depicting the decapitation of some hapless Chinese merchants. I then had the misfortune of paying an entrance fee to the Museum of Modern Art and followed that up with a cycle in and around the grounds of Kyoto University. My day at Kyoto had been mildly disappointing as I’d been expecting a lot more from it. At this point, though, I’m templed out of my mind so it’s a little unfair to say that Kyoto is shit, but I will.

I met up with JohnnyAwstruck outside his new abode and we purchased some six-packs of Draft One. A HUGE MISTAKE. We drank and caught up on his balcony as we listened to the fat chick next door watching TV till the small hours. Next morning I felt like someone had poured acid into my eardrum, mental note: never drink that stuff again. Dragging myself onto the train for Kobe, JohnnyAwestruck lives ten mins away by train, I walked around this almost brand new city. It’d had a major overhaul since the earthquake of 1996 so it was strange walking around a city where almost everything is new, I was almost expecting to bump into Xzibit and some local residents shouting 'Thank you MTV for Pimin' My City'. I opted not to view any more temples so just meandered around the marine park and the huge shopping malls. I then had to go and study for an interview, a phone one luckily, that I had the next day. Bumrush. Johnny Awestruck finished work so we met and played in Chinatown with numchuks and Bruce Lee costumes before climbing the Kobe Tower Of Shit, don’t ever go up it.

Kobe’s nightlife leaves a lot to be desired and we blew into the city’s ubiquitous Irish bar, where there was actually one set of Irish eyes smiling at me. We drank some free booze and chatted with the owner before he left and his mongoloid henchman didn’t realise the importance of who I was so decided to start charging me for my booze. A drunken Japanese barfly, female, started chatting with us in perfect English and soon we were off to a club together with Johnny Awestruck deciding that he wanted to fuck her, some things don’t change. Some gangsta styled midgets paraded on the stage warbling some R&B horseshit to the delight of the assembled few. Eventually the comedy show ended and the DJ took charge with some decent enough music. BarFly was too drunk to stand so decide to leave, Johnny Awestruck decided to leave with her but struck out at the door. I had chatted to almost everything with a rigid nipple and an ovary sac in the place to no avail. It didn’t bother me, I was having fun and I am going out with a Japanese model.

The night drew to a close at 5 and we ended up having express ramen beside a sleeping degenerate who pissed his pants, the smell was a nice compliment to the shit tasting express ramen. I had two hours sleep before I had to wake up for my phone interview, not ideal preparation by any means, but a satisfying first half of the trip nevertheless.

Hate and D rolled in ext day, madness ensued. Will be documented tomorrow should I have time. But, like I said before…going out with a Japanese Model takes a lot of time away from blogging. It’s funny though, I have the conversational skills, in Japanese of course, of a 7yr old who may get held back for another year. She has the intelligence of a 7yr old and an unnerving affection towards all things pink. A match made in heaven as far as I’m concerned.

kaeru

2006-05-08T12:42:00.000+09:00

I have returned, 8 times sexier and minus the Onsen twins. Golden Week(the J-folk all take long holiday at once, unless of course you are a teacher you get stuck chaperoning the borreybaru team to some stinkpit for a tournament) was a resounding success. Korea was called off, due to unforeseen events and the Inner Party's unscrupulous hand dealing a severe blow to the Iwate 4, so I was futon hopping around southern Japan.

I managed to completley avoid the not-from-this-world-100%-evil Soccer Mom who was on roughly the same itinerary. I also managed to duck and cover from two other local JET's in Tokyo.

Did I mention that I'm now dating a Japanese model?
The converstaions are fantastic, as is her inability to cook rice.

JohnnyAwestruck took a burns victim to Universal Studios last week, not for charitable reasons.

Underlounge is the best club in the world, forget about Womb.

Full details tomorrow when I can keep my eyes open for more than nine consecutive seconds.

p.s. I'm dating a Japanese model

The Onsen Twins

2006-04-21T16:13:00.000+09:00

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

2006-04-19T18:12:00.000+09:00

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)

2006-04-17T15:55:00.000+09:00

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

2006-04-12T14:50:00.000+09:00

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

2006-04-10T12:19:00.000+09:00

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...

2006-04-05T14:46:00.000+09:00

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

2006-04-04T10:50:00.000+09:00

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

Hitting the spot

2006-03-31T16:20:00.000+09:00

After three days of technical difficulties, i.e I'm semi-retarded, the PAUL & nick show is now available for download.

Episodes will be available on a weekly basis starting from the next couple of weeks, info will be given out closer to the date.

The first podcast see's myself and Nick invited onto the local hick station for some general chit-chat and crazy japishishness. We duly obliged and wooed all and sundry with our symbiotic relationship, side splitting humour and velly sexy bodies.

Nick sings solo about love or something like that while I request something for no particular reason due to the heap of dog poo I had to choose from on the night. Requests will be taken and all ideas will be reviewed.

Welcome to a new wave on the virtual waves (click on the link below)

THE G-SPOT

Live by the skew, die by the skew

2006-03-30T14:19:00.000+09:00

Came home late last night after a brief get together with some of the locals and of course to bid a farewell to Red Leopard. HeartStopper was there perfectly adding colour to the evening.

Came home late last night and thought about all the changes that are gonna take place here in the next couple of weeks. All the colour is going to fade away.

When I came home late last night I pulled the balls off myself after reading Babar. Haven't read it in a while. As much as I can allow my imagination allow an elephant to drive cars, eat crumpets, wear finely tailored suits and talk freely amongst humans and jungle creatures I can't get over the fact that he married his cousin. He proposed to her while driving back to his town, upon arrival he was made King. They began a fruitful reign over their people perfectly happy in their incestuous matrimony. I just can't swallow that one.

After coming home late last night I woke late this morning. I was thinking about the Pareto Effect all day and applying it to my term in Iwate. 80% of the good times come about from 20% of the people. I'm no good at maths so I don't wanna try and figure out what happens when the 20% decreases, I know it's not a good thing though.

4 months till Tokyo.

www.chalk-n-cheese.co.jp

2006-03-28T12:14:00.001+09:00

Saturday and Sunday were as about as different as two days can possibly get, wherever you are.
The LadySnapper had an appointment in Tokyo that day which meant I was flying solo on the Sendai bus. We were headed to Sendai to meet with my internet date, yes that’s what I said, and also rendezvous with Ichigo-bella who is The LadySnappers true object of desire. Considering how excited I am about starting something up with HeartStopper I was semi-reluctant to go, especially as BrideOfTheInternet hadn’t emailed one picture of herself and I’d thrown in the guts of my spring collection for her viewing pleasure. I had cancelled a rendez-vous two previous times so something called ‘guilt’, I think it’s the right phrase, crept in and I felt obliged to meet up.

Ichigo-bella and The Ladysnapper met up with me and we tried to get into some ‘Bimbo’ restaurants, as Ichigo-bella calls them, but they were booked up with wedding parties. We settled on an over-priced Italian restaurant where there was more atmosphere in a mortuary. Our company included two identically balding men with two equally youthful dates being fed fine wines and mundane chit-chat. No doubt they were both hostesses and they certainly had our attention. The attention of the waiters, however, was honed in at our table where myself and The LadySnapper had encircled Ichigo-bella and proceeded with a barrage of compliments and niceties in her general direction. I find it difficult trying to describe Ichigo-bella natural beauty, she isn’t outrageously gorgeous but she is the most attractive person I have ever met. Her aura is like octopus tentacles flailing around and prodding you from head to toe leaving sucker marks that resonate with desire long after she has squirped (how the hell do you describe how an octopus moves? Do they swim? I’m sticking with squirp) back to her (damn this metaphor, where do ocotpussies, octopi, live??!) octopad. She may not be the sharpest tool in the shed but if I was going to build some shelves I’d want her on my belt. We polished off a bottle of wine before heading on to an izakaya for some nomihodai. (I’m no A.A. Gill but the food was definitely several folds away from a paper crane)

Ichigo-bella was beginning to open up a little more with each and every neon cocktail that washed down her gullet. Not that I felt like a sore thumb or anything but I wanted to leave The LadySnapper and Ichigo-bella to it so I paid heed to the thumbs up from the trio of 18yr olds at the table next to me. They had just been released from the demon High School and were living up their newly found freedom by taking in as much booze and cigarettes as was humanly possible in two hours, their endeavour brought a tear to my eye. I instantly liked these girls especially as all they wanted to do was slurpy-slurpy and tell me what a nice guy I am. I was seriously thinking about getting their numbers but then good sense kicked in and I let them be on their merry way as they boozed down the path to adulthood; Bon chance girls. The booze count was now at half a bottle of wine, a can of 6% skank booze that The LadySnapper made me drink and two hours of beer and moscow mules. I was a little bit tipsy as I prepared to meet BrideOfTheInternet, but first emailed drunkenly to HeartStopper something about wanting it to be Sunday already for our date.

She was accompanied by two complete skanks but fortunately she was presentable and, more importantly, drunk. My second nomihodai was on the cards as we sat down in some tropical styled pirate ship watering hole. The ubiquitous Immigrant appeared out of nowhere as did TheManiac and his garage rhymes. I really have no idea what the hell I was saying to BrideOfTheInternet but we seemed to be getting along just fine. The LadySnapper had been adopted by the adjacent table as they revelled in his tales of love and woe through the ages. TheImmigrant and The Maniac were working double time on the skanky duo with BrideOfTheInternet. It looked like they were making inroads until TheManiac went insane and hit the high road for no apparent reason. The skanks were scuffled and scampered home which left TheImmigrant and The LadySnapper heading towards a club while I finished the drinks on the table with the help of my Internet date, can’t believe I went on an Internet date. BrideOfTheInternet wasn’t up for a club so asked did I wanna continue drinking. We immediately found ourselves in a quirky little place with fluorescent beaded drapes and soothing music. This was nomihodai number three, I was beyond tipsy. She sipped champagne while I was on the Jim Beams, it was a miracle there was any communication on my part. After some handshakes and pictures with the locals we left after two hours, hyper-inebriated.

She asked did I want to stay back at her place, I’m presuming I said yes ‘cos that’s where I woke up. She stopped off at a store on the way to pick up a half bottle of Champagne; we drank it as we shared earphones listening to Moon Safari whilst naked on her tatami. I refused to listen to James Blunt. She had huge tattoos all over her body; this was a definite turn on. I really need to get a hold of a supply of condoms over here; the local issue ones are ridiculously small. The early hours dwindled away between sleep and sex until alarm bells went ringing at two.

What was I thinking of? I had a date with the most beautiful girl I’d met in Japan and I was suffering from the worst hangover in a long time, stinking of booze and guilt. I rendezvoused with The LadySnapper at the station who was looking a little worse for wear. He’s ended up sleeping alone in a Love Hotel and puking all over himself while he was there. I was in a mad rush to make it back to Morioka for 7. I went to buy a new t-shirt to wear for that night. We missed the first bus. I was stressing. I passed some disgusting chicken past my lips. Puking was imminent. The next bus left at half four, I would be seriously pushing it. Luckily the puke stayed at bay and I tried to catch up on some sleep on the bus with little success. The LadySnapper had no problem and he was out like a light. We breezed into Morioka at about twenty to seven, and then rushed to the car for some toiletries. I ran to a toilet to pull a Clark Kent on it and make myself semi-presentable. I made it, completely out of breath, by five past. The air was heavy, and cold, and with each breath a white puff lingered around me like a comic book caption. It would've had a picture of HeartStopper in it with a giant heart in the background. She turned up at half past. Girls?!

Smaller than I remember, I have only really been sitting beside her the past few times, she was looking fantastic. Wearing a sandal and a sneaker, still recovering from the foot injury, she looked so cute. We engaged with a hug and that immediately bolstered my dwindled energy reserves. I took her to Tawa Tawa, a middle range Asian Fusion type restaurant. She’s bubblier than a soda stream and we had little trouble in getting the ball rolling. There are three features about her that I can’t stop thinking about. Her hair shines like a school of tropical fish turning sharply in a reef, it’s mesmerising. Her eyes, like all Japanese girls, are brown but they are wider and more inviting than any I’ve looked into. I’m knocking hard for a permanent invite. Her ears are so tiny and cute, they could be nibbled on as the perfect after dinner snack, I refrained from this and stuck to the mango sorbet. I am sure that she has sensational shoulder blades and I’m holding my breath, and packing spare pants and extra Kleenex, for the day she wears a top that reveals them to me. For something so small her legs are like two ivory chopsticks, long, strong, slender and only a few are worthy of encountering them. I’ve only seen these covered by denims, again I hold my breath.

The usual first date fare was chewed over and past experiences etc were exchanged. She asked me what my dream in life was. I immediately thought ‘You, and only you’ but instead I ripped off my ‘I wanna live off the royalties of my as of yet unpublished book on an isolated farm in Chile where I sit in a hammock each and every day sipping a beer and watching the sun arc through the day’. She was a little taken back by that so I followed it up with ‘I’ll be staying in Japan for the next couple of years though’. Foot in mouth strikes again. I would gladly take her to Chile with me, you can buy hammocks that fit two people, I’ve seen them. The rest of the chat was comfort talk, nothing to serious and nothing to contentious just a simple get-to-know-you type thing. I want to know more, a lot more.

We were the only two people in the restaurant but compared to the previous night the bodies had turned on the techno and started to dance round the mortuary. Plate after plate of top quality food appeared and the wine was more energetic than the Italians lack lustre performance the previous night. Her hands crept over the table and looked like they wanted to be clasped by mine, but her shyness was evident from time to time and I wasn’t going to scare her away. Two hours were over in a heartbeat and it was time to say goodnight to HeartStopper. I walked her to her car exchange farewells and gave a huge inward scream when she hugged me goodbye. She’s so small that I patted her on the head and wished her a safe journey home, I lack intimacy skills.

I called The LadySnapper to see if he was still around for a lift back home. He was sleeping under a duvet in the back seat of the Caldina which was parked in front of the Church doors, classy. I rambled on about how well it went, not that he cared. I wanted to mail her straight away but waited till I was sure she was at least home. I let loose on the text telling her how I felt, the reply had reciprocal sentiments. Happy Days. I just hope that she doesn’t turn into my own Ichigo-bella whom the LadySnapper has been working on for the past 7months with little effect other than a strong friendship. I’m not falling for that one. SexyMenopause lady that we hang out with in the Nohe gave me some tips on dating a Japanese girl. One of them was the three date rule; no kissing before the third date otherwise it shows that her family are not of premium stock. Her family are obviously thoroughbreds; I’m content to work on my dressage skills before I take her out for a gallop in the fields.

Well, what a weekend. The click of a mouse brought me face-to-face with a booze hound sex fiend, while a twist of fate brought me within touching distance of a rare beauty. My main focus now can only be on HeartStopper as the time grows nearer for her to return to Tokyo. Hopefully when she’s there she’ll only be a mouse click away.

Beat The Meat

2006-03-24T15:40:00.000+09:00

Without ever meeting Larry I can safely say that I am a lot happier than he is at the moment.

A one-on-one, tête-à-tête with the beautiful HeartStopper is taking place this Sunday at one of Iwate’s finest eateries. I genuinely haven't been ｔhis excited about a date since flying home from Turkey, after an unsuccessful search for the Golden Toffees, to meet up with TrueLove. That was about four years ago. More than likely it's just the fact that HeartStopper will help me focus on everything away from the fracas of Iwate life and the mundane Minions that inhabit it.

Regardless of that I'm going on a three day diet of spring water, facials and push-ups (I plan on doing at least 14 before Sunday evening) in order to woo her into my muscular, yet tender loving, arms. I am hoping to God that nerves don't get the better of me and I start an inane and indecipherable ramble about the importance of culling chickens in Kazakhstan. Regardless of the outcome at least I've rediscovered my thirst for the female touch and I'm parched.