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.

Codebreaking

2006-03-23T10:27:00.000+09:00

Last nights encounter with HeartStopper was a resounding success in that I managed to sit beside her and let the retarded midget that lives in my head type away on a rusty typewriter and despatch a slurry of conversation pieces that would have a Special Olympian giving me his gold medal in sympathy for my dire attempt at luring HeartStopper into my rabbit-filled, rainbow covered, primrose smelling and squid-free world.

I should just have Bill Gates and his team insert a hard disk within me and have a string falling out of my ass which people can pull in order to generate a response.

Anyways, I made it through the night relatively unscathed and blemish free. I can barely even tell if a girl likes me even after we’ve had sex for the fifth time. So, I’ve read about a lot of movies on dating and can pick up a signal or two, but how should I receive the following information?

1. She is not your typically shy Japanese girl so her hands were frivolous, resting on my knees and shoulders. Was she just tired and needed something to lean on in the absence of an arm on the chair due to us sharing it?

2. She laughed at my jokes. Was she just being polite or was she just laughing at me?

3. I asked her to hang out again sometime, she said yes. She is currently just home to convalesce after a table fell on her beautiful foot and is bored every day with nothing to do. Am I just a segue between boredom and Tokyo?

4. Considering she will be going back to Tokyo in a month, but also taking into account the fact that I am moving to Tokyo in 4months I decided to top off the evening with a gung-ho styled phone mail.

Paul: Oyasumi (goodnight) HeartStopper hope to see you VERY soon. (dancing smiley face) I think you are VERY beautiful (winking playgirl emoticon) ii yume (sweet dreams)

I didn’t enjoy the wait for the reply as LadySnapper pelted down the expressway at 180kph. The phone beeped and HeartStoppers name appeared on the screen

HeartStopper: Mail title: Give me a chyotto(moment)(open palm emoticon). Main body: (sparkling/glistening pink heart) oyasumi Poru (rosy cheeked animated smiling emoticon)(Animated waving, with action lines, hand emotion) I had a really good time with you (red rose petal swirl emoticon)(red 100 on top of two dashes emoticon) tanoshikata(it was fun)(roast chicken drumstick emoticon) me too, hope to see you soon (rosy cheeked animated winking smileyfaced emoticon)(hand making the ‘okay’ gesture emoticon) have a good night (either a left ear emoticon or a face on view of a right ear emoticon) (either a face on view of a right ear emoticon or a left ear emoticon)

Ears??!! What in God’s name do the ears symbolise? It was all going well until that point; the ears have thrown me off the scent. Do I have nice ears? Does she want to remind me of her ears? Am I supposed to listen out for something? Is she listening to my voice in her mind as she rests her beautiful head on her pillow? Ears??!! I ask you, what are they about?

All the above details, according to the movies on dating I’ve read about, would lead to the green light or she is just the ultimate in prick-tease technology. There is one mitigating factor as well as to why it may just be playful flirtation on her point. She may or may not have a boyfriend, as of yet this has neither been confirmed nor denied. If reports are true he is a dickhead who treats her like shit. But don’t girls like the bad guy? Always wanting to change him etc etc Anyway, do I want to attempt to steal something so beautiful from anybody for my own selfish gains? If I do try and steal her would I even be able to? And, I'm not the first to go sailing towards the rocks in response to her Sirenical warble.

What’s the next step? If it’s left in my hands I’ll no doubtedly mess it up.

Attraction = mx - c

2006-03-22T11:47:00.000+09:00

Fell in love on Monday night.

This time it's different.

My heart actually stopped beating for a couple of seconds as her equally awestruck gaze crashed into mine leaving shattered dreams on the wayside. She shone from the corner in which she was chatting. Positive energy spilled from her more furiously than water into the Hoover Dam. She had one beautiful foot on show, nursing it back to health after life tried to sabotage her genetic good fortune. I was suffering from foot-in-mouth disease pulling out all the quality chat-up lines including "What's our favourite colour?", "Do you like dogs?" and "Wow, we both have pink phones". Miraculously she answered the questions (pasta and yes being the answers) with an equally nervous giggle. Her eyes are wider than 500yen coins and her skin is as smooth as a freshly peeled Japanese radish. I not only want to kiss her where the Rising Sun don't shine but I feel a compelling urge to hold her hand and, perhaps, build her something or draw her a picture.

The rules of Attraction have never been quite clearly explained to me and as such I have no idea how to play the game properly. My game plan has also been the friends’ first approach. It's a simple manoeuvre with little or no heavy combat skills needed. You wait till you sense the pursued party is interested and then make a move in a dark club/pub whilst pretending to be drunker than you are knowing that she is drunker than she is letting on to be so that should it not work you won't ruin the status quo. TrueLove and FirstLove both resulted from these approaches as did PastaMuncher and various others. Being dropped in the Japanese culture of girls not being heavy drinkers, and incredibly shy on the whole, favours the more one pronged 'Can I get your number' attack. I tried the cold calling method on BreifFling which was fun while it lasted but sadly wasn't to be. Also another girl, who was partial semi-cold call partial 'Friends First' approach who I cancelled on has hated me ever since, and her friends too, giving me frostbite when we meet at APPI (I also found out that one of her friends who has an equally severe disliking toward me stemming from the first time I met her and jokingly said you're my competition [she's part of AJET which is the social committee of each prefecture]. I just can't help but laughing at that really, I am sure she has plenty of other just reasons but for that to be the basis, well...). Johnny Awestruck, The Immigrant and all the Nth. Americans have perfected the art of the 'can i get your number' technique. Their strategy is based on numbers, the more you get the higher your odds. The Immigrant has every girl in the city which must means his chances have risen to 1 in 10,000 at this stage.

With no other choice in the matter I called in the "can i get your email address" move as she was preparing to exit out of my life forever. The address was gladly handed over and has resulted in a meeting later today after a top drawer email assault yesterday. Let's watch this space. I could of course be over exaggerating and it could turn out to be nothing more than me getting in a twist over a beautiful occidental ovary dispenser flapping her eyelids at me.

Thanks to FantasticHugger for hosting the evening and replenishing my love faculties. Apart from reading the book of Tantra (with cool pics) and discussing the barbarous genitalia of male cats she always manages to make me, and I'm sure everyone else, feel good about themselves. I'm working on the hugging, but you'll understand why I might occasionally fear the other half with the likes of RedLeopard throwing the heat out! Speaking of RedLeopard throwing it out, she succumbed to the Latin advances of Iwates newest immigrant, the RoadSideMelon Salesman, and went for a Rumba in the slumba with him whilst under the influence of gallons of red wine and a dab of Mexican charm.

The party also played host to the two most beautiful Japanese guys I have ever seen. Both are talented musicians and whipped out a few renditions of their favourite tunes whilst everyone stood in awe at the beauty of their product and their being. 50% of the duo will be leading me up the mountain forest trails on Friday night, so should tonight’s date with anticipated destiny not work out it might be a snowshoe to the head and some Yeti loving for my friend Mr. Handsome.

The moral of this post: There are no rules of attraction and there are no concrete guidelines for success. There is one thing for sure though, you'll never find it if you go looking for it.

Shenanigans

2006-03-22T11:41:00.000+09:00

The St. Patrick’s Day festivities started with a bang on the 16th as WeirdGirl’s parents clambered up the road to Nohe for a brief visit to the Japanese sticks. We joined forces at House of Picnic and drank copious amounts of beer and ate an inordinate amount of food. WeirdGirls father has more stories than the Brothers Grimm and knocked the socks off Der Fuhrers fraternity story where they one time stole a pig. In short: WeirdGirls brother went to Uni of Texas. Went to frat party. Frat boys had earlier bought a pig. Fed pig swill and laxatives all day. Covered pig in grease. Went to party with greased pig. Party was jam packed. Let the pig loose and closed the doors. Nobody could hold on to the pig due to grease. Shit everywhere. Legend. WeirdGirl: extend your thanks to your dad for that one. So, that was the beginning of Paddy’s Day celebrations.

The green, white and orange tones of my polyester leprechaun costume caught everybody’s attention as I jigged my way into the Tipperary/Tex-Mex bar on Paddy’s Day. Brassballs had worn a green tee especially for the occasion and apparently I’d been emitting green vibes to the lower extremes of the prefecture with BriefFling reporting a mysterious urge to don an almost forgotten green cardigan.

Johnny Awestruck had arranged to meet a girl, Random Club Victim, from last weeks bar trawl. It just so turns out that Random Club Victim is Ms. Onenighttango who you may recall got some dance lessons from yours truly last week. She instantly recognised me, in my Leprechaun outfit, but it was The Ladysnapper who had to remind me who she was while I struggled to take a pee through the layers of costume in the toilet. Johnny Awestruck had also arranged to meet the Succubi at the bar, he now had two ladies; one on either arm, but both pining for me. The Ladysnapper had his Illegal Kitty with him; BritRapper was nibbling on Luvulongtime while I had Green Loving Machine and her friends from last week to keep me company.

Nomihodai was in session and my first order was a pint of the Black Stuff [disclaimer: those in the Inner Party who may be reviewing this blog for illicit content especially Mr. 1hugeass2faced4chin. Black Stuff is not an illegal substance so don’t bother googling it now to see what you can drag up], which was not on the all-you-can-drink-list and had to be paid for at premium rate which is 8euro! In a non-typical act The Immigrant offered to pay for the drink and then in typical form reached his hand out for the 50yen coin (30cent) in change. We were under starters orders and blitzed the next couple of hours away. Solid ground work was done on the Green Loving Machine and I have secured an offer for ‘dinner and sweets’ at her place in the coming week or so.

HockeyKid and his visiting parents joined in the revelry at some point and seemed to take it all in with minimal damage to their aging tickers. HockeyKid dragged the troupe around the corner to a ridiculously cheap karaoke booth where the rule of ‘Irish songs only unless you can place a feasible link to Ireland with the song you’re singing’ was quickly thrown out the window. We raped songs like ‘Kaze Wo Atsumete’ in appallingly bad drunken Japanese and the Prodigy’s Firestarter. Brassballs brought it 2 da Ghetto 4 reel with his urban bounces right through to the midget Prince’s sexy beats. The Immigrant tore the house down with some song I’ve never heard of while Luvulongtime’s fascination with The Spice Girls gave people plenty of time to go to the toilet. The two hours sauntered by leaving only one major casualty. FellowIrish didn’t fall out of the place, she crawled out then slid down the stairs, hitched a ride in a sewer no doubt till she spilled out of her toilet and landed on her futon. What did she expect from drinking pints of Vodka and Tonic??!! Sterling performance, it made me weep.

The night was still young as the old faithful mauled the newest bar on our hit list, Roe Bar. We headed back to the 13th ½ floor for some more boozing with the skebi legend of a barman playing the coolest music this side of Tokyo. Surprisingly it wasn’t the Ladysnapper who was first to nod off but the BritRapper who was taking a barrage of abuse from Luvulongtime, ‘tell me you fucking love me you cunt’ was one of her more charming expressions directed at her inebriated love. Ms. Onenighttango was still around dancing like it was 1999 shouting over ‘you have crazy dick’, or ‘fuck you’ anytime we crossed eyelines. Johnny awestruck was torn between taking the easy and more conformative lay (The Succubi) while I was getting an inner thigh stroke from the inimitable Succubi. Eventually Ms. Onenighttango retreated to the beyond which left the option clear and concise. As the couples dropped off the scene I was left with two sluts (The Immigrant and Brassballs), a couple of slutty girls, the Barman and his friend. The sluts passed out, the slutty girls checked out soon after so it just left me to internationalise and learn as much as I could about the Morioka’s underbelly. Turns out there’s a lot more to the place than meets the eye, anything is attainable and many of the seemingly docile looking ladyfolk are rampant nymphomaniacs hungry for salty deposits on their marshy embankments.

I stayed for a few drinks more before retreating to The Immigrants refugee sanctuary for a couple of hours repose. It was the first time I’d ever been away for Paddy’s Day, having spent the last ten or so celebrating Mieke’s birthday and playing pub golf. It obviously didn’t have the same raucous energy of Dublin’s debauchery, but the inebriation was there and more importantly it was spent with good friends. This St. Patrick’s Day these beer glazed Irish eyes were certainly smiling, to be sure.

Vote Luis (part 2)

2006-03-20T14:53:00.000+09:00

News of an extended election due to a tie has given hope to Puerto Rico's suavest politician. The announcement came on St. Patricks Day that he will be running against Ms. Yes They Are Real Thank You Very Much from the good ol' U.S. of A. and Mr. I've Got The Social Skills Of A Dung Beetle(If he reads this he'll beat the shit out of me, I am relying on the fact that he can't read). Peronally I want Ms. Yes They Are Real Thank You Very Much to win in what already is a titilating political battle. Having said that the underworld sabateurs are voting for Mr. I've Got The Social Skills Of A Dung Beetle just to piss every one off after they've left for pastures new come August (I have to say that I wil be voting that way too, the fact that he is even going for the position is just beyond belief).

Of course I ultimately would like to see Luis take over the world and commission Siemens with the task of creating a cell phone with a memory capable of storing every girls number from the age 0f 17 - 25 in the world.

One day I will realise my dream. Until then I'll dream up his imaginary campaign and continue to annoy those who take life too seriously.

St. Patricks Day is a day where people around the world celebrate being Oirish by drinking guinness, dancing to Boyzone and scoring American Cheerladers. The day after is when the worlds poo turns black, you hum Father and Son in your head and hope to God that the cheerleaders troupe leader doesn't press charges. Of course these are the stereotypical images of what the big day is all about. Luis would like to emphasise that he is different, that he stands out and that he is out there fighting for you.

Vote Luis, it doesn't make sense, but then again neither does the JET programme.

The Breakfast Club

2006-03-17T16:17:00.000+09:00

I’m not one to kiss and tell, ahem, but I finally got a piece of the indigenous pie last weekend. Man was I hungry, and boy was it tasty.

Saturdays journey down in the Camiro was full of the usual talk of “the sluts are gonna take it tonight”, or “tonight’s the night”. For anyone that’s been out with me in the past 8 months you’ll know that this usually ends up with me solo dancing under a disco ball with the more than occasional retreat to the bar for some liquid companionship. I decided to change all that in the past couple of weeks and engage in a flirtation with the opposite sex (for an undetermined amount of time). Results were quickly posted with news that one of Ninohe’s cutest senseis showing interest in Iwate’s number one most despised JET.

Last weekend thus resulted in a spinach powered ego-boost as I went in search of Olive Oil. For those in the group that do strive towards the end goal it’s rather more frustrating for them on Sunday’s when there are no glory tales to revel in. We initially put some good work in with one of the staffers in the Stussy store, who’ll be joining us on a night out in the not too distant future. Johnny Awestruck was in prime form and busy arranging hook-ups with Peanut Head and Co. Meanwhile we rendezvoused with The Immigrant, BritRapper and his slutty Sapporo girl who’d come down for the weekend. A few Sapporo’s by the river, enduring the snow, warmed the livers so it was soon time to light the souls in the eatery.

We were sensing something different in the air last Saturday, genuine optimism had crept in. It was a little unsettling. Salaryman was in tow with his deranged views on thw world prompting head scratching and laughs at the end of every sentence. Johnny Awestruck was on the prowl and soon had a stable of fillies ready for petting, which is when we introduced ourselves. I was quickly summoned as it transpired that one of the shiniest maned stablemates had a healthy obsession with my home land, The Ivory Coast. She had, has, a rousing passion for the green, white and orange. I had a rousing passion for anything with lips, it was a winning connection. Immediately sensing that this effort was a long steeplechase and no flat race I offered my email address to keep the flame burning, and we've been in contact ever since using the tenuous link of my cultural ambassadorship as a tipping point. She left legless and light-headed, both from the booze and her encounter with the fleshy embodiment of her would be hero.

We spilled out from the main street and oozed towards the back alleys to the Roe bar. The 13th ½ floor was room enough, barely, for the ten of us or so that had carried over. Hockeykid was purchasing horrendous shots for all and sundry including my old friend tequila. Somehow I managed to keep it down and carry on, not that I was happy about it at all. While Salaryman, The Immigrant and Brassballs went back to Salarymans apartment to do unmentionable things to a girl, The Succubi, who would give an exorcist a heart attack we went on to the perennial lifeline towards the early hours that is BarDai, it is a shithole by the way. Subsequently, the Ladysnapper had returned from Sendai broken hearted and deflated after his heart pour to one of Japans most beautiful attractions, Ichigo-bella. It didn’t phase the romantic lothario one iota as he assumed Rip VanWinkle mode moments after he arrived at the club. Myself and Johnny Awestruck were basking in the anomalous mass entity that had gathered for that nights special performance, complete with females. This is a rarity in a place renonwned for being a weekly sausage fest hosted by a semi-naked barman and an overweight Madame.

After latching on to the Succubi, I had no idea who she was at the time, for an hour or so showing some of my best body popping and finger-in-your-belt-loop-move The Immigrant came over and stole her, I was too drunk to call the deportation authorities and let it slide. My slide ended up beside an ultra-toned local with all the features of someone who had many dancing partners. I slipped the rose between my teeth and let loose with the tango. Initially the moves were strictly ballroom as we tapped around poor Japanese and English phrases. Four hours passed and resulted with scratching at the small of her neck and the occasional kiss when no one was looking. She then asked me what I would like for breakfast. “Anything with cream is good for me thanks”. The Madame was serving sandwiches as it was 8 in the morning and The Immigrant was found sleeping under a table. Ms Onenighttango had my arm locked and loaded as we headed into the Sunday morning sunshine it was clear she was quite moonstruck.

What she lacked in culinary skills (we had reheated pizza slices and a beer for breakfast) she made up for in aerobic abilities. I’d been awake for 27hours and delirious with fatigue but there was no way I wasn’t gonna rise to this occasion. The miniscule condom made it just past the head which was a little nerve racking but I had an interrogation to make and the bad cop wanted first shout. As she repeated most things I said I was already thinking of the fact that I would never see her again and that would suit us both fine, I guess we had both different motives for engaging in the same act. A short repose called forth round three and the TV was now layered in the background. The cast of the Chronicles of Narnia were being interviewed, including some ridiculously hot 16 year old who immediately became the focus of my attention. So as I imagined a love scene being taped by a voyeur lion peeking from a creak in a shabby wardrobe I decided to get the phone camera out to capture the moment out for posterity. Unfortunately this ruined the moment as I forgot about the fact that every time I take a pic with my phone camera it let’s out a Mr. T-like ‘Oh Yeah’, I was instantly rumbled and Ms. Onenighttango retreated under the covers.

We fooled and fiddled, poked and joked before it was time to head back for a round up with the others. Johnny Awesome had taken The Succubi back to the vacant Salarymans apartment who’d gone off for an Onsen (Japanese hot-springs) session with the Ladysnapper who needed to wash away the stains of violation as Morioka’s very own midnight fiddler, Bowlcut, had invaded his happy space while he had slept at the club. Brassballs was off in a love hotel showing some poor girl the baby’s arm while The Immigrant was tidying up his database of every girl in the city. As we reconvened we for once had stories of sexploitation and conquests to hum about on the windy Route 4 back to the ‘Nohe. I’m not sure if it made me feel more like a man, more like myself or more like everyone else. What I do know is, for once, it made me feel like doing it again.

Thoughtcrimes

2006-03-15T09:08:00.000+09:00

Nonone can hide under the watchful eyes of the Inner-Party within, or beyond, Iwates borders. The thoughts of those expressed via the medium of blog are now being scrutinsed by our very own O'Brien, the go-between and ultimately the device used in the downfall of Winston Smith. I have never lived in a place where actions are so closely observed and a network of voices can relay information so quickly to Big Brother. Should I have to put up with an environment like this where expression outside the realms of judged acceptability results in reprimand and retribution? I have just about had it here. What purveys itself as a free and open strata is by no means a long way from being totalitarian. You're life is somewhat bound to the Kencho, anything remotely over the line will have your toes snapped at. You can't fart without them catching wind of it. Of course there is a network of sympathisers, or as Orwell called it: The Brotherhood. Together The Brotherhood can speak freely amongst each other and allow opinions and stories to flow freely, so come Brothers lets poke a stick in the eye of Big Brother.

My blog from now on will take the form of Orwells other satire, 'Animal Farm'. Can I feel at ease behind pseudonyms and fictitious places before this tickles the naval on Jones' Farm? Oink.

vote luis

2006-03-13T14:47:00.000+09:00

The Vote Luis campaign was greeted with as much vigour as Hitler in a Synagogue by the ever morose and infuritaingly boring JET's that inhabit Iwate in this strange year of my life that I have called Lawsons Creek (the Irish version of Spar on every corner is a Lawsons). An imaginary election called for some piss taking but that wasn't the case in the JET community.

We had pictures and commentaries on Luis, aka 'The Dooger', who is Puerto Rico's most beloved emigrant and playboy. Luis has all the charms of a crooked congressman who'd abuse his position with every opportunity and most certainly be photographed sleazing his way through the hostess bars of this world. We love him for it so pushed him for imaginary President. It generated little response from the 'Jet community' except when I posted comments on the blog, and then got stupid emails from various people.

The positions are tough ones to fill as trying to inspire the JET's in Iwate to do anything is a mammoth fete, but they(AJET, the people who organise social events) gave it their best shot. I just hope for whoever is running the show next year doesn't have to put up with the likes of some of the people we've had this year.

Here are some of the finer moments from the Vote Luis campaign. (by the way, Dooger got over his imaginary defeat by getting incredibly drunk shouting yatterai(i wanna fuck you in Jap) at the locals recently...but more on last weekend tomorrow)

Day 1:

this is a party political broadcast from Puerto Chico enterprises
d-day is approaching...the dooger will come

Day 2:

Luis has noticed that some of the minions are concerned about the current recycling policies within Japan...the Dooger has long been an avid recycler and can help anyone dispose of their unwanted electrical goods.

dooger says:"recycling not only saves the world, it saves Puerto Ricans too"

dooger, dooin good

Day 3:

With Luis you'll get more for your Peso, eh...I mean Yen

Puerto Chico enterprises is a Dooger Corp subsidiary and part of the Dogger Inc group of compnies listed in Forbes as company most liekly to give you a free banana and ask if you have any single daughters.

Day 4 (last day):

it's the last day bu that doesn't mean the Dooger is taking his foot off the pedal...head to the polls, give Luis the skebi vote

Dooger, little done and a lot less to do

Does Iwate need a power-boost?
Does Iwate need fresh ideas?
What Iwate needs is a breath of fresh air...

lots of people have been asking where the Dooger comes from. Whats his track record...
Luis has been around for decades spreading the word of peace and free love, although free love hasn't caught on on the streets of Morioka it hasn't stopped him trying.

here's Luis at his best.rock on, peace out

vote luis, he'll take you to a higher plane

supported by Ben&Jerry's chocopocolypse ice-cream, all profits donated to the people left in puerto rico(all 9 of them)

thats right, only minutes left to cast your imaginary vote to the imiginary ballot in the imaginary polling station
the only thing thats not imaginary, is of course the Dooger
he is real
very real

Dooger would like to thank all the running candidates, AJET, T, Jesus and Starbucks for their support during the campaign. The defeat has not dogged the Dooger down and he has vowed to run again, only next time, as he says, 'I'll use midgets'. He'll always have my vote

Jacqueisms #2

2006-03-13T11:00:00.000+09:00

The snow is shrivelling and revealing the lush greens of the Japanese spring. Wildlife begins to return to forage about and shit in the woods. One of the more notable sightings has been that of the Mountain Goats (Oreamnos americanus) in and around the Ninohe area. They straggle about on the rocks death-staring cars as they pass on the road, they are not the type of animal you'd like to meet on a dark night whilst carrying a bag of grass. Jacques however has nothing but good words for this tough creature.

"Mountain Goats are awesome"

Further to his love of Mountain Goats, Jacques also speaks 'mountain goat', he proved it on Saturday night with his goat talk on 'bleating hearts' and the loneliness that some of the goats he has once known have endured. Jacques doesn't kid about when talking about goats, neither should you becuase Mountain Goats are awesome.

red

2006-03-09T15:21:00.000+09:00

I've just crawled out of the meeting room after being locked in their since early this morning correcting entrance exams for Fukuoka Koko. 189, to be exact. I am covered head to toe in hanko juice and have have just been told that the entrance exams don't really count 'cos the number of applicants is less than the total number of places available i.e. everyone that took the exam will be welcomed in a few weeks.

I then got fed what i thought was a carrot and potato concoction but was some sort of sea dwelling fungus and innards of some manky crustacean.

Don't these people realise that I have an imaginary election to run? My campaign notes will have to wait until the last day, tomorrow. What a nail biter it's gonna be. Fridays are also when hundreds of pointless emails are sent amongst the uber-bored minions and everyone gets really sarcy with one another. It's the small things that keep me going.

Boredom surely is a fate worse than death.

p.s. VOTE LUIS

minions

2006-03-08T14:00:00.000+09:00

Well, it's election time, or should I say 'apply for a position and let a group of friends who hate most of the people applying for the positions decide on who will take the reigns on the shitty group of retards that inhabit this vast prefecture'. AS usual people are taking themselves way too seriously and there is zero fun being had by most of the socially retarded goons who've set up stall in Iwate, even the human harddrive has been quiet with her ridiculously inane e-mails about Garfield, 'freaking ryokans' and the construction of snowmen during summer months.

This posting is going nowhere so now I will continue my rant about the nay sayers. Our P.A., who is a backstabbing two-faced turd, has been telling all and sundry about how I am the worst JET of all time, and that I am an arsehole to boot (Bob, I think you'd get on well with this guy, to be sure to be sure). Apparently he wants to have it out with me and another guy, about what I can only speculate. From what I hear his school was glad to see the back, the very large back, of his ass walk through their doors for the final time last summer, which he mostly spent boozing whiskey solo's.

His peev's lie with the fact I was at the rice wrestling party, which I didn't organise or get involved in any wrestling, back in September..and he is still going on about it. Somehow the British Embassy got wind of the news and so I am supposed to feel giulty or responsible for future JET's who's position it may have hampered...will it really do anything of the sorts? I don't think so. On top of the lectures, the calls and the side meetings he told me how much he had wanted to be part of the party but just couldn't make it, then I get all this shit from him...and even 8 months later! The Sapporo incident where I brought myself and Nick brought girls back to our hostel was another thing I get the a headache over. I then posted a comment on the hostel website telling them what I thought of them calling the girls whores etc etc. In what other country does your office give a crap what you do on your holidays??!! And, this guy isn't even Japanese. To add to that he pulled the usual round of shit with phonecalls etc telling me one thing and doing another when I had to go meet with the Head of the Board of Education.

I have made it no secret that I think that the JET programme is a waste of time and especially money for the Japanese, is this what gets him? I don't think so as he also agrees that the programme is a waste of time. How can you educate kids you interact with in a classroom environment at most once per week and with a Japanese teacher joined at your hip? I have asked lot's of kids to tell me the names of their previous ALT's and more than 90% couldn't even tell you who they had last year regardless of anything before that. Do I harass the ladyfolk like so many others. No, I can barely talk to anything with the ability to excrtet red goo once per month. Do I go boozing every night of the week and turn in late or not at all?

Well, back to the point, I may be an arsehole which is a point shared by many here who make no qualms about it when they meet you at APPI or walk by you at the mall, but at least I've been honest and not mollycoddled and pandered around the JET community playing an obnoxious nice guy loner or jap-only-integrator etc etc. If people don't like what you do fair enough, but as a PA who once asked me not to post a joke I made about the beuracracy here: 'don't tell (his name here) 'cos he'll have the Kencho (Board Of Education) after me', to which he sent me the mail '...please don't try and take away from the good work (that's his exact quote...his good work, brilliant) I do here', and to go off telling everyone he can about his opinion of me in his role as PA...hmmm.

well, he wants to have it out with me, I have a lot of free time on my hands. Watch this space.

normal service resumed tomorrow...the vote Luis campaign is in full swing and clogging the inboxes of those all over the prefecture (that's another thing, people annoying about clogging inboxes. It's not as if e-mail is giant lumps of lint and shit and rice amalgamating into the corners of your living room where you need lube, a blowtorch and a shovel to get rid of it. Delete, just click delete, then get back to whatever it is you're doing.)

I may be feeling slightly annoyed today it's fair to say.

addendum

2006-03-08T13:45:00.000+09:00

In addendum to Jacqueism #1 STD would like to point out that although he thinks bridges are awseome, he DOES NOT discriminate against ferries. I think it has been in keeping with his outlook on life, everything is fuckin eh'.

Jacques also made a startling discovery on Saturday when we were heading to the summit of APPI in a gondola. As the snow trickled through the ventilators Jacques wondered "You think it's snowing outside, too?". Much to his delight it was snowing outside and he went on to happy enjoy ret's boarding all day.

Primed Ministers

2006-02-28T13:19:00.000+09:00

Politics today is awash with larger than life characters, lunatics on the loose and dodgy dealers who have more ulterior motives than a priest in a Catholic Boys School. Their cards are kept millimetres from their chests and their real faces are seldom seen. Given these traits they more resemble 1970’s B-circuit spandex-clad mask-toting wrestlers than progressive leaders of their respective states. I’ve decided to pit 8 of the most current, and news catching, Presidents/Premiere’s against each other in an 8 person cage fighting knock-out tournament to see which president really is King of the Hill.

Bout 1.
Ismail Haniyeh vs. Angela Merkel
What a mouth watering opener on the cards. A battle of two significantly religiously motivated leaders; Quran against the Bible, the first bout most certainly is a Jihad. Merkel is first into the arena in a Karl Lagerfeld designed two-piece latex suit in East-German colours. The crowd are on their feet as a David Hasselhoff classic accompanies her to the ring, indeed The Hoff is in her corner for the evening. Haniyeh arrives with a military style cortège in army fatigues to the music of 2 become 1 by the Spice Girls, a sarcastic touch aimed at Ariel Sharon who is present for the event in an incubator. Merkel is obviously fired up for the fight as she’s seen reading Revelations before the bell sounds. Haniyeh burns a picture of West-Germany’s triumphant world dup winning team of 1990; Merkel is unphased. Haniyeh’s eyes are barely visible through his balaclava as the two fighters lock arms for the first time. Merkels face is covered in chocolate and all the sugar seems to be fuelling her energetic spurt in the opening minute. She muscles Haniyeh to the ground and sits on his face, all 250lbs of German gateaux seem to be too much for the Palestinian to cope with. He rummages through his jacket with his one free hand to release a switch for the 10lbs of semtex he’s wearing. The Hoff notices the incendiary device and gives Merkel an ‘Achtung, Baby!’, she quickly holds her breath twists around and smothers the burly Hamas leader with her wide berth. Two seconds later a plume of smoke gushes out around her body as she manages to contain the explosion. Haniyeh lies frazzled and scorched on the ground redundant in defeat and legless. Merkel takes the opening match and is greeted with a donut from The Hoff.

Bout 2.
Kim Jong Il vs. George W. Bush
The secretive and bespectacled Kim Jong shows his sense of humour by walking out to the Team America tune ‘I’m so Ronery’, coincidently Matt Parker and Trey Stone were reported missing by their families earlier that day. His grey polyester suit has been replaced by a grey PVC gimp suit with rhino horn on the forehead. G.W. fumbles out on a pogo stick with Dick Cheny alongside him. They are trying to keep their hops in beat to the beat of ‘Black Eyed Boy’ by Texas. In the ring Kim Jong rushes G.W., while he’s taking off his Stetson and a plastic sheriffs badge, and gives him a kidney full of ivory, Kim Yon also seems to have passed a note to G.W., which he gets Dick Cheny to read for him. While Dick reads the note G.W. nails Kim Jong with his signature move the ‘Presidential Sweep’ and leaves Kim Jong winded on the deck. Dick has a word in G.W.’s ear just as he’s about to go for the kill. Suddenly G.W. looks to the back of the arena and notices his two daughters topless with electrodes stuck to their nipples. It seems Kim Yon had lured them with two North Korean models offering them cocaine and cock, an offer the Bush girls couldn’t refuse. Kim Jong has pulled off his own patented move ‘The Kidnap’ and pushed Bush into the corner. Kim Jong regains his wind and beats the non-retaliatory Bush to a bloody pulp and takes the fight, and his Stetson.

Bout 3
Tony Blair vs. Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf
Tony reveals in a pre-fight press conference that he was known as Scare Blair amongst his peers in the halls of Oxford University and that he’s going to re-kindle some of his Marquis of Queensbury skills during the match. Johnson-Sirleaf has been training back at Harvard with her old professor Dr. Howard Porter. She arrives in naked and smeared head-to-toe in chicken’s blood with Orbitals ‘Zulu’, featuring Afrikaa Bambaataa, ripping the base out of the sound system. Blair is smooching Cherie in the corner whilst wearing a pair of Union Jack Speedo’s and he seems to have a large heart, with Robin Cooks face on it, tattooed to his chest. There is an upbeat tempo in the first round as Johnson-Sirleaf’s drummers yell and bang away. Blair is dazzling on his toes and winning the points battle with a succession of jabs and left-hooks. Johnson-Sirleaf stays with it until the bell sounds. At the rest she is in talks with her witch-doctor and comes out with added pep in her step clutching a small pouch of some sorts. She flings the contents of the pouch over Blair which temporarily blinds him. Suddenly a crack appears in the floor and a goat rises to the surface, planted there before the bout by her Seconds. Blair lets out a roar and Robin Cook crawls out of his tattoo heart on his chest. Cook battles the goat, from behind, while Blair sends in a flurry of punches and eventually takes the bout. Cook had to be pulled from the goat who looks a little gruff after its encounter.

Bout 4.
Junichiro Koizumi vs. Jacques Chirac
Junichiro has prepared by visiting a beauty salon 9 times per day priming his skin to be the softest and smoothest in the world in an effort to have punches slide off his face. His ninja outfit, minus the head piece to protect his immaculate coiffe, was hand sewn by 400 geishas and the fibres used were from 3,000,000 silk worms fed on a diet of caviar and fine wine to optimise style and strength. He announces his arrival with Chesney Hawkes ‘The one and only’ while doing 8 back flips in a row to end up in the ring. Chirac’s theme tune is drowned out by a heckling Donald Rumsfeld in the audience who is shouting ‘Cheese eating surrender monkey’ at the portly ‘Baguette Brawler’, as the press have named him. Chirac can’t keep pace sa the castotrs in his zimmerframe freeze up. The wine and cheese also seem to be hampering the Frenchman as he begins to sway from the excesses of his diet. The Japanese Diet have all turned up and are spraying hair-spray towards the ring to keep Koizumi’s hair in check. After years, and gallons, of hair spray usage Koizumi is immune to the toxicity of the fumes and continues his acrobatics around the ring. Chirac becomes ever-more light headed as the cocktail of cheese, booze and hair-spray kicks in. Koizumi senses his moment, bounces onto Chirac’s shoulders and snaps his neck. Chirac drops like a sack of garlic while a team of make-up artists run in to pamper their victorious combatant.

Semi-final 1
Angela Merkel vs. Kim Jong Il
Merkels family have been taken to a stronghold, to avoid kidnapping, where they can watch their mother/wife battle he North Korean behemoth. Merkel has to be carried out to the arena in a wheelbarrow, by the Hoff, as she is nearly incapacitated by the amount of cakes she has eaten. Kim Jong this time arrives dressed as Elvis in white caped suit with King Kim in rhinestones across the back. The opening round is a non-event as Merkel finishes off her cakes whilst Kim Jong, without his ‘Kidnap’ move, is not making any impression on the gluttonous Chancellor. Round 2 sounds and Merkel has become more animated. She corners Kim Jong who starts shouting profanities at her and making kidnapping threats to the Hoff. She reaches into her spandex, below the belt, and after a quick rummage she produces her very own coined move the ‘Merkel Merken’. This vaginal toupee is then thrust towards Kim Jongs face who gags and gurgles but the pubic mat is forced too hard over his face, eventually afert a tumultuous struggle his will dwindles and Merkel trudges on through to the final.

Semi-final 2
Tony Blair vs. Junichiro Koizumi
Scare Blair shocked all with his body spitting out Robin Cook and is no doubt the favourite for this, the second, semi-final. He is carried out on a throne by the Queens Royal pages and has chosen the ‘William Tell Overture’ to arrive out to. Junichiro is guided out by 4 sumo wrestlers and the head of PR for Wella hair care. These two agile opponents are sure to have the crowd screaming for blood and women will certainly be throwing their panties en masse to the ring. Western vs. Eastern fighting styles one more brutish and the other more elegant. Chop for punch is exchanged through a bruising first two rounds. Blair at one point tried to summon Robin Cook from his chest, but he was last sighted having a G&T with the goat at the bar. Koizumi’s hair is faltering and starting to fray at the edges, his skin is oily and clammy he is having a bad hair day to say the least. Blair is bloodied but fights on, kicking now being added to his repertoire. It’s not the prettiest of fights for the two best looking men in politics. Eventually the third and final bell sounds. It’s down to the judges. The panel is made up of Dr. Hans Blix, Geri ‘Ginger Spice’ Halliwell and Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura, who himself has wrestled with politics. The fighters are flexing their pecks in order to rile the judge’s attention and walk away with best in show. Blix votes in favour of Blair by two points. Ginger Spice goes with Junichiro, who seems a little miffed by the ginger one licking her lips and winking at him. It’s in the hands of The Body. The Body holds up his card to show the twinkle toothed smile of Tony Blair. Immediately Junichiro thrusts a katana through his heart having disgraced himself and the nation. Blair is ecstatic, as is Cherie who greets him with ‘hands-off, ladies’ smooch on the lips.

The final.
Angela Merkel vs. Tony Blair
Its’s an encounter between the old enemies, not for the last time that’s for sure. These two still Royally tied via Queen Victoria have had serious issues over the past ranging from the small matter of a World War (or two), Jaguar vs. Mercedes and football ties throught the decades. The worlds press have ascended on the squared circle to see who wili be crowned as King President of the world. The Hoff this time carries out Merkel in a horse drawn cart as ‘Neunzig Neun Luftbalons’, complete with 99 ballons, belts out. She looks like she means business as she’s eating a cream free sponge cake as she waits for Blair. Blair follows her by leading a British Bulldog draped in a tee-shirt with a picture of a corgi on it and the chime of Big Ben striking 12 midnight as his walk on tune. Merkel opens the encounter with a headlock that Blair counters with a swift kick to Merkels shins. She retaliates with a head-butt, Blair is knocked out for a 6 count. The force of the German Chancellor is looking too much for the English #1. She sits on his face for a minute but Tony’s recent cardio training has left him in good stead and able to weather the storm. Everything Merkel throws at him in the first two rounds is met with a jab and a tally-ho from the relentless Blair. Blair picks up his wife and throws her towards Merkel but she flicks her aside to The Hoffs corner who then pounces on her like Gary Glitter in a crèche. Blair is incandescent with rage and hurls himself feet first towards Merkel. The sound of ribs cracking is greeted with a roar from the blood hungry crowd. Blair sends home Thai-style knees to the head followed by elbow thrusts until Merkels head splits open and cream pours out of her. The Hoff is distraught and flees the ringside as the revellers hail King Tony, the Number 1 President. Some of the headlines the following day read: ‘Blair flicks off der Herr’, ‘Merkel pounded by euro hero’ and ‘The no Blair-hitch project’.

The proletariat cheered on from their living rooms while the diplomatic core rumbled by the ring. The inital King of the Hill clash of the permieres title was a resoundingly good success. The last word went out to the eventual victor of the event, said Blair :'Bloody good show'.

Jacqueisms

2006-02-27T15:58:00.000+09:00

Jacques, 87% penal gland and fuelled by more hormones than a High School baseball team, has been bestowing his own unique insights and philosophies on the world since he was a small Kanuck chasing Sasquatch around a Maple Tree.

I've decided to catalogue the cunning linguists more poignant, thought provoking and inspirational opinions, idioms and sayings on the blog so that the masses (all 25 of you) can get a taste of the J-Tor/Jaki-Tori/Jacques and his penis for yourself.

Jacqueism #1:

"BRIDGES ARE AWESOME"

Yes, yes they are. Perhaps he could start his own Peace Mission across the globe on the back of the slogan "Build bridges, 'cos they're awsome". Watch out Geri Halliwell.

Routine in a rut

2006-02-23T08:49:00.000+09:00

The days are beginning to get longer, partly in the fact they are largely unfulfilled, as the bullyish winter, whose whining harangues have hounded me for several months now and kept me within the confines of my paper-paneled apartment, re-designs itself to become a more hospitable host in the form of spring. The river bank has swollen as the once powdery snow has begun to thaw and trickle to the bottom of the valley. Frozen dog turd has appeared everywhere which is a little less sightly than the citrusy yellow of the pee stained snow, man made not dog. I wonder will the old man I see every morning continue to maintain his urinary habits as the days go by, not once has he flinched as I pass him with leash in one hand and penis in the other. My neighbours have still never said hello to me once, perhaps in part sue to the fact that I've flooded their house no less than four times. Routine has firmly set in and it's a truly ugly sight.

I come home and take a dump, as I sit on the bowl I notice rogue pubes clinging to the wall at eye-level and wonder how on earth they got there in the first place. The first release is accompanied by a wish, like throwing a penny down a well, as I wait to hear the plop after 2 seconds of free fall to the pit below. The lack of flushing has taken away from a once coveted experience where I used to enjoy eyeballing the poo as it's guzzled by the flue and wonder every-single-time how it works. A quick feed of some sort is followed by firing up the ancient kerosene heater so I can roam around naked post-shower. The shower is accompanied by a jet in every orifice, testimony to my lack of sexual activity and lack of imagination. Fresh boxers and semi-clean tee-shirt clothe me as I then seek refuge under the kotatsu for an hour or so.

Dinner is quickly prepared and even more hastily eaten. I-tunes shuffles through 20-odd gigabytes of music as I wander through the pages of Time's opinions and views on the world today. To my left is a tankard, stained with Coke that must be months old, through which you can see a blurred case of 'The Breakfast Club' on DVD. A curling leaf on the calendar, stuck on a September school exercise scene, rests in the corner. The plastic fedora, a remnant ofHalloween, rests on the arm of the chair by the desk which is cluttered with receipts, bills, an 8-inch Christmas tree and three persistent red lights from the dusty decoder and CD player. Tambourines and maracas, steals from nights out of my predecessor, pile atop the equally unused TV. Haggard bed clothes cover the three futons that have followed me into the living room for the winter. Clothes lie strewn around the kerosene heather which breathes life and yellow stains onto the Irish flag hanging from the doorway.

The docile shadows of all these untouched items have scorched dark portraits onto the 1970's wallpaper. Tinsel adds a little twinkle to the higher echelons of the room but throughout it's a dreary and preserved affair. Postcards from Amsterdam, Dusseldorf, Taiwan and Vietnam bring life to the cork board kept safe by the world's smallest dreamcatcher. Dust balls compiled of lint, scraps and hairs gather at various different hotspots, with all this time on my hands I never get around to doing anything. Lethargy hasn't so much as crept up on me as jumped on my back and covered my eyes while savaging me with sly little kidney punches. I spend 99% of my time beneath the blanket and kotatsu watching DVD's and violating myself. It's only natural the place with the most warmth in the apartment is the place I feel most warmth towards.

My man gland has had somewhat of a lobotomy and refuses to operate on its' own volition. Occasionally I'll surprise myself and revel in the glory of an unprovoked erection as a memory passes by, or better still a real live person as I walk down the street or sit in a bar. The joy of imagining Charles (yes, it has a name) as being a small kitten whom I tickle till it pukes has now been taken over by the image of a defunct Jack Nicholson in 'One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest' being spoon fed by that nasty matron, and then vomiting. Still though, I persevere and rouse Charles till he's had enough and gives me the knee trembler I want. Blanket then gets a fresh set of sticky white love piss to absorb and I get on with watching that evenings movie. It's seen a lot of action, has my blanket, and not once has it ever complained when it's had to cover the likes of Group D and her hateful Nazi boyfriend or anyone else that's come over to chez Paul for a pyjama party.

Its warm folds, bohemian style and eye-catching features somewhat resembles the finer points of my ideal woman. It's got a lot of history and no doubt an interesting story to tell, I often wonder what we'd talk about. I bet the first thing it'd say to me is 'stop cumming all over me you weirdo', but we'd get past that eventually. Yes, Ninohe is a non-event with all the style and finesse of a three legged donkey draped in a tutu performing an ice-dance routine. There's as much buzz around the town as a hive full of rohipnolled bumble-bees and I've got six months left to go. My self-gratifying habits will continue unless I contract a sexually transmitted disease on my hand or until flesh and bones presents itself on the lilac floral printed futon. So, as the winter recedes to springs tepid advances something may blossom, and if not I'll always have blanket to fall back on.

Divine Wind

2006-02-21T09:38:00.000+09:00

A Divine Wind may conjure up images of Pope Razinger squeezing out a stinky one at the altar of St. Peters or John the Baptist embarrassing the family at a Christening by almost suffocating the baby with the remains of some beans on toast. You wouldn’t be wrong in your assumption, but here in Japan it has a rather more potent, less odorous, meaning. Divine Wind is the literal translation of ‘kamikaze’, the airborne suicide bombers made famous for their devotion to their country during World War II.

Why am I going on about this defunct brigade of hardcore nutters without pilots’ licenses? A: Recently President Koizumi, of immaculate hair and unparalleled good looks fame, has been visiting the Yasukuni war memorial beside the Emperors Palace in Tokyo. The shrine is dedicated to those who died in battle fighting for the Japanese in WWII but it is also pays homage to convicted war criminals too. His visits are viewed by many Japanese, including many of his party members in the Japanese Diet, as highly controversial and in complete bad taste, but he still holds strong in opinion polls. Added to this the old enemies of China and South Korea are enraged that such a prominent figure would find time to so publicly look as if he is standing by the actions of people who tortured and murdered so many of their people. On top of pissing off over 1 billion people Koizumi has also begun measures to issue all gaijin (foreigners) with new identity cards that have electronic tagging chips built in. Gaijin in Japan are regarded as dangerous and as having criminalistic tendencies, and racism is rife from Sapporo to Osaka (A Black man was recently refused entry to a store in Osaka and took his case to a lawyer. The judge refused to see the case go to court citing the Black mans inability to speak, and understand, the language as a viable reason for rejecting the case.). This xenophobia and disrespect for tens of thousands dead Koreans and Chinese has lead me to believe one thing: those sneaky Japs are up to something: war is afoot.

For centuries the Japanese have been warring and pillaging with their neighbours, they still regard the Koreans as stupid and the Chinese as lowly peasants. With Japans economy seriously flagging they must be pulling their straight black hairs out at the success of South Korean and Chinese economies. This is a country where disgrace is often too much too bear for a family member who has shamed his brethren and means ostracising him to a paddy field (no Bob…that’s not a park full of Irish ex-pats) far far away. What will a national disgrace like falling from the pedestal as Asia’s strongest warrior do to the ego of the bland dieted Japanese? They are gearing themselves up for a rebuttal on the Geneva Convention which has seen them remain at peace with the world for the past 50 odd years, the longest ever in their history.

We now live in the age of the suicide bomber reaping havoc on cities worldwide. Al-Qaeda took the kamikaze to a new dimension by hurling two 747’s into the twin towers. The origins of the suicide bomber lie in the middle-east when members of warring clans would send paraplegics covered in burning oil and pin-pricked with kebab skewers, tied to camels, behind enemy lines killing harems with zero compassion. The Japanese delved into it first during the Mitsubishi period when they would train monkeys in the art of ninja combat and greco-roman wrestling over year-long periods. The monkeys would then be taken to the summit of Mount Fuji where they would be launched in Sony manufactured origami aeroplanes towards China and Korea. Over the centuries as origami technology developed, and less monkeys signed up for the army, they sent orphans dressed as monkeys, with similar training, striking fear into bricklayers up and down the Great Wall. The invention of the aeroplane and Alfred Nobel’s dynamite obviously gave the Japanese a wider range for their suicide squads. Over the years the Japanese have also employed other suicidal techniques involving torpedoes (kaiten), rocket-propelled gliders (ohka), explosive motorboats and midget submarines. The Japanese made suicide bombings glamorous with bigger explosions than ever seen before and even spruced up their flag for war time. Their glamorous destruction techniques have influenced many different fields of western culture like animation (almost everything explodes when it falls in The Simpson’s), the S.A.S. (their slogan being Death Before Dishonour) and cinema/literature (Ian Fleming’s Bond blew up everything in sight). At home they have recently had two hit movies Hotaru (Firefly) and Gekkou no Natsu (Summer of the Moonlight Sonata), which have strongly influenced current Japanese perceptions about kamikaze pilots. I have asked some of my students what they want to do when they grow up; the most popular response amongst the guys is ‘Die for my country’. Of course this then elicits a response amongst the girls who just want to copulate with these potential heroes. If I was Chinese or Korean I’d be digging a bunker with my chopsticks as we speak.

Having enemies who seemingly have no fear strikes fear into the most battle hardened of foes. I’m currently sitting at my desk, 0815hrs, preparing for the morning meeting. All teachers are present, 54 of them including the principle and vice-principle, and as I look around I’m trying to count the kamikazes amongst me. The ones I fear the most are the quiet men in their early thirties who wouldn’t say boo to a goose and hidden behind surgical masks for 11 months of the year without showing any signs of illness whatsoever. Their steely eyes sometimes cross paths with me and send a shiver down my spine as I picture them with oxygen masks in a cockpit zooming in towards Dublin city centre in a sake-bomb filled Cesna seeking revenge against a tourist who left chopsticks standing in his rice in an izakaya somewhere. After 6months of 2hour power boozing enkais (drinking parties) with these guys, I’ve spotted the vainglorious die-hards amongst them and have e-mailed pictures of them to family and friends back home just in case. Soon we will be hearing of the passionate diaries kept by kamikaze soldiers as the Japanese ensure honour after death for the brave men who will give their lives up in ‘defence’ of their country.

Japan has a reputation as being a nation of fanatics, obsessed with one pursuit and one pursuit only. From Reggae girls decked in all things Rastafarian to bowling teams with robotic gloves and oversized shirts they are hardcore and disciplined, this all stems from their days walking the halls at school. 12 hours per day dressed in starched navy or black uniforms practicing brass band and calligraphy they have an ideal mindset to go to war. My masked sensei’s may not get the chance to career a plane towards Beijing or Seoul, but the eyebrow-less students are soon to get their chance to be gone with the wind.

Last comes first

2006-02-14T16:18:00.000+09:00

With such a stressful previous few weeks it was decided to seek the beaches for some relaxation time. A crazy, but hilarious, cockney guy I’d met at Hostel No Name patched me into a place he’d stayed in Sihnoukville for free. What the? Surely no way. Could he be the Daffy to my Richard, was utopia just a channel swim away?

Described as a quaint city with a pleasant location and remnants of both colonial and Indian influences on view we were expecting flower girls bearing smiles whiter then Michael Jackson and a dwarf in a white suit to greet us at the bus depot. Fantasies are what inspire you to go on holiday and it’s often funny when they don’t come anywhere close to your notions. A gravelly tanoy blared out the daily news digest as we pulled in. 10’s of scooter taxis rammed maps to hotels in our faces, kids in oily rags inhaled a yellowy glue-like substance from clear bags whilst dangling from the flailing arms of a ruinous Buddhist statue. Our scooters weaved in amongst the craters eating up the roads. Sand, dust and fumes gave the air a yellowish filter. Paradise it most certainly wasn’t.

The Dolphin Shack, our hostel, will always rank as one of the best places I’ve ever stayed; it’s a pity I’ll have to couple that memory with having the Fuhrer there. Five metres from turquoise waters buffered by floury sand and ocean facing loungers, it was the most idyllic of settings. With the friendliest, and cutest, girls staffing the Shack we couldn’t have picked a better place to sit out the rest of the trip. The board was free provided we ate and drank at the place, ridiculous deal. First things first was a cheers to our new, temporary, abode with a cool beer. It wasn’t long before we were reminded of the country and environment in which we were in. A 5ft plump Finn who looked like Little Britain’s Matt Lucas sat down beside us and pointed out his girl who was a 16 year old hottie in a swim suit. He was only paying her $15 per day and he could sort us out of we wanted similar or we could even just go for a quicky at ‘The Chicken Farm’ where you negotiate sex for 5,000riel ($1.25). Eventually he left and we got on with doing nothing.

Doing nothing was the theme of this, our last leg, of the trip. We ventured out on a mangrove safari but that was ruined with zero dolphin sightings and the fat Russian couple nearly capsizing the boat when they leaned to one side. We rented scooters and found miles of deserted beaches, random Buddhist shrines paying homage to animals around the world and oxen being herded by skinny youths. We actually did that all in one day and pretty much confined ourselves to the Dolphin Shack flirting with the Dolphinettes, playing shithead, and pool the rest of the time. Occasionally we’d head to the beach, all 2meteres away, and throw Frisbee. The Fuhrer can’t throw, I’m embarrassed for him. Each fling results in his arm mimicking the Heil Hitler salute and the Frisbee ending up in the sea or in a shack. Jacques and his penis indulged in all over massages and nail treatments before sniffing around the Dolphinettes.

The usual host of foreigners were on show. The Swedish carpenter who slept more than a koala, the nervous Irish metal-head quiet and polite, the brash English cunt spinning lies with every sentence, the middle-aged American living in Singapore holidaying here bragging about his three girlfriends back home and how cheap the girls were here, the other Irish guy who’d gotten engaged to a weapon of a Cambodian after putting a bun in her oven, everyone had their own story and aspect. We didn’t pay much attention to anyone else really; just let the days pass on by. We had one night of poker where our motley crew was joined by the ubiquitous goobers. Two Norwegians more baked than the crowd at Woodstock sat with us with peaked caps and shades well into the middle of the night. Jacques and his penis had a dose of the runs and would skive off every few minutes to take the Cosbies to the pool, or in the case of the runs maybe squeeze out the Black Rain. Ryan, the English liar, spun a yarn the length of the beach about how his father had came to visit him from England that day to check on his son’s investment into one of the local’s bars. The next day Ryan had gone AWOL leaving a $400 tab at the Dolphin Shack and similar debts across the area, what a shitstick.

The one night we did venture out for the nightlife was a shambolic affair. It was the middle-aged American ‘heartthrobs’ birthday and we started the ball rolling with a group of 6: The Yank, skanky pregnant Cambodian slut, myself, der fuehrer, Jacques, and Jacques’ penis. Oops, that’s seven…anyway. After hitting the Dolphin Shack with a rendition of everyone has Aids we were off to the town centre, where apparently everyone does have AID’s (well the hookers mainly and most likely their clientele). A bar hop with a one B52 per bar rule led us to Patrick Swayzes bar. I’m sorry I didn’t have a camera with me. Right down to the cheesy mullet and the stretched face look made famous by one of the hickest movie stars alive. Dirty Dancing 2 received such bad reviews that this is where he’d been seeking solace and swayze-time away from the media. The local nightclub played slow sets before everyone sat down and watched people live on the TV’s who were murdering songs on a karaoke list most likely complied by a Belgian for the Lithuanian market. Pregnant Cambodian slut was coming on to the Fuhrer thick and fast until her fiancé showed up and then she proceeded to give him an ear full of the local dialect. The night didn’t get any better from there; we left The Yank to get a girl while we spent an age looking for the shack with the aid of the moonless sky.

The days seemed to last longer but it all flew in as we climbed the roof of our fast boat up the coast to the Thai border. Foreigners were confined to the heat trap on the roof while the locals sat below enjoying the air-conditioning. A group of Irish scumbags hopped on too with their Celtic jerseys and mountains of chav attitude. I tried to get some sleep until the bag beside me started clucking and jiggling. Some of the locals were transporting coughing chickens in cloth bags for some unknown reason; Avian Flu was determined to have another stab at me. Eventually after a bus transfer we arrived at the border behind a stodgy Greek shouting down the neck of a taxi driver and behind us a goober trying to chat up an American who was on her way to Bangkok to buy paint materials for her workshop in Sihnoukville and wanted everyone to know she was an artist by just slightly raising her voice. The goober was encapsulated, I didn’t buy it.

Our connections worked out perfectly and soon we were in Bangkok, back to the Ko San Road. It felt more hospitable now that we were on our third visit and the bustle was refreshing after the isolation of Sihnoukville. We had a full day the next day to explore the palace in palace issue trousers, the Reclining Buddha and then proceeded to buy about 462 t-shirts, spending a total of $9 in the process. I had tattoo number two applied to my wrist by Mr. Hen ‘world famous tattoo artist’. His studio was his apartment which we found via some dodgy arrows. 7 doll babies lined the back wall of the apartment, a gift he bought for his wife who can’t conceive. A one foot long plastic baguette lay across some of their laps as some sort of meal for the plastic babies. Freak. Covered head to toe in Buddhist temples and text he definitely knew his stuff and pulled off a good job. That evening was our last in Bangkok so it was time to give the town the third coat of red paint. As myself and the incarnation of hate were playing cards and sipping bars at a café Tysoe and Tinker, sans drip (his appendix had exploded whilst diving in Ko Tao two weeks before and he’d spent the remainder of his xmas hols in a Thai hospital hooked up to a morphine drip and occasionally puking blood), showed up. They were heading back to Tokyo that night but it was good to exchange stories and laugh at the Doogers exploits.

The glamorous Q bar held not one hooker and we got our booze on till the 0100hrs closing time where for once Jacques and his penis pulled a masterstroke and invited some girls for an after party, they duly obliged and it was off we went. Her elegance offered hope to me, and a poignant moment at the tail of my journey. An oriental gem exuding grace and charms not quite as mystical as they were mesmerising, we immediately clicked together like chicken and noodles. She’d lived in London which gave a sexy tone to her voice that I wanted to catch in a jar and place on my kotatsu back in Ninohe. The hours slipped by too quickly as we talked about nothing in particular. Apart from her beauty she had an intelligence, clear from the offset, and a demeanour that rekindled hope within me regarding the fallopian mind-fuckers commonly known as women. The time came for a goodbye outside Burger King, Jacques and his penis went in for the kill while I bottled it leaving an awkward look behind her long lashed lids. She left forever in a tuk-tuk. Faith temporarily restored in milky-nippled folk, temporarily. Jacques and his penis were raging at me for not asking could we join them back at their place without knowing they lived with their parents. Jacques and his penis hummed and hawed till they finally fell asleep, having cursed me as the reason they didn’t get to finish the holiday with a fuck. I lay on the bed satisfied and with a stiffy that was just happy to be there.

Air India carried us home in one piece and I finally managed to squeeze a log out at Tokyo Station. We were drunk enough to keep his inebriated for the rest of the JET year, and we certainly did enough snorkelling to last us a lifetime. Sunsets, sunrises and everything in between there wasn’t a moment we didn’t enjoy and a moment we’ll ever forget. We met a person in Sterling that whomever he meets will instantly hate him. We’d met, and seen, freaks, hippies more goobers than ever before, people in love and people who’ve resorted to buying it. Having barely known each other before we left we knew the ins and outs now. Nick just wants to spread the love, Jacques just wants to make it, the Fuhrer has never experienced it while D has offered him a taste of it. Me…I just want someone to show me it. (I just watched the entire season 1 of Scrubs the other day, hence the ending so fuck you).

A Valentines Message

2006-02-13T10:15:00.000+09:00

STD will resume normal service after short period of misogyny.

"The Organ Grinder"

her periods are red,

some of her veins look blue,

don't give her your heart

or she'll slice it in two

Penh to paper

2006-02-10T11:26:00.000+09:00

Our first class coach pulled off leaving Sterling’s rust bucket in our wake. We promised him we’d send him an e-mail as soon as we arrived in the capital so we could rendezvous later that day. See ya later shithead. The road to Phnom Penh is one of only two tarmac highways in the whole country, so apart from the odd ox or bike getting in your way it was a relatively stress free journey. Phnom Penh stinks. The heat is just absurd and mixed in with the black spew from the aging exhausts of every ramshackle car, motorbike and tuk-tuk leaves you with a metallic taste in your mouth. Our driver during our time in the capital would be Mao, a plucky little chap, he weighed less then a snickers bar, who’d be our most faithful companion, a young Alfred to our dynamic trio. Rumours of a crazy acid-fuelled Scot sipping mushroom shakes from his hostels balcony by the lake with the occasional few rounds from his ak-47 being fired off drew us in. Unfortunately there was no room at the Lazy Fish Inn and the Scottish guy was a heap of lard with a battalion of flies whisking in and out of his meandering hairs, all nine of them. We settled on next doors shit-pit, I don’ t think it has a name.

First person to approach my in Hostel No Name was Igor the Scumball from Italy. A curly mane bleached by the sun lingered on his bony shoulders; his grin was cheeky and untrustworthy. He was being pampered by a girl of no more than 15years old dressed in ragged pajamas. He delighted in telling me that he found this girl, who he assured me wasn’t a prostitute, in a bar and she’d been staying with him for free for the last 10days or so. ‘She izz a great fucka you know, notta even 18a yet…I will bringa her to Thailand widda me whena I gedda her a passaporta’, he told me. I just upped seat and walked off.

That night as we were letting the hammocks do their thing Sterling showed up. He’d scoured the 50, or so, hostels along the lake front looking for us. He’s determined, I’ll give him that much. This made me hate him even more. He’d now adopted an ‘Irish’ accent claiming that he’s just on me of those ‘lads’ that picks them up when he hangs out with foreign people. This made me hate him even more. He invited us around to his hostel to meet some of the Irish ‘lasses’ he had met. This made me hate him even more. We declined, returned to the hammocks and wished for some of the homeless junkies to rape his ass with a bottle on his way home. The fact that this didn’t happen made me hate him even more.

The Fuhrer woke with extra pep in his SS boots as today he was gonna see some of the good work a long time hero of his, Pol Pot, had done. We were off to the Killing Fields with (Chairman) Mao behind the wheels, the Fuhrer with a wide anti-Semitic pogromitic smile and me Paul (Pol, or ‘Sachura’ as the Cambodians took to call me after hearing my name and laughing or looking disgusted every time they heard my name). Three of the worlds most evil human beings ever, a hippie and his think-thank (the penis). The dented grubby track to the site was littered with rubbish and street kids, the sites gateway housed in barbed wire and manned by mine victims who’d wiggle and brush their stumps against you as a means to appeal to your goodwill, the appeal wasn’t necessary and the dollars were handed out. Sight number one was a 30ft high glass case housing thousands of skulls recovered from the surrounding fields. Axe wounds, bullet holes and blunt blows were just some of the causes of death; we were told that Pol Pot preferred not to use bullets as they were too costly. The Fuhrer was scribbling notes furiously. Our guide was a somber man intent on depressing the life out of us. He had barely any English and just gave us a cyclical harangue like this: ‘Pol pot…bad man…very crazy man…Why?, Why?...very bad man… crazy man’. He’d follow his rant with a glassy stare to the centre of your eyes almost expecting you to wilt and crumble at his morose tale. Bones poked above the surface of the pathways, clothes lay scattered around the pits and the stench of death walked freely amongst us giving us the occasional sharp shrill. The tour lasted 11minutes and overall it wasn’t as impactive as we thought, numbing all the same though.

Where is the only logical stop-off after one of the worlds most gruesome sites? A shooting range of course, situated about 5minutes drive from the Killing Fields site. Der Fuhrer was on Stalag 9 at this point of his busman’s holiday. I was ready to purchase a chicken and make it dance before blasting it with my ak-47 but unfortunately the shooting of poultry and bovine at ranges had been outlawed. Nick would’ve been disappointed too as we’d planned on tying a cow to a balloon and firing a rocket launcher at it, oh well…there’s always Burma. $30 for 30 bullets and some serious weaponry was a good price. Zero training was needed so into the gallery we went. Shot by shot sparked off towards the target, each time the butt thumping my shoulder and me back from the seat. Eventually the ‘Show me you’re a real man’ comment from the instructor spurred the inner killer in me as a blitzed the automatic fitting and let the adrenaline pump through. I was picturing Sterling’s fat ugly face on the target which probably accounts for near my 100% accuracy. I was hyped up more than a Frat boy on ‘steal a pig and leave it in the Deans office then throw toilet paper in a tree then butt fuck the new recruits night’ at Kappers Cum Laude until Sterling rolled in on the back of a tuk-tuk. The only way to rid ourselves of this Jason Van Der Geek loser was to colt 45 him to the face; surely he ranks lower than a chicken in the eyes of the Cambodian authorities. Even with the offer of $50 extra for the instructor to turn the other way wasn’t enough and we had to suffer his accent, his stories and his food filled sideburns. He promised to call round to our place that night after we’d left Der Fuhrer shaking his head from his 100% miss rate with his colt 45. We now knew why he used gas in the camps, he had a shit aim.

S-21, the detention and torture centre in Phnom Penh, was next on the list. The bloodied walls and rusty electrocution equipment was shocking to say the least. What the Killing Fields lacked in impact this place made up for it, and then some. Corridors lined with the faces of starving teens and crying mothers pictured on the walls. The torture rooms were unlocked and available for browsing and each housed just one large black & white picture depicting a torture scene in that very room.

That night, only because he promised females, we left with Sterling for his place. A table of Cork skanks drinking cheap vodka lay in the corner. After one minute of talking with them I could see that they too hated Sterling. This made me happy. They were good craic and looked like they wanted to go bananas so we headed on off with them to a foreigner only party downtown. The party was a latino styled affair with Buena Vista Social Clubs husky tunes filling the courtyard and settling over the pool. It was all very upscale for us as it involved chatting and most likely discussions on child labour issues etc etc. As soon as Sterling turned his fat back we were off to the other side, it meant leaving the girls but it was a worthwhile sacrifice. As it turns out that’s the lost we saw of him, although Der Fuhrer has invited him to Iwate for a skiing weekend for some unknown reason. The party was lagging in atmosphere so we headed to the Heart of Darkness, what an apt name for this place. 5 seconds in and I had my balls groped by a barely legal girl in an inch long skirt, ten seconds later it was a different girl. Jacques and his penis vanished to the dance floor for the entire night; they’d been given one rule: NO CAMBODIAN GIRLS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Der Fuhrer and I took up residence on the pool table which was being dominated by Cambodians number one queer and his fag hags, all beautiful but with a price tag on their heads so it wasn’t worth the effort. Closing time saw Jacques and his penis arrive on over to his with a girl in his arms, what a surprise. ‘Man, she’s super awesome and totally not a prostitute dude, she told me. I totally wanna fuck her’ was what came out of his mouth. We had to remind him of Sterling’s little mishap with the pimp in Siem Riep with his fuck-for-free, but Jacques and his penis maintained she wasn’t a prostitute. Eventually they let go of their girl and headed back to Hostel No Name, cursing us all the way. What a bitter little penis he hangs out with.

Cambodia’s royal palace is nothing spectacular, unkempt and lacking the oomph factor of Bangkok’s palace or even some of the surrounding shrines. There were some signs of a re-vamp but it looked as if it was going to take time. We didn’t stay long there and decided to get in some shopping at the central market instead. Haberdasery and junk climbed toward the underside of the dome. Everything from fake Rolexes to fake people were on sale. Fuhrer mad a significant statement by buying a peace bird and setting it free. We left and headed towards the mall which looked like your typical all-American styled shopping centre. In reality the retailer over flow from the dome had spilled into the mall leaving it just a pseudo sign of development in this 3rd world country.

Our instructions to our tuk-tuk driver were ‘Take us to a western club, no under-age prostitutes’. Ten minutes later we’re in the seediest place in the world. Martinis, as we now know, is world famous for it’s hostesses. Ranging from 13 years old to mid-forties there was a lady, or child, there to suit any occasion and fulfill all your perverted desires. The usual selection of tubby middle-aged men was present, but so too were a lot of guys in their 20’s seeking out some prime Cambodian flesh. Igor’s teen lover was there suited and booted waiting for her next customer. The dance floor was pitch black and euro-pop wailed from the speakers while the girls got frisky with the clients. We left with a couple of English lads who’d also been duped by their tuk-tuk drivers. We ended up in the Heart of Darkness only drinking shots with ten inch flames hanging out of them. The whore ratio wasn’t as high as the previous night, but you never do know with those sneaky Cambodians so we kept our hands by our sides and tied Jacques and his penis to a chair, just in case they got any bright ideas. I proceeded to fall in love with the pool queen who invited me back to her place for a ‘party’ but I couldn’t go through with it. I suck.

Phnom Penh was a mad place: disheveled, dirty and riddled with more problems than the Jackson family. Everybody sold something, from opium to advertising space on the side of an elephant, and they’d do anything for a dollar. I also got the feeling that they hated Sterling too.

Sterling must die

2006-02-06T12:53:00.000+09:00

The Cambodian border was teeming with activity. People selling fake goods, dried fruits and ice blocks lined the dusty marketplace. Hundreds of locals moved freely between the border carting over all manner of goods on battered wagons with their grubby kids casting forlorn looks with their wide eyes over the digital cameras that the foreign crossers were using to flick the gateway to the third world. The no-mans-land that buffers the crossing was home to some riverside hobos in a mini-shanty and sparkling casinos where Thais come to gamble away their hard-earned baht. Cambodia’s depravity was instantly highlighted by the dusty tracks they called roads complete with chronic pot-holes carving their way through Poi Pet. After some mean haggling we had our own driver to take us to Siem Riep for $30. 120km per hour down the dust track that connected Poi Pet to Siem Riep was a journey like no other. Cars all jostled for position amongst the potholes beeping each other like crazy with no designated side of the road. Pick-up trucks were brimming with people covered in red dust trying to remain seated as their driver caroused through the potholes at top speed. Bridges were strictly one car at a time due to the rusty iron and worm riddled planks holding them together. We waited in line while ox-herders guided their skinny bovines to the other side. Dust spewed from the side of the roads and coated everything red giving the houses and trees a rusted dated look.

Eventually, still in one piece, we arrived at Siem Riep. We quickly sought out the Dead Fish Inn we’d read about on the Internet. Kids were grabbing at us begging for money or selling postcards. We had a group of about ten follow us to the hostel. We gave as much as we could and bought all their postcards but it’ll never be enough for these impoverished kids. We came to the conclusion that the dirtier your kid the cuter he becomes, their wide eyes gleaming amongst the dirt on brown skin complete with haggard clothes has a strange appeal no matter if the kid is fat or deformed. I’m gonna bathe mine in muck and parade them through parks and malls while receiving the aww’s and coo’s from doting passers by.

We had time to fit in some culture so headed off to Tonle Sap Lake to see the Vietnamese floating village and catch the Mekong sunset. We had a boat all to ourselves as our 14yr captain gave us the low down on the local floating community. We passed floating shacks complete with satellite dishes, a floating basketball court and a floating church all bobbing on the calm water. We stopped off for some beers and a vantage point but quickly moved on due to overcrowding. As we set off from that stop we were accosted by the cutest kids ever in buckets looking for a Riel or two. They floated around using twigs to steer themselves around. The clear winner of the cutest kid-in-a-bucket-in-a-filthy-dirty-diseased-lake contest was floating bucket monkey. This kid had it all: the dirt, the wide eyes, the bucket & stick and a mohawked monkey trained to look sad and lonely. Unfortunately the kid didn’t accept visa cards so he had to settle for about 4,000 riel, but I did highlight the fact that if he were to take his show to say the fountain outside the Bellagio in Vegas he could rake the cash in. The lakes shores were beyond the horizon as the sex-on-the-beach coloured sun descended through the clouds and melted into the lake. The captain let me take the wheel for a while, until I crashed it into the mangroves and then decided it wasn’t such a bright idea. We tipped our guide $10 for a job well done and headed back to the hostel for some dinner. After dinner we headed off towards the bars with some new ladyfriends in tow, who were working at the Dead Fish Inn. The hilariously named Angkor What? bar played host for the evening as we got to know Sow and Ant. They each latched on to Jacques, and his penis of course, and Nick leaving me as the runt of the litter, possibly because of the zero attention I paid them. Sow, a Thailand native, was decent enough company, especially after she got hammered after three sips of a Mekong bucket. Ant however was a mangy skank with a permanent frown and visions of a foreign life and dollar toting boyfriend. It's fitting she ended up with Jacques and his penis.

My body was starting to feel at less than 100% but I fought through the pain and headed off on our day trip to Angkor Wot. I wasn’t happy about the two ladies joining us, but Nick had obviously fallen for his girl and Jacques and his penis sensed an easy fuck/lay/bang in the midst. The impressive Angkor Wot was a lot bigger than we’d expected, and a lot busier. Hordes of middle-aged Koreans in fluorescent outfits and wide brimmed visors swarmed behind flag toting guides rattling off points of note. Our D.I.Y. guide was a lot more enjoyable, albeit less edumacationable, but the inner Croft came out in all of us as we climbed, poked and paced through the catacombs and courtyards on offer. We came across a French speaking sage who was reading palms from a shadowy corridor nestled in one of the lesser visited temples. The search for the Golden Toffees was almost over, I could feel it. He was about to release the location, which I had known all along but been unable to search inside of me to retrieve it. This charlatan revealed diamonds and dollars in my future coupled with happiness that would involve a girl (obviously had no idea who he was dealing with) and made a little matchstick figure out of straw that he gave to me as good luck. Scam merchant, I predict a beating in his future if I ever go back to Angkor Wot to get my $2 back. At this point of the day I was feeling terrible and could barely move, but still trooped on without complaining about my plight. The girls left by late afternoon and we climbed Angkor Tom which offered the best views of the day and a reminder to hit the gym back in Japan. We scurried over with the 7,000 other visitors to catch the sunset from the main courtyard of Angkor Wot. Jacques and his penis had now picked up a Japanese teacher who they ere organizing a date with later that night. I got a Japanese monk, who told me it was a secret that he was a monk and I shouldn’t tell anyone. Fuckin liar. This sunset came and went, non-descript and pale in comparison to Tonle Sap. I’ll never understand people’s fascination with the sun-setting, it happens every day with zero incident or difference. Preparing yourself for it is preparing yourself for disappointment as your camera won’t do it justice and you realize it was five minutes you could have spent separating your ass hair. I’d put the Angkor Wot sunset up there with Santorini, Santorini pipped it as the worst due to the amount of Italians I had to suffer shouting ‘bella bella’ and clapping when it faded beneath the horizon.

That night I had to stay in as I was full sure I had Avian Flu flowing through my veins. The sweats were chronic and the heat of the room left me restless and uneasy. First person back was Jacques and his penis with Marie, the Japanese teacher. He just wanted to show her his photos, a subtle ploy I thought but one with no hope. Eventually he left, with his penis, without getting to fuck/bang/lay his prey. Next to arrive on the scene was der Fuhrer pissed out of his mind and spouting shit from his foul Nazi mouth. I pretended to be asleep while he crawled in bed beside me and eventually passed out. Nick soon followed and brought his world record snores with him. This was turning out to be a bad night in paradise. Der Fuhrer was now molesting every part of my body no doubt thinking I was his blue skinned girlfriend who was far away in San Francisco. I was pissing sweat and could barely breath, I coughed and sneezed over Der Fuhrer hoping to give him a dose of something. Jacques and his penis crept in later along with Ant, his Cambodian visa whore. Soon they were up to no good under the sheets as I heard Jacques groan as his penis was given a once over by Ant. Eventually he tugged at my ankles to wake me up and ask me if I had any condoms because himself and his penis wanted to fuck Ant now, I told him to fuck off. Just as I had turned Nick on his side to ease the snorefest a furious knocking started at next doors door. I would find out the next day what it was.

I surfaced after the roughest night of my life feeling no better and unable to poo. The others were having lunch downstairs. Der Fuhrer gave me a look of hatred, I responded with a look of disgust as our paths once again crossed. Der Fuhrer had made a new friend along the way to Siem Riep whom he thought might benefit the group. I hated him on sight. Sterling, a plump Californian with food in his sideburns, has to be the most annoying person I’ve ever met (. I rarely pass judgment so quickly, wll that’s a lie but this guy deserved it. It was his door that took a hammering during the night. He had met a nice young lady at the club that night who wanted to come back with him, for free…she wasn’t a prostitute (newsflash fuckhead: they’re all hookers). He knocked the box off her and she demanded cash so he told her where to go. Incensed by this she called her pimp who waited outside all night while she knocked the door down. The pimp was outside waiting for Sterling and wasn’t going anywhere. The hostel owners were going to call the police; Sterling didn’t want that so paid $30 to the pimp to send him on his way.

The others hit the town for some shopping while I headed back for some more sweating. I was woken up by Sterling who’d come back from Angkor Wot and was now staying in our room. He gave me his patheitc Dawsons Creek life story and how he didn’t ever have a girlfriend till he was 21 and how he ‘just wanted to make a difference in today’s society and if he could touch one person it would be all worthwhile’. I couldn’t believe this shit was actually coming out of him, if I had have had the energy I would gotten a lighter and my deodorant can and torched him to death. He continued on about how he was such a talented writer and he was so lucky to have become more intelligent after studying a Masters in English Literature. I hope he suffers a miserable fate. Alcoholism, loneliness and obesity should be good enough for him. I hated Der Fuhrer for introducing him into my life.

We ate dinner that night at a plush Swiss owned restaurant where the topics of conversation delved into American Shitball statistics, fraternity stories and fucking the bitches. The Americans see no problem with shouting out ‘Yeah, I wanna fuck that bitch man, goddamit’ etc etc. Nick and I sat there in disgust as they shouted at the top of their lungs talking about fucking and laying and banging and the bitches, all while Marie was sitting with us. Their brashness is a little overwhelming sometimes and their regard for women as lays as fiendish, don’t get me wrong…I’m not defending women I still despise their scornful wenchful emotional games and demands and hope they get their some-uppins sooner rather than later.

We booked our coach to Phnom Penh that night and made sure we were on a different bus to Sterling. Nick had some photos printed and wrote a heart felt love letter to Sow, his third girlfriend, detailing no doubt how she had touched him deeply that he was so glad to have met someone so special and that he hoped, no he knew, that they would one day be together. He wrote this letter using the gift he’d bought for Yumi to lean on. Jacques and his penis gave their farewells to Ant and Marie dejected by their lack of fucking/laying/banging but undeterred in the slightest. I’d just about recovered from by brush with death and will now send in some sperm samples to the W.H.O. to see if they can use it to combat Avian Flu, AID’s or girls who don’t swallow. I hope some good will some of it.

Next installment: Phnom Penh and Sihanoukville. Did Der Fuhrer enjoy the Killing Fields too much? Am I a gifted marksman? Just how could we manage to shake the pile of shit that is Sterling? And would Jacques and his penis finally get to fuck? Next time at STD

Pim pam thank you mam

2006-02-02T11:13:00.000+09:00

It was onto Ralay next, on Jess’s recommendation this time (lovin the way my ex-girlfriends guided me through Thailand’s finer sights). The initial reaction was the Thai Toremolinos with a gang of chavs walking around in England shirts with bulldog tattoos on their old spice scented bodies. Luckily for us this wasn’t our final destination, well luckily for Jess that is otherwise she’d have ended up in a bag over the Burmese border. A quick, and bumpy, trip on a longtail and we are at Ralay. A pristine cove, snug away from the hordes it looked an ideal spot to lay the heads for a few days. The resort had been completely re-vamped since its trouncing by the tsunami last year, as had its prices which were up there with the Hiltons of this world. We waved goodbye to the beachfront resorts (too early for tsunami jokes?) and headed upward and inward far away from the beach.

We dropped our stuff and headed on a snorkeling trip with a group of middle-aged (that’s older than me by the way) pissheads, some shitmonkey American-types and a Malaysian monk. Stop three of our 7 island hop was a small rocky coral. We were giving it the full circle treatment when all of a sudden the sky rumbled and grey clouds fought like fists, in the sky. The wind gathered pace and shook the sea with sinister gusts as if to spite us for enjoying the day so much. Screams from our boat had faded to distorted whispers by the time they reached us but we knew we should head back. The 100m swim was no doggy paddle with the waves now higher and stronger than we’d ever seen. As we made ground on the boat it pulled anchor and chugged off. Oh shit. Group D was in hysterics, screaming ‘wait for us’, ‘why???’ and other such pleas for help while a yellow ring formed around her berth. Der Fuhrer was surrounded by little rabbit style turds as he prepared to meet his maker, Satan. I took hold of D’s snorkeling gear and tried to calm her. Meanwhile the boat had stopped a little further out so we only had to make it another 50m. Suddenly I heard Jacques and his penis shouting for help. They were nestled on the coral dazed like a forgotten seal cubs. I sent the others on their way and headed back for Jacques and his penis thinking of every movie where the hero always dies after going back to rescue a stupid Canadian hippie, the Baywatch theme song also played in my minds background and the Hoff was giving me mouth to mouth. I reached Jacques and his penis, just before the Hoff slipped a tongue, put him on his back and carved through the waves like a rodeo dolphin while I carried Jacques and his penis to safety and gave them another chance at life. It’s not every day you get to save someone’s life, but I ain’t looking for no praise, sponsorship deals or keys to a city. I know he would have done the same as me had he been brave enough, skilled enough, as well hung and 25% as sexy as me in a pair of Speedos.

This ill fated voyage only got worse. The next two stops were without incident. It was after my sighting of the shy Nemo fish that the ocean sought revenge for my daring rescue earlier. Out of no where a sea urchin appeared, too late for me to avoid it, and harpooned me with its spiky mane. The pain was hardcore, but then again so am I so I sucked it up and backstroked to the boat. Everyone had their own opinions of what to do. ‘Airlift him to Switzerland’, ‘He needs urgent hospital attention’, ‘Amputate now before we all die’ were the pennies worth of shit the retardos on the boat were offering. I knew to just let it be, but the Captain suggested it should be disinfected and without any first-aid kit on board all we had was… Urine. Shit. Up stepped Nick to the plate, revenge for all the tea-bagging. His lemony gush whizzed out at full throttle as we all nearly pissed ourselves laughing. The Captain had the last laugh though; he knew damn well the foot needed no piss for disinfectant. No matter, it actually felt good, not that I’d go there again mind you.

The two stinky hippies,who'd been our guides for the day, invited us over to their resort for the evening. They were staying at Tan Son, the crusty juggling dreadlocked quarter of the resort. It was against my better judgment but I hobbled on, a life saving hero just looking for some time-out. This man must be the most stoned in world history, he gave us a slow and stoned spiel about love, peace, the futility of war the versatility of bamboo and his sadness that he can’t hug his momma no more because of her increasing waist size. Johnny TooStoned gave us all a fire spinning display of some skill. Amongst the lunar lamination the fire spun at all speeds in all directions. His skin and black trousers blended seamlessly into the night, the only visible parts of him were the whites of his intense, mellowed eyes following the swirling blazes. It’s a wonder how he managed to control it in such a state, but he told us he could never do anything like that whilst not stoned. By the time he’d finished with that the crusties had a hold of a guitar and were wailing out Bob Marley classics, we left.

We slept out for the James Bond tour so settled for the beaches tour. It was pretty much a pile of horse shit, the highlights being the family of weirdo’s on our boat. A 107yr old granny with a never ending stomach and never ending food supply, a few Thai skanks and one of their husbands (an American dipstick with a ‘Jesus is my Lifeguard’ t-shirt and a heavy breathing problem) and their semi-retarded kid hobbling around the place. We did dock at the Beach where Garland’s utopian dream came to fruition on the silver screen with the help of Boyle, Le Doyen, and Di Caprio etc. We posed for photos, amongst the hundreds of goobers there too, and then went down the path Leo trodded every day back to the commune. Hygenicus and the gang were nowhere to be seen and all that lay at the end of the trail was a trash heap and a fly infested toilet. Utopia my ass. Monkey Beach was another stop where we watched belligerent monkeys ward off tourists and steal fanta from children, dickheads.

We were snorkeled out of our brains at that point so decided to get drunk out of our brains that night as we were headed on a flight to Bangkok the next day. We sat outside the cabin shuffling between ‘Everyone’s got AID’s’ and ‘I’m so ronery’ whilst drinking away. We went to the Ghekko bar where there was a spacial of $1 a pitcher that night. We blitzed the pool table and wiped off the Scottish dads who wanted to knock us off. Eventually the booze hit me and I was beaten. The cockball that beat me had his friend take a picture of him lining up for the easy black in the bottom right, I should have cue balled him to the temple, but I’m a peaceful man. We were on about drink 16 when Group D went missing. Myself and Nick decided to raise the bar and got more shots into us. Eventually, at the point of uber-inebriation, we crawled back to the shack without D. She wasn’t there when we got back so they went off looking while I hit the sack. The morning came and so had D. She somehow thought we’d all left the Ghekko bar and tried to find her way home. She fell into a sewage pit only to be rescued by a Swedish guy who she ended up speaking German to the rest of the night. Just your typical night out for Michigan’s finest export.

We bid farewell to Ralay and headed to Phuket on ferry for our flight to Bangkok for the New Years Eve celebrations. Our flight was delayed by over an hour which meant we would arrive in Bangkok at about 2300hrs and Ko San Road just in time for the turn of the year. Arriving at the hostel with ten minutes to go we legged it through the crowds, and managed to have a beer in hand by midnight. By 10 past we were senselessly drunk and partying in a tottie bar that Jacques and his penis had spotted in an upstairs window. Our Mekong whiskey buckets were quickly gone and we headed to the basement to the Lava club which was overflowing with people. We all knocked one quick shot back and raided the selection of over-priced shots. Soon myself and Nick had some locals on our heavily sunburned arms. Nick eventually passed out so Pim, my Thai beauty, asked did I want to go to another bar. We were off to Gulliver’s, the most famous farang friendly boozery. Jacques and his penis had now latched onto Nick’s girl (in a very similar maneuver to his Iraqi belly dancer steal from me in Sendai) and was dancing away with us in the club. Thai girls don’t pussy around on ceremony so it was with a sharp, but cool, yes that I answered her question ‘Do you wanna come back to my place?’. Happy New Year to you too.

A pit stop at the hostel for money and protection resulted in a rendezvous with Der Fuhrer shirtless, and Godless, body in a pile of shit on the stairs. He’d had a fight with D and she ran off citing a break up or something, I was in no mood to hear his pathetic sob story so told him to shut the fuck up and headed off on my business. A short tuk-tuk ride later and we were in the love pit that Pim calls home. I had to suffer through her ‘I don’t normally do this type of thing, I really like you’ bullshit while she showed me pictures of all her foreign boyfriends. Eh herro, we came here for a reason. Jacques and his penis and their girl were sprawled on the living room floor while I took centre stage on the double bed. The mood was set with James Blunt and some apple scented incense, I was almost expecting us to start making pottery and have Patrick Swayze play the cello for us it felt so romantic. We fumbled around for while before I got thirsty. I took some water and ice-cubes back from the kitchen and gently tip-toed around Jacques, his penis and his girl as they lay there sleeping the night away. The ice melted instantly on her hot, smooth skin. The droplets tasted sweet when they’d mixed with the sweat. The next cube went down her spine, followed by one on her flicker and then in the hole. She gawped with delight as the foreplay was heating up. She yelped with the final insertion of a cube in her ass but laughed it off and we got busy with good stuff.

An exchange of email addresses and phone numbers and a soft kiss on the lips and we were off to Cambodia. D and Der Fuhrer had made up and he was going to follow us the next day when D had jetted back to Tokyo. We substituted Fuhrer with Koji and made our way towards Siem Riep. (To be continued, this is gonna be the last part I promise!)

Play it again, Siam

2006-01-26T14:04:00.000+09:00

Air India’s turban powered piece-of-shit plane was myself, Jacques’ and Jacques’s penis carrier to Bangkok for our winter sojourn. The husband and wife team acting as pilot, air host’s and kwiki-mart clerks were running around the cabin flicking spicy shit-inducing peanuts and curries to anyone that wanted them. Occasionally you could hear the crack of the whips from the engine room where 47 Bengali teens where pedaling furiously to keep this Icarus wagon nestled in the clouds. We duly arrived at Bangkok with a case of the shits and a genuine love of Bollywood romance movies.

D greeted us with a high pitched squeak and two minutes of bouncing and shaking of her ickle bootie. We splashed out on a 10baht train ride to the city centre, and the air was cancerific as our tuk-tuk driver three-wheeled us to the Ko San Road. After checking in we waited around for Nick whilst having a few Changs, and nibbled on the local fare of scorpions and locusts. The Ko San Road was a mix of goobers, wankers, hippies, freaks, chavs, nauseating soccer-mom types, narcissists, stoners, new-agers, old-timers and the occasional lady boy. Jam packed from curb to curb the atmosphere wasn’t as raucous as we’d thought it would be with the Road being a halfway place for those coming and going and not doing much staying. With Nick in tow we were on course for a club to get the ball rolling on our Thai odyssey. Our instructions to Chuck driving the tuk-tuk, oh yeah the tuk-tuk rhyming jokes stayed the duration of the trip, was ‘take us to a bar with western people, no prostitutes thank you very much’. 20minutes later we’re in the Mall of America of bordellos stuffed with pussy for sale and every girl licking your balls with their eyes. Inebriation was the only tonic for our ails so we knocked back the shots and made the best of it. Jacques and his penis were having the time of their lives getting up close and personal with skanks at every opportunity. When it came time to leave we were missing D and eventually found her locked in the ladies cubicle with her panties round her ankles, her bush is normally hairier and more regularly sighted than Sasquatch but she tamed the beaver for the trip and it turned out to be a rather pretty vacation vagina. We carried her corpse out of the club where she awoke with the usual peeps and squeaks. Chuck had waited, he doesn't sleep, around and decided to show us his F1 skills and high-tail it back to the hostel, on two wheels as well.

Our first official day in Bangkok was the usual click-clicking of cameras around the city. The taste off the air and smell from the sewers was rampant, especially from the back of the open-aired tuk-tuk’s. We checked out the Golden Mountain, some temples and other sights of note catching glimpses of how grand the city used to have been before the hordes ascended on the capital and usurped its beauty with filth. While D lay in bed puking all over the brand new mattress we had replaced her with Koji, our token foreginer for the trip.

Unfortunately Der Fuhrer was also coming on the trip with us and was arriving that night. We were given a scare, well I was hoping he wasn’t gonna come, by his late coming as we’d already booked a bus down to the islands for about 20minutes after he arrived. A game of Top 10’s helped introduce the Swedish girls in front of us into the fray as we hit Top 10 Swedes (Thomas Brolin will always be my number 1). Juergen and Juergen, the two Germans, occasionally interjected with facts about the 80’s and what a rockin time it was to be free and young. A swiss Juergen who’d swallowed at least 15 valium and was heading towards a nihilist convention was bumming beers off us with promises of payback at each filling station we stopped at. Jacques and his penis woke at some point and the first thing to come out of their mouth was ‘what’s everybody’s favourite animal?’ and then went on about their favourite land, sea and air animals. The second Swede, known as ‘the Chemist’ and suffered from chronic narcolepsy (most likely helped with the copious amount of valium in her system) then woke to sing the Swedish national anthem. At the stop off for the bus I met an Irish guy who’d just been released from prison back home and decided to go on holidays. He’d brought an ounce of cocaine with him that he’d tied around his balls for the flight; obviously he thought conditions in Thai prisons were better than those back home…sun, great food and executions.

Ko Pha Ngan was in sight and we were on our way via early morning ferry. The clientele was of the mixed bag variety, the theme of the holiday and of Thailand, with a black-hoodied head down hate-filled cult sitting legs flailing over the edge of the ferry saying nothing to each other for the trip. Our chalet was in the opposite direction to the Haad Riin party core of the island as we’d decided not to go too nuts on this trip (oh really).

We cleaned up and headed straight to the New York bar on Emma’s recommendation, and it didn’t disappoint. A 270°vista over the island, perfectly poised for that postcard sunset and a stunning location to get stoned. The happiest sprite ever to live was managing the bar brimming with a smile wider than Oprah’s ass crack. Everything was followed with the ubiquitous ‘kap’. ‘Would you like a beer, kap?’’, ‘Can I get you a pizza, kap?’, ‘Do you want some milkshakes, kap?’. Yes to all, kap. Kelly and her friend Kate had also joined us now as we were getting stuck into beers and pizza. We ventured off to the party at the Apache bar nearby. I’ve never seen so many goobers in my life, not even in Holland or Crete, half of the world’s Dutch population must have been there. Hundreds of the techno-loving trance addicts stomping manically to the 250 b.p.m. noise flushed from the sound system all the while transfixed by giant phallic symbols, spiders and swords luminated by the black-lights.

We scooted around the island on mopeds the next day checking out the waterfalls, vistas and beaches on offer on the island whilst getting chronic farmers tan in the process. That night’s party was being hosted by the New York Bar. Happy fucking days. A repeat performance was on the cards. The first person we ran into on the way up the hill to the bar was a stodgy middle-aged chav staring at a tree trunk thinking he was a frog and sporadically touretting ‘as if’ out of his mouth, the aprty wasn`t what we were looking for that night so ahd a few beers and headed off. As we made our way down the seemingly never-ending steps we were greeted by a troupe of Samoan midgets (I’m not kidding) who gave us a cheery good evening as we then came across a Bogota styled courtyard complete with reposing senorita in hammock. At the bottom of the hill we were accosted by a jazillion taxi drivers all offering the best price, we told them all to fuck off and waited for the best deal to filter on over to us, which it ineveitably did.

After watching ‘The Beach’ I guess everyone yearns for one of those deserted beach moments where you lay under a pristine sky warmed by the presence of a hot French girl. I ended up on Kelly’s piece of isolated sand lying against the jet black sea whose waves lapped gently against my beautiful feet. The moon cast a reflection which split the sea in two as we lay, fondled and talked till the sun spun round for another day of island life. Perfect settings, just the wrong company, one for the memory bank all the same.

I thought the cleaning lady was waiting for us to check out when I returned to our place in the morning. She sat there on the veranda grumpy and scorned, but it was Jacques and his penis that had unsettled this Thai skank, not our lack of hygiene or checking out skills. She sported a 10 inch bloodied cut running diagonally from breast to shoulder as a result of Jacques and his penis trying to carry her home and in his words ‘do/fuck/bang/lay her’. She also wanted $50 to replace the gold coloured piece of tin rusting around her neck that had broken in the fall. After much haggling she headed off with $10 in her pocket. That day we headed further north to the even quieter resort of Maed Hae where we found beachside bungalows, Kelly and Kate had also ended up there too, at this stage I certainly wasn’t feeling the love. We chilled out that night after some snorkeling and got down with the theme songs of the holiday ‘Everyone has AID’s, and 'I'm so ronery’. Nicks Friend, Bob, rolled on in the following day with an Irish guy and a couple of girls. Bob went past his allowed three ‘my god the Irish accent is so fucking stupid why can’t you say th properly’ jibes within about 8 seconds of meeting me which was pretty annoying, especially since he speaks like a helium sucking homo with a pegged nose whilst constantly having a splinter riddled lube free leg off a foot stool up his ass. I kept shtum about that and let him wet himself at the ‘turty tree and a turd’ jokes.

That night we hit a shisha bar where we saw possibly the fattest tourist in the world. She sat down, or rolled over, looking like Jaba the Hut with chronic sunburn guzzling beers like they were shots of water and chain-smoking fags. I pity the fool that sat beside her on the plane over/home. We allowed our lungs and stomachs some apple tobacco (from the hookas) and grilled barracuda steak for a night of first class living. It was back to the beach to cap the evening off with some drinks and watching Jacques and his penis's inner child come out and rant on about hidden recipes when you play songs backwards and back to their old favourite: what’s your favourite animal topic…

From there on we headed on over to the Krabbi side of the country there…to be cont’d

hell

2006-01-16T13:34:00.000+09:00

its cold, its boring...its ninohe, hip hip hooray. already day one at the apaato yest felt like 7 years in tibet and even more tedious than watching the movie. i`ve decided to dig my way out. new years resolutions: never ever consider teaching english again, become a Noh actor, style my hair like Koizumi and eat more rice.

INERTIA POD

2005-12-30T18:51:00.000+09:00

Coming to Japan filled with great expectations of learning, changing and taking that next step forward I was blissfully unaware of the reality of rural life in northern Japan as now my life has become a tale of two cities (Morioka and Tokyo), plus Ninohe. The initial googling of Ninohe resulted in nothing more than a shinkansen timetable and a message from the mayor in perfect engrish. The unknown lay in waiting so I knew to expect the unexpected. Ninohe for all its rural charms offers nothing more then that and is generally void of character and substance. Nothing happens in this nowhere ‘city’ filled with empty stores its desolate main street. The overall sullen atmosphere is blatantly obvious within five paces of the towns’ lifeline, the shinkansen station, as you come across a taxi rank filled with morose looking drivers glued to their manga books.

Work has become an ever painful thorn in my side. One class per day gives me little reason to sing the morning in as I prepare for a day of web surfing and ball scratching. It’s nearly impossible to forge close relations with the students given the lack of opportunity to interact with them. I’m still a novelty in the corridors and even more so amongst my colleagues who seem perfectly at ease to have me as a western ornament sitting in the staff room, idle, every day. My feelings of guilt for being paid for this joke job grow with each day and mix that with the boredom of browsing the internet and you have me constantly re-evaluating my situation here. Can I manage to ‘stick it out’ for another seven months is the question I ask myself repeatedly everyday. Having raised the subject with my supervisor and other English teachers it seems that they are just too busy cramming daily tests and an ineffective curriculum down the gullets of the over worked students. Nothing is going to change, especially me, and this state of inertia may eventually come to detract from all the positive sides of the Japanese experience.

Morioka offers a semblance of normality and distraction from the teeth pulling weekdays in Ninohe. Again though, there is little of note to keep the imagination fuelled in Iwate’s provincial capital. Tokyo is where the real outlet lies. I can move and think freely without having to hanko every scrap of paper for my supervisor, I won’t have to leave the address of every toilet I take a crap in and certainly won’t have to act like a tape recorder in front of 42 docile students’ for forty minutes per day.

A city like none other I’ve ever experienced its frenetically paced and turbo-charged with all the modern sways of the worlds most technologically advanced city. Its draw is potent and the avenues to explore in that city are endless. Night and day it presents myriad of opportunities and has no problem in aiding the imagination. Tokyo could keep you guessing day after day, here in Ninohe it’s the same blank sheet every day. The question now is: how long before I end up in Tokyo for good?

Taiwanese 101

2005-12-09T11:05:00.000+09:00

I never enjoy arriving into a new city late at night, fatigue skews your senses, you lose sight of the sights around you and can only manage to take in the occasional billboard advertising ‘coca-cola’ or the neon glow of a downtown motel. Your excitement must wait till the following day to be quenched and thus the sleep is usually a parched affair. I had to endure this on top of the floundering butterflies frantically fluttering in my bowels as I prepared to meet Emma the following day.

Hostelworld.com’s 4-star lodgings weren’t fit for Saddam and a swarm of cockroaches, I’m certain the ‘roaches checked out of the International Scholars House long ago on grounds of unsanitary practices at the House. The pee stained paper was peeling from the walls, the bed looked like the birthplace of AID’s and the shower was probably tapped into the shit tank. My first peek of Taipei by day was of scores of scooters weaving in and out of each other amongst thick, smoggy air. First impressions certainly weren’t favourable and I hoped this wasn’t a sign of things to come.

Having checked out of the toilet hostel I set my bags down at Taipei Main Station and decided to scupper the idea of a day hike I’d thought about taking. I’d left Ninohe in such a hurry that I’d managed to completely forget all the maps and itineraries that had been meticulously researched during the previous couple of weeks, so I was blind in a city not used to foreign eyes. I strolled down one of the main thoroughfares and sought refuge in a side-street café to gauge my bearings. The scents and aromas wafting from the plethora of vendors tingled the senses. The hooded promenades kept the scents at ground level and fused them together so potently that it would send an anorexic down the road to gluttony. In a romantic sense I would say that you could have closed your eyes and let your nasal glands guide you through the streets but you’d either be pummelled by 15 scooters or trip over a heap of piled rubbish, it seriously is a dirty, soiled, grimy city.

Armed with the local tourist map I headed for the National museum. A collection of local pebbles, taxidermed squirrels, and spliced tree trunks did nothing to evoke a sense of Taiwan whatsoever. It was the park, Peace Park, at the rear of the museum that first presented a taste of the Taiwan to me. Ten’s of national flags sauntered in the air as I caught a glimpse of the tropical roots of this island. Palm trees gave rest to tooting birds and a tranquil mood swept over the park. A solitary woman engaged in tai-chi amid a clearing surrounded by lazy branches. Falun-gong was open to all without fear of Chinese police apprehending them for their indulgence in this tabooed practice, in China that is. The young and the aged sat docile and pensive exuding serenity, and calm, as the city bustled by beyond the parks’ perimeter. The park-goers, in general, had no peripherals i.e. books, magazines, mobile phones etc to distract them from their being. I wondered what the park goers were thinking of. Were they thinking of anything? Were they drawing energy from their surroundings, one man was as he held his hand inches away from an elderly gentleman relieving him of his ails. The harmony of the place led me to the conclusion that these people weren’t killing time; they were living alongside it, allowing it take effect without seeking a physical outcome. I sat there for a couple of hours, with time by my side, and only left after sensation had vacated my ass from prolonged exposure to hard wood (no, not some homeless guys’ shlong up my ass…).

Wandering aimlessly among the endless markets I occasionally passed a building of note, an unkempt shrine or some festering litter sack gnawed away by the swarming rats. The rewards of the economic boom in Taiwan weren’t plain to see as most of the stores and stalls were manned by forlorn types generally sipping tea, smoking a cigarette and glued to the daily digest of soaps without the hope of putting some pennies into the coffers. Most buildings were dilapidated with laundry basking in the smog filled balconies and grannies eyeing the distance looking at nothing in particular. I happened across the docks somehow and came face-to-face with a pristine Junk boat, homage to the islands naval history. Hundreds of trawlers, and smaller vessels, dotted the piers as far as the bright red suspension bridge in the distance. A short walk through the adjacent park that boasted the uncanny ability of this city to ably set aside calm from the chaos of the city was again refreshing. A sharp right out of the park and I was back among the scooters racing for pole position at the next set of traffic lights. Now I was in the most downtrodden area of the city, gasping for economic injection the residents stood around tables of mah-jong players gambling insignificant sums of money on the outcomes of equally insignificant games. They were startled by my inquisitive presence, my digital camera, my i-pod and the wad of cash I had wrapped around my waist. I left post haste.

My next port of call was a port, funnily enough, (Danshui) at the end of the metro line. I arrived as the sun was setting and the crowds were swelling with every minute that passed. A harpist plucked away beneath a glowing Chinese lantern with each note quelling the furious pace of the market. The distance blinked with the lights of the city preparing itself for another night. There was a fairground atmosphere with the usual dart and hoop games being enjoyed by couples and young families alike. I opted for a head and shoulder massage from the all blind masseuses, luckily for me they couldn’t see as the amount of dandruff that drizzled from my flaky scalp was a little too embarrassing to have handled had they been fully sighted. I bought a Corona and wrote some postcards as I watched the tide retreat and reveal a sand bank blemished by bottles, bags and the remains of a day enjoyed by a host of day-trippers.

The moment of truth was upon me and I had a serious case of sweaty palms coupled with nervous puke bubbling up my oesophagus. The fact that Emma and Niamh had given me some seriously dodgy directions, “we’ll meet you at the yellow building by the train station”, had resulted in me waiting around for over 30minutes left with only my mind to start playing at me. Amongst other things I wondered how much she’d rely on her safety blanket, Niamh, during my visit. My heart was beating dangerously close to cardiac arrest but was brought down to speed by a comforting hug from Emma. We were both visibly nervous and skirted around with the lets-get-the-how-have-you-beens out of the way.

As soon as we landed at the restaurant I felt totally at ease and we were entertained by the jazz stylings’ of a Taiwanese trio in one of Taipei’s top restaurants. Dinner was being taken care of by Niamh’s uncle, a visiting politician from Ireland doing some research into avian flu I think (nice to now Irish taxes are being appropriated correctly). A couple of incriminating photos of Paudge, the politician, whilst under the influence of numerous bottles of wine and we were off to the local foreigner bar. God I hate these places, no sooner had I hit the dance floor there was some Taiwanese skank sniffing around my ass asking my name, eh no thank you. We had an hour long taxi drive back to Emma’s place while Niamh’s brother, who’s also living out there, puked out the window the whole way home, not that the Taiwanese would notice any additional waste on their grubby streets.

A rude awakening from a boozy kip and I found myself on the back of Emma’s scooter, complete with boner, bound for the Ladybug School of English. The kids all had surprisingly good English, better than most of my senior high school students so communication wasn’t a problem. They exuded the warmth that kids their age across the world come equipped with. Eager to meet and poke at someone new I fooled around with them while Emma tried to conduct her class. We sang songs, danced and practised writing (I learned so much) while my fatigue was negated by the abundance of energy nestled in the classroom. By the time lunch time came I was feeling the burn and it was time to say goodbye to the snappers, it’s going to be a lot tougher for Emma when she says goodbye to them for good in February.

The sun blazed away as we set off for a porcelain factory near Emma’s town. We browsed in amongst the assortment of different boutiques purveying the same wares. We decided to make each other candles in heart-shaped jars, slightly weird but I went with it. Emma’s design was of a post-apocalyptic seabed, dark and cluttered, she was proud of it though. Mine was a vision of where Sirens could see themselves retiring filled with evocative colours, plucky inhabitants and a homely hue to the rosy water. Obviously when asked which she preferred Emma’s symbiotic amigo chose the nihilistic underwater ghetto. Over the past year the two have become visibly closer and developed a tight bond, that in truth, I was kind of envious of.

Dinner was scheduled for a rustic Chinese restaurant that breathed authenticity from each and every haggard rafter. Sepia wedding photos alongside old cigarette posters added extra flavour to the spread of peppered chicken and other fare. Joined by a chain-smoking tee-shirt designing South African friend initially, then a Canadian Jodie Foster look-a-like with a semi-frozen face (from a motorcycle accident) we were all having a hip time of it. Times were smooth and banter was effortless as we switched venues to the local night market. Hundreds of people perusing through endless tack and cheap-knock offs provided an ideal atmosphere for browsing. I followed my DVD purchases up with some horrendous pornography for Aengus’s Christmas present. Just as we were leaving the market I saw one of the most disturbing things I will ever lay my eyes on. A one-armed man, no legs and a stump on his other shoulder bare backed and wearing only shorts, dragging his portly stomach through the grubby market floor. A bucket filled with worthless coins and pity was nudged ahead of him as most people couldn’t bear to look at this vision of ultimate destitution. Life had obviously cost this unfortunate soul an arm and a leg (well two legs actually).

Booze and bin-lan towed away the remains of the day. Bin-lan, by the way, is a Chinese concoction of nut+leaf+powder wrapped by a scantily clad hussy sitting in an implausibly bright neon booth 24hours a day. Not an illegal substance by any means, the only danger being stains to the pavements from the crimson saliva spat out by its patrons. I double dropped on my first effort and claimed shenanigans after its initial foul taste and impotency. Moments later I was racing through the cosmos stuffing stars in my pockets and juggling the planets on an inter-galactic spree. I crashed back to Earth with a thud after ten seconds. Intense. The 50% Jodie Foster look-a-like 50% cryogenically frozen Canadian was acting as barman and whisking out cocktails out like there was no tomorrow. I was blitzed, lost the faculty of speech, mesmerised by Lisa’s rescued cur and obsessed with the intricacies of the panelling on the ceiling, of which I took way too many photos of.

The next day, after buying some Nazi paraphernalia for Der Fuhrer, we were on the culture wagon destined for the worlds’ tallest building. Taipei 101 doesn’t loom in the distance, it’s constantly in the fore dominating the skyline from every angle of Taipei. 101 stories with 8 stacks of 8 stories, a Chinese good luck number, stacked on top of 37 lower floors. We arrived there as daylight flicked off like a scenery change in a play. Act four took place atop the tower with a mock marriage proposal to Emma followed by her instant, a little too instant, rejection. My world crumbled as she walked off and I would’ve jumped had I been able to scale the enclosing fence. Knowing my luck though I would’ve probably landed on Taipei’s most obese resident gotten up, a little dizzy…I did just fall from 1600ft, and walked off carrying the weight of total loss on my shoulders for eternity. Ahem. End scene. Exiting stage right we were left in front of the massive CKS memorial building, a marble mausoleum housing a sepulchre to one of Taiwan’s most dominant figures, Chiang Kai-Shek. I have no idea who he is except that if his coffin is that big he must have had a lot of bathrooms in his house. Yet again calm sauntered through the open courtyard while groups of people of all ages practiced dance routines ranging from hip-hop to Ceili dancing, made no sense to me. I was suddenly becoming nervous as emotions that had simmered were coming to the boil again. Emma and I were comfortably at ease posing for photos arms around each other and enjoying the time together. I realised why I loved her so much and the disappointment of all the mistakes we made when together, but determined not to mar this brief rendezvous I kept it in.

Some cheap wine and local beers accompanied us back to our double bed in the love hotel we’d checked into for a night out on Taipei’s filthy tiles. Top 5’s came up including Top 5 worst places to get a hard-on. I don’t know how I managed to keep it in but the back of your ex-girlfriends scooter while she’s driving and your ex-girlfriends bed as she sleeps in the adjacent room etc were a couple of my Top 5 that I kept to myself. Asia’s biggest night club, the Ministry of Sound, was where we ended up via that putrid foreigner bar. Yet again we’d enlisted the company of Paudge and Niamh’s brother who’d caught yellow fever and had a local tart in tow. Niamh ordered a tray of test-tubes which went down well on top of my Corona’s. The club was less than half-full and lacked atmosphere, therefore affording my tormented mind the opportunity to think of Emma again. Still I kept it under wraps. Niamh had upped the ante with some double vodkas and Smirnoff Ices for us and accompanied it with a ‘you’ve both changed so much’ chat that was inevitable I suppose. I decided to further raise the stakes by blitzing the bar and walking the road to hyper-inebriation to see what my, now renowned, belligerent mode would get up to. It took about 5 minutes to peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth as I woke up having no recollection of what happened after the tête-à-tête with a copious amount of vodka. Turning over I noticed Emma was in the bed with me, in a love hotel in Taipei, with Niamh nowhere to be seen. Had carnal relations been indulged? Not to my knowledge that was for sure. Niamh was floor kipping and nothing had happened with Emma. I’d done it, I’d faced those demons and come up smelling of roses, well puke on my shirt but it was all good.

Our walk to the bus station was quiet as another goodbye was afoot. Although she holds no attraction toward me anymore I don’t think she could help being melancholic as we prepared to part ways, that was comforting in itself. We were side by side, and arms around one another as we walked toward our final embrace at the gate. Warm and tender, it brought with it the keys to the tear ducts. Her eyes reddened as I reminded her of my feelings and offered a kiss to her cheek. True Lies was playing on the coach as the Taiwanese man beside me wondered had he missed the point of the movie as I sobbed away, head leaning against the window. I’d gotten all I came for and managed to erase a lot of bad memories during the course of my trip.

The Tokyo airport limousine was two-thirds empty as we drove to the city centre. Two strangers in front of me discovered a common business link and exchanged cards and sales figures. I tuned out with the i-pod playing DJ Shadow’s ‘The Private Press’ track 12, a personal anthem to both melancholy and euphoria. The opening line: ‘and now eternity’ followed by a quivering church organ resonating long after the final note was struck. The same deep chord repeated from the gloomy end of the piano…duuuun-duuuun duuuun-duuuun duuun-duuuun, over that the narrator questioning whether I’d betrayed my ideals or if they’ve betrayed me. Across the bay a train slivered over a bridge with little zest, the carriage lights casting a long lemony reflection in the water. In the sky a fireworks display plumed like a school of fluorescent jellyfish pulsing through the air, it ought to have had David Attenborough narrating over it. It was strange seeing fireworks without hearing the claps and the bangs as each explosion was muffled out by the melody creating a potent sense of serenity. The piano was now accompanied by an up-beat synthesizer playing the same piano note higher and faster, a xylophone tinkled alongside it too. The distance held a glowing Ferris wheel turning too slowly to see it turn, but it moved with the city all the same. Attenborough’s husky voice narrated over my thoughts as I thought of Emma and what was not to be, he softly whispered ‘as time heals all wounds it’s the scars you bear that testify to the life you’ve lived’. Note to self: he needn’t have whispered as she couldn’t have heard it.

The naked truth

2005-11-16T09:45:00.000+09:00

Three months into the Japanese chapter and the mid-year conference was upon the newcomers to the freezing north. The promise of hot water springs and plenty of sake to heat those chilled bones was welcomed by all, moreover the opportunity to meet the entire JET contingent in Iwate was the thing I’d been most looking forward to.

The JET programme, to date, has been mixed with positive and negative charges which keep the intrigue and the adventure powered at full steam. The positive side being those people who I’ve met and become friends with, except the Fuhrer, who lead me to learn more about the nature of their being and the places, not necessarily geographically speaking, from which they hail. For each and every interesting, diverse and out-going individual that I happen across there are at least two social retards to throw the scales in favour of the confounding bore-mongers. These irritable puritans, who are best described as lumps of (barely) animated substance, would send the Seventh Heaven family down the road to misanthropy. Not one endearing facet to their inventory and personalities that would strip paint from a wall. These people should be rounded up and shepherded into a pen with their infuriatingly drone ‘personalities’ and fed rice crackers until their eyes bleed and they eventually wake up to their paltry existences. It beggars belief that people like this actually exist. As they chat with their sullen faces and discuss non-events that occur in their mediocre day-to-days they also manage to find time to harp on about me and the people I keep company who are, as they claim, bringing the name of the JET programme into disrepute.

Normally I wouldn’t give a rat’s arse about such insignificants but when they question me, my abilities and the attributes of my friends enough is enough. Sure we party, we party a lot in fact, and it’s nothing new to the way we’ve lived before this. Even Jesus and the boys had a house party before he headed off for the benefit of mankind. Nobody turns into work stinking drunk shouting obscenities at the students and so forth. I don’t want to stand on a soap-box and defend, back-up and harangue on about our participative contributions and daily internationalisation. For me the programme offered the chance to live in a foreign community, one combined of indigenous and people beyond my own borders. Engaging in relations with both parties, Japanese and foreign, has been an experience like none before as I chat with students families over dinner at their homes, congratulating a team mate after scoring a goal or giving a ‘kanpai’ to my friends over a nomihodai. What I would say to these gobshites, for want of a better word, is get out there yourselves, peel off the bubble wrap, smell the shochu and enjoy a culture that offers more than origami classes for the old-aged or day-trips to a soba factory. This doesn’t imply that you should get up and grab a bottle and run around drunk and disorderly. Iwate has a ‘community’ of 120, or so, JET’s of which about 40% get out there and socialise and enjoy a well rounded experience on the programme. I couldn’t care less if their main goal was to fully integrate with Japanese life, and of course everyone is different which is why they should respect our outgoing style just as much as we respect their lifestyle. Just don’t go on about stories you hear, which are obviously blown out of proportion, without having known us.

Man, I’ve been hanging out with der Fuhrer a little too long. On to the conference.

The truth is the conference offered nothing new and was basically a re-hash of everything that’s been drilled into our heads since our respective orientations in Ireland, Canada or wherever. I’m still amused by the amount of ceremony on which the Japanese culture is based. Firstly we will have the welcome ceremony, then the opening ceremony, then the ceremony ceremony and to close with we’ll have (can you guess?) a closing ceremony…all in the space of eight minutes. Of course there were some useful seminars to attend such as Juergens’ Austrian culture display which involved him getting a room full of hangovers drunk at ten o’clock in the morning with his selection of Austrian wines. Winter in Iwate looks like it’s gonna be a bitch after hearing what Brenden had to say on it, it’s straight down to the hardware store for me to buy some bubble wrap and Alan Studeley, studley by name studely by nature, with his re-contracting tips. I most certainly can’t leave out the peppy little fellow who gave the talk on apples on Friday morning. Just as I was about to fall asleep I hear this guy rant on about the all-American apple and now fully has me believing that I should tell all I meet about the history of the American apple, mind-blowing insights it has to be said.

An evening trip to the onsen with the sex-obsessed Joe and it was on to the reuninon of ‘The Bobs Specials’. We needed to recruit someone with knowledge of Japanese popular culture, and beyond, and as all the JTE’s had been snapped up we were with the anomaly that is Patrick Brousseau. He’ll be the first guy to admit that he is taking weird to the next generation, and he certainly leads by example. As soon as the Japanese round came around he disappeared to our bemusement. After getting through to his mobile I asked him what he was playing at to which he replied ‘what colour underwear are you wearing?’!!! You just can’t deal with that type of reply and as a result we flunked the Japanese round and Joes unbeaten quiz record was no more. The party had moved to one of the hotel rooms and it was all nice and cosy till Gerry decided to check out and go berserk. A racist slur against Sanjay followed by ‘I stick my dick in my wife, where do you stick yours?’ to Sanjay ended up in him being, not so politely, asked to leave the room. He left mumbling something about being victimised but soon came back to give Nick and Hollie some abuse. After I offered him an olive branch and a chance to stay he asked did I want to join him in drinking his bottle of wine, `mais oui mon chere rouge`. No sooner had I poured myself a glass he asked what the hell I was doing drinking his wine, obviously I said he’d invited me but then he pulled another classic out of the bag and called me a typical Irish bartender or something along those lines. This time Gerry was out. The following day saw Gerry not offer one apology to anybody; I hope he genuinely didn’t remember as he is salt-of-the-earth without the amber nectar in his system.

The highlight of the week was the karaoke, the best karaoke of my life it has to be said. Nomihodai was part of the AJET organised package and soon everyone was queuing up to give their vocal chords a work-out and everyone else’s ear-drums a taiko session. Omar’s scary likeness to a middle-eastern Freddie Mercury was going to take some beating as he had registered highest on the clapometer until he was outdone by an astoundingly powerful performance of Billy Joel’s ‘Honesty’ by one of the Japanese teachers. Enter Jake to the fray with a Bon Jovi medley perfect in it’s timing, showman like with his rock thrusts and then out of nowhere he pulled out the Worm. He wriggled across the stage flawlessly like a perfect sound wave flowing in tandem with the beat, I wept it was so beautiful. In fact I also wet my pants. We had our winner, no questions asked and no one to usurp him from his throne as the Karaoke King, all hail Jake. The favourites kept reeling out of the machine from the floor filling ‘It’s raining men’ to ‘YMCA’, but of course there was the occasional flop most noticeably Spoondogs less than sure performance of ‘Billie Jean’ Myself and Nick walked away with The Best Costume prize after a flawless rendition of MJ’s Bad complete with dazzling red leather jacket, skimpy trousers white socks and glove from Nick, a spitting image if ever there was one. As for me and my absent mindedness I’d let the team down and had no costume to speak of except for my sexy body complete with Peter Pan boxer shorts, white glove, shades and afro. Karaoke was extended for sometime as we all continued to drink into the night, some partied on afterward whilst others went back and treasured the memory of The Worm.

With applepheliac (ringophile?) being the only highlight of the following day’s activities it was soon time to pack up and head back home. An eye-opener it most certainly was, not in terms of what the conference offered but in terms of the people who I met along the way. I love the JET programme and all the opportunities that come along with it, I’m agape as to how some of the participants made it over to Nihon as they barely register as life participants, but I suppose I even love them too.

p.s. I was naked a total of 43.8 times during the conference, viewed by 107% ofparticipants and maintained an average of 13% sex appeal. Not bad stats eh?

Shamone

2005-11-08T13:34:00.000+09:00

Harroween certainly hasn’t caught the imagination of the usually over zealous Japanese. Not one fancy-dress party organised in any one of the three nightclubs of the dizzy metropolis of Morioka, but no way was that going to deter us. It was time to show these guys how it was done, and that’s what we most certainly did, shamone mother fucker.

The plan of showcasing the five stages of Michael Jackson from his platform toting ABC days to the baby dangling paedophile of today was thrown an early curveball with news that Der Fuhrer wasn’t willing to join in the fun. No doubt everyone’s favourite hate machine was brushing up on the sequel to Mein Kampf which he has promised will be bigger, better and bustier than his previous prison penned effort. Good luck to him I say, it’s only a matter of time before he rounds up the entire inventory at Kamaiishi High’s library and sets it ablaze in the school yard. The clock is ticking on that one, not even Kiefer Sutherland could stop him if he had a spare 24 hours floating around his busy schedule. His possible replacement was a 6’ 3” 17stone black man named after a Ghanaian prince, Kwesi. It would have been a perfect 3-dimensional parody having him strut his stuff whilst painted white with some dodgy rhinoplasty to boot. Unfortunately though this homie wasn’t playing that game and was last heard to be bathing himself in asses’ milk in preparation for a hot date the next day. It was down to four: Group D, Jaki-tori, Nick ‘Nick Boardman’ Boardman and the yet to be christened Paul Stafford.

Within ten minutes of leaving Morioka station we caught a glint of something special in the window of one of the local hosieries. An oversized gold and rhinestone peace sign for the pint-sized Group D was boogying from behind the shop window. Purchase number was about to take place, not a bad way to start. After handing our Yen over to the scantily clad hip-hop whore behind the counter it was on to Hitans for the rest of the outfits. Hitans is possibly the greatest shop ever to grace the earth. An inordinate array of haberdashery with wares to suit any situation can be found on the rusty racks kept in order by the camp pied-piperesque fashion guru who runs the show there. In no time at all we were ideally suited and booted for the night, all we needed now was a monkey and a baby. A quick visit to the glitzy New York Avenue depaato, with Jacques behind a Jason hockey mask, and we had our baby, complete with blanket. Unfortunately we had no monkey, isn’t that always the case though? Never a monkey around when you really need it. That’s twice since I’ve been here in Japan that the monkeys have managed to give me the slip (the banana slip, boom boom).

With the Dodgers Puerto Rican refugee shack unavailable for the transformations it was a quick-change down an O-Dori side street. This was after myself and Nick had managed to fit in a stringed recital of Vivaldi’s l’Estro Almonico Op. 3 No. 11 at the Morioka symphony hall (true). The fever had crept in and all the MJ clichés and catchphrases were being worn out as quickly as you’d take your kid out of a room with MJ in it. The costumes, as hilarious as they were, looked a little less like MJ than we’d hoped. Group D more resembled the leader of the ‘Midgets’ Love ABBA’ fan club, Jacques resembled the ringmaster at the Cirques de Sade and Nick was the Bo Selecta plastic-faced incarnation of Lee Francis’s warped mind. I, however, was a rhinestone crotch away from being touted by a look-a-like agency splendid in my silk shirt, short-ass trousers, white driving glove and imitation plastic-leather fedora. The ‘fros were swaying and Blanket was being tossed about with paternal glee as we moon-walked for all the gawping pedestrians getting ready for their Saturday night out.

Aokosha’s ‘American Psycho’ styled surroundings was an ideal launching pad for the nomihodai and we’d been joined by three lady friends of Jacques’. They were loving the heeeee-hoooo’s, the shamones and dove to catch the baby at all opportunities. The Dodger soon brought his own unique hickness, and purse, to the fracas as we ploughed through the boozes like a karaoke medley of MJ’s greatest hits. Atsune, the most intoxicating of all the Japanese beauties I’ve come to know, was mothering Blanket against her supple teeth with a little too much aplomb. But with an inner beauty that has over-poured into exterior perfection like hers’ I’d plant my seed in there at the drop of a shamone. The two hours was over in the blink of an eye and the troupe was destined to hit a karaoke bar for an homage to the King of Pop. That didn’t quite happen and we were soon celebrating Bar Dai’s 10th anniversary with the rest of Morioka, happy days.

Being unnervingly beautiful, as Atsune is, can sometimes be an overbearing cross to bear and it seemed it got too much for her that night. Somehow the surplus of beauty that’s taken up residence beneath her Geisha like skin swelled into a flurry of puke and erupted all over her diamante encrusted cat-heels and body hugging denim. If the shoes had have been ruby red she would have Dorothy’d herself out of there a.s.a.p., at that point there most certainly was no place like home. With her beautiful puke smearing the floor like grail water there was a frenzy of eager girls to roll around in the unearthly mess in a hope that it would seep inside them and make them even one-tenth as beautiful as Atsune. That ploy didn’t pay off and resulted from the puke laden ladies being snubbed by the rest of the guys at the club.

The MC’ing lacked Sanjay’s garage rhythms but the place was pulsing with a furious beat and the sweat began to drip from the ceilings. That’s not all that was dripping as Group D took up residence with a semi-clothed Japanese guy with an Elvis wig. Giggling and wiggling her toosh she gave it all she had but ended up giving Elvis nothing more than a semi. Jacques had teamed up with a crotch groping weirdo from the Academy of Bowl Haircuts but didn’t seem too fazed in the least. The Dodger kept dodging in the shadows while Nick’s knees took a bashing from the dance-floor as well as his hands getting a handful of rump from a frenetically paced nihon niggler. I was going solo at the bar, surprise surprise.

A daiko assisted ride back to chez Dodger where Group D was promptly given a Nick and Paul sandwich, she loved it, and we’d all passed out…except of course for the raging hormone that is Jacques. Bowl-girl somehow agreed to come back with him for a cuddle and a hug and probably didn’t expect a barrage of fiddling from the relentless hippy. A minor headache the next day was a welcome and we laughed it all off at the cheapest all-you-can-eat pizza in the world. Zero incidents followed except maybe the giant eagle that crashed through the skylight and swooped towards a small baby. The baby managed to evade the hungry beak of this gargantuous predator and the only casualty was the elderly gentlemen who fell prey to the backdraft created by the swoosh of the giant winged assassin. He managed to grasp a hold of the escalator long enough to avoid tumbling to an early grave, lucky him.

It was a Bad ass Thriller of a night that certainly got a little Dangerous at times. The booze gave some the notion to Heal The World and most people couldn’t decide whether or not Jacques was Black or White. The night passed on as easy as ABC and its success can be partly blamed On The Boogie, roll on next Harroween. Shamone.

The show down

2005-11-02T10:00:00.000+09:00

I’m not too sure where this is going, just like I’m not too sure where I’m going but that’s just the way I like it. As “Note To Self” is almost about to take shape as a full body of work it also coincides with a rendezvous with its` main inspiration.

Apprehension has certainly been riding on my back for the past couple of weeks as I prepare to go head on with the one person who’s ever really gotten to me. A mix of emotions has slowly blended into a cocktail of apathy and disenfranchisement towards the fairer sex and nihilistic rants have been at the fore of almost all soirees with my good friend Mr. Booze. I’m hardly torn but I just need to amend one final piece of the saga. The last time we were with each other was after a year of torment and emotional warfare. A wave of mixed emotions and one misplaced ‘I love you’ sent me back into a spin just as I’d finally sent the previous years debacle into the chest marked ‘do not open’. It didn’t take a huge effort to unseal as the adhesive used to close the chest was mainly blu-tac and old Doublemints. As I regained hope of re-igniting what once was, nothing else mattered and I just can’t fully explain the lunacy, on my part, which ensued. The final goodbye had arrived and she was clearly regretting her confession. Confusion had entered the fray and both of us sided with it. A hasty lunch marred by a sour taste of awkwardness was swallowed post-haste as the inevitable was upon us. The lifeless kiss and the ice-cold hug were exactly what I’d expected but refused to believe could happen. As if she’d taken on the form of Edward Scissorhands my ego was shredded to pieces and was quickly swept up by a grimy Dublin air and carried down the heroin addict alleys and on to the sewage works to be mixed in with the rest of Dublin’s shit. I deserved it. The next day I was off to live in Lithuania, a nation who over the centuries has taken an ego bashing from the Russians far greater than I’d undergone, so perhaps I’d fit in perfectly there. I did. About two months of harsh, more than harsh, emails seeking answers and a barrage of abuse resulted in her doing the right thing and ceasing contact. I managed to forget and move on as I developed a relationship with Agne but every time I thought of Emma I just pictured her eyes as we said goodbye.

I’m the first to admit that I was the instigator of all that went on from breaking up to throwing stones, large sharp stones that you find at the bottom of a flint quarry. The old adage of ‘not realising what you had till it’s gone’ was the catalyst for my temporary rage and momentary depression. It’s a wonder that Emma even spoke to me again after some of the things I did and said. One searching e-mail followed by a two-hour call to Taiwan set us back on track to regaining a friendship lost, which was always the basis of our time together. Doing what friends do best we talked about the year that had past and finally realised that everything that was was and we could let it all fade away.

Now I find myself in Japan having left behind a career surrounded by materialistic shmucks, backstabbers and nauseating ‘go-getters’. Having zero qualms about the decision and currently resident-in-chief of Cloud 9 I have the chance to say goodbye properly to Emma next month. Travelling all the way to Taiwan just for a goodbye probably sounds pathetic and as if I’m just the worlds’ number one glutton for punishment, but I have to. I’m hardly trudging around purgatory but I do need to leave this half-way house I find myself in when I come to think of her. As much as I suppose I still love her I know I can separate my emotions and let her continue on without turning Taiwan into a morose deluge of ‘where did it all go wrong’ questions with answers I don’t want to hear the answers to as much as she doesn’t want to offer them. I hardly need another year of languishing in the doldrums. As long as her eyes smile when I return back to Japan it’ll all have been worthwhile, and this time I know they will. Just to be able to blot out our penultimate time together and look back over all the good times without thinking of the bad will rectify all that went wrong. My fairytale ends with a parting of ways.

Post-Taiwan I can re-focus as the rendezvous has certainly distracted me more than I care to admit, especially socially. I don’t feel the need to then start bed-hopping and join the steaming hormone brigade rampaging through Iwate at present, maybe something will come along but maybe it won’t, either way is fine by me. A lesson was learned the hard way and somehow it’s all managed to come up smelling of roses just as the summers’ blooms take rest for the winter.

Sleepless in Sapporo

2005-10-18T10:07:00.000+09:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Iwate socked it to 'em

2005-10-11T10:01:00.000+09:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mounting Iwate

2005-09-11T10:46:00.000+09:00

I woke up early Saturday morning, not due to the brimming morning sun toasting my pasty white body, but due to the overwhelming hard-on throbbing back and forth under the covers. What’s so strange about that you might say, I am after all at the point of optimum virility and therefore it’s only natural to welcome each day with a three handed salute. Saturday, though, was very different. The prospect of mounting Iwate-san was the catalyst behind this raging throb and not the thought of inappropriate affairs with a sinful wench (or a piece of fruit for that matter), which is normally the case. Iwate-sans’ subtle beauty and enigmatic presence had grabbed my attention ever since I first caught sight of it upon arrival in Morioka and I knew we would come face-to-face sooner, rather than later. The moment was now, so with a little carpe diem to the mirror and some last minute packing of chicken breasts I was ready for my date with Iwate-san.

A heady 120km down the expressway in Damo’s power-house motor, named ‘Priscilla’ by the way, was more than enough to further the adrenaline coursing through my veins. A quick pit-stop to digitally capture Iwate-san from afar was in order and offered a brief reminder of what the day ahead posed. Iwate-san doesn’t come under the guise of being a remorseless monster like the Fuji’s of this world, but still I wasn’t naïve enough to assume it would be a cake-walk. At 2038m it’s not something that Jack & Jill would race up in a hurry, but having said that it certainly doesn’t have an overwhelming presence. A lavish bump with a splash of arrogance would be how I would describe it.

Arriving at Obuke station for the rendezvous with the other eager hikers brought a wry smile to my face as I surveyed the hopefuls. The crew was certainly motley, as Rick described it, and the full experience spectrum was represented within. From the severely under-prepared, Alison Watanabe and her best hiking denims, to the grossly over-packed, Maddie ‘The Hippie’ McDonald who brought enough trail mix to feed a commune for 12 years, the group had all the hallmarks of getting hopelessly lost and turning into a cannibalistic group where only the strongest would survive. Nick Boardman, as per usual, offered the first laugh of the day with his IRA Halloween costume/hiking gear that he’d brought along. Obuke also gave us a chance to meet Iwate’s newest ALT named group D (birth name unknown), who at this point was quiet and unassuming.

As we set off I straggled along at the back of the caravan dilly-dallying with the Hippie and the Beaver (Heather), whilst Nic and Ange took up the rear as part of their AJET responsibilities, how they would regret that one later. Living by the motto of ‘it’s a marathon not a sprint’ is certainly not for me so I decided to storm my way to the head of the group with Jacques in tow, who at this stage was foaming at the mouth in wondrous awe of the ‘awesome beauty that mother nature had provided man’, damn Canadians and their hippieness. Leaving Beaver and the Hippie in our wake we soon came across a trail of smoke and thought that someone had really decided to attack this mountain full steam. It was, in fact, Hollie ‘The Sweat’ Vicars puffing on a fag amidst some of the purest air to be found for miles, you have to admire her devotion to her habit. Weaving in and out of the various splinter groups that had formed the next encounter of note was with Sophia ‘The Sweat part 2’ Van der Vinklebottom who mocked me with a ‘tortoise and hare’ comment as I flicked her lifeless body to the side of the trail where it belonged and continued on my Edmund Hilary-like assault on the mountain.

With a full complement of buddies along side me (Jacques, Nick ‘Nick Boardman’ Boardman and Mark ‘Sick’ Skeith) we soon had veggie powered Rick and half human half cyborg Anne ‘soccer mom’ Parry in our sights. A brief photo opp/rest along the edge of one of the lava flows and the race was on again for the top. I would like to say that Rick peaked too soon, but there were enough carrots in the engine room to see him reach the overnight cabin before us. It was at this point, with 2km to go, that Iwate-san revealed itself as a potent force. Severe scree infested inclines and rocky topography, also in the plus 45˚ zone, put the calves to the test and the sweat glands pumping profusely (not even Pocari sweat could disguise the fatigue setting in). Looking over at Anne was a bit disheartening, to say the least, as there were no physical signs of exertion whatsoever, not even her hair, which can only be described as the 8th natural wonder of the world, seemed phased by the ordeal.

Having arrived at the cabin with an hour or so of daylight left we were greeted by an attic dwelling version of Rick raving about his private little snug away from the group. As darkness sprawled over the mountain and the rain thrashed from the sky the remainder of the group slowly reached the cabin. Spirits were damp, but not low and soon everyone was tucking into the Hippies trail mix and their own food reserves. At this point I was acting as an aid organisation (Paul Aid) doling out devilishly tasty chicken breast sandwiches, crispy salad, painkillers, hoodies and t-shirts to those unfortunate enough not to be able to afford such luxury items. With grub in bellies and fresh clothes for all it was time for the booze to come out. A mixture of rum, vodka and whiskey, when I say whiskey I actually have no idea what the hell that rat piss actually was, was on the menu. Good ‘ol Mark and his rancid bottle of ‘Oceans White’ was as unwelcome as his ‘nuking Hiroshima was a blessing for the Japanese’ comment. By now the day had taken its toll on some of the group and they decided to hit the hay i.e. solid oak floor at 200hrs while the rest of us talked some shit for a while and thus annoying the crap out of those that were actually trying to sleep. Group D had, by now, taken a seat in the inner circle and started to reveal a little of her personality via the medium of squeak. None of us were too clear at what messages this renegade Smurf was trying to convey but she made the group laugh with its occasionally decipherable ‘thanks dude’, or ‘peace homes’ and other Ninja Turtle style comments. Skip forward to a huddle in Ricks attic and the worlds biggest moth biting a chunk out of his eyeball, laying a host of eggs in Sick’s hair and generally us causing enough noise to encourage the sleeping Iwate-san to spit a lava bomb on us we all sought repose near on 2300hrs.

A plethora of synchronised alarms ‘welcomed’ 0300 and ascent time. Conditions were miserable with rain and gale force winds being the highlight. A horrible scramble in the pitch black, even my MIR space-station lamp attached to my head was useless in these conditions, to the crater took about 45 minutes and exhausted most of us. Momentary elation atop Iwate-san was followed by misery as it soon became clear that the weather would not give and although the sun would rise, it wouldn’t be shining on us. Tantalising glimpses compounded the frustration as an occasional break in the clouds would afford a view of what might have been. An awesome vista it was too, perhaps like a capable poker player mother-nature didn’t want to fully show her hand, I guess you just have to respect that and move on.

The descent was brief and without major incident except the 178 falls by Group D, and the near death of Suzanne. The one major surprise being the rapidity of the Sweats descent arriving alongside Jacques, Nick and I, perhaps the scientists have just gotten it all wrong about the ill effects of smoking on your health. With everyone safely at the bottom and soaking in the onsen I was satisfied with my one-night stand on Iwate-san. As a true lady will never put out on the first night, Iwate-san didn’t go the full way which has left me gagging for more.

STD issue 4: How to bond with your co-workers

2004-08-11T10:53:00.000+09:00

If all of our lives are defined by constants and variables where one is predictable, but comforting, and the other being unknown and, therefore intriguing then we can all be regarded as being the same, at the base level, except of course Macker (there is always an exception to the rule) who continually confounds and baffles all with his invariable variability, which means he is more constant than variable???...getting confussed now, constanant please Carol. So take solace in the arrival of this weeks edition and put your fig leaf over your grapes and enjoy the Olympic themed edition of STD.

Here at STD weekly (the constant) and the articles within (the variable), we endeavour to be the skewer to your kebab, the tzatziki to your gyros and the ella to your mallaka. Are we following the theme of unison here???...for this week sees the opening ceremony of the XXXVIII Olympics which is, or will have been until the Greeks gave their skanky bumrushing paws on it, the greatest celebration of humanity in the world. Friday the 13th sees the opening ceremony (CLUE 1 to the IOC who awarded the Greeks this years games that a serious skanking was afoot) where the Nth and Sth Koreans will walk together through the half built stadium whilst being mocked and jeered, no doubt, by the always inhospitable and xenophobic/nationalistic/player hating Greeks.

This years Olympics has been clouded with doping scandals, bribery allegations and the fact that the Greeks can’t get their asses in gear to adequately prepare for the games, all this adds up to disaster. Theytalk of pride and the Olympics returning to their spiritual home after 28 centuries. But the Greeks of old, philosophers and maths geeks, are a far flung breed to the Ouzo guzzling, chain smoking, ignorant skankaholic Greeks of the 21st century. They’ve increased prices in some case by over 100%, the workers are striking and I’m rather suspicious has to how finished the stadia are. Enough of my ranting about the Greeks, the world will find out for themselves just what a 'hospitable' bunch these olive skinned goat herding shit monkeys they are.

Last weeks competition winner: Jude le Breadbin, Watson fried egg flavourwas good enough to take the prize of a date with Kelly and his toblerone, and an airmail stamp, with envelope and pen, to write to Toblerone new taste department to request your new flavour. The competition department would like to thank the record number of entrants, and better luck next time to the Bulge.

What has been happening in Vilnius this week? Still haven’t been more than ankle deep in terms of culture but that is all changing now with the departure of Gav, which means that I have become the sole ambassador of Ireland in Vilnius, how lucky they are.

The brawling boss.Sitting down having a few beers with some friends, all of a sudden the head honcho from the marketing department bursts into the Pub with a flock of Liths. After the usual how are you etc I sat back down, enjoyed a couple more beers. Quite un-interesting I hear you say. I decide to take my sexy body; with sexy limp...limps are the new eye-patches, to the dance floor with a young lady for some tango lessons. Two secs into the tango and I hear a thump on the floor, look around and see a guy covered in blood and knocked for six. I then look up to see my boss with no shirt on being restrained by his buddies!!! Turns out my bosses mate was the guy who was decked and he was trying to get the young scallywag who through the heavyweightpunch. After carrying the guy outside and cleaning him up a little, Rytas(boss) decides to tell me why he and his buddies are all there. Turns out it’s his stag night and he’s getting married this Saturday, BUT I’m not to tell anyone in the office 'cos he doesn’t want anyone to know!!!!?? It didn’t bother me as he decided to start splashing out on the sambucas for the remainder of the night. Don’t know what to think bout all that especially as Rytas will have a new item of jewellery, and people are bound to notice, on his finger from after his two weeks honeymoon, which I helped him book on the net. Considering Rytas resides in my pocket now I’m thinking about turning in late, leaving early and taking a three hour lunch break everyday from now on...

The Wodka challenge
Still with Friday night, sitting in Cili Pica with an Irish backpacker, who incidentally has a mathematical theorem named after him (true). In his Kerry brogue he described to me...? Well lahd, Oi was studyin at home for de leavin cert roight, and ih just hit me loike. X plus z minus co-efficient didn’t make sense but three times x's co-efficient did...etc? BLEW MY MIND. And the guy now gets a royalty cheque from the dept of education in Ireland and from any maths books around the world that publishes it. NERD. So this guy, Keith gets a text from this stripper he bagged the night before to go to a nearby Russian bar that says open 'til nine in the morning andasks me if I’d like to go with him. Don’t have to ask me these things twice. Arrive there to be greeted by a 6ft5in Moscowite who shouts at me, politely I think, 'you dreeeenk Wodka?’ couldn’t really say no. Five or six ridiculous shots later and I’m arm wrestling my new best friend, can’t remember his name, and discussing the effects of capitalism on post-communist Russia. Then the lunatic, whose drinking whiskey and coke by now, decides to take a bit out of his glass and chew on it. There he was, like it was a Sunday roast chomping away on the thing, couldn’t believe it. Obviously freaked out by this stage and with Keith nowhere in sight and some girt telling me how foolish I am to be there with this guy and his comrades I decidedto make like Sputnik and blast off. Luckily Keith saw me leaving and we left in one piece. Phew.

Acting 24/7
So far you know that I hate Greeks, pikies, a suburban girl, Wolf Blitzer, Kurt Honeycupp and skangers. Now I add the most nauseating species known to man onto the list...the aspiring actress. Night two of Gavs going away, and with him nowhere to be seen (apparently trudging through a swamp outside the city till midnight with his boss), I was hanging out with James and the film crew. After talking with Zoran the director of photography and Igor the Assistant director I was beginning to like the sounds of an all action shoot. Then I got talking to the most irritating creature on thisplanet. Having introduced herself as the actress who I’ll recognise as wearing the brass tits in some film, I knew I was in for trouble. I wanted to show her my index finger and ask her did she recognise that. Until James cam along and saved me I had heard all about drahmah school, in her equally knobrashingly irritative London voice, and how her boyfriend is touring with this co. and her friend is doing Les Mis in the west End, and bear in mind I’ve done well not to glass this vile wench while she repeatedly called me ‘darling’. YOU'RE IN A STRAIGHT TO DVD SEQUEL THAT NOBODY WILL EVER SEE. When James came on the scene, locked out of his mind, he gave her all his Artful Dodger cockney charm and started to fill her with ‘you look so good in front of the camera’, ‘you’ll be a star’ tripe I decided to stickaround to see if this wannabe would actually swallow it up. Like a baby following mummy’s aeroplane spoonfuls of pureed chicken and broccoli through the air before it landed in the mouth she lapped it all up, without the use of a bib. I watched as her eyes grew ever wider and brighter, and she gave that wispy 'I want to fuck you till tomorrow (as long as I’ll get the part) look to James, who couldn’t give a shite and enjoyed taking the piss out of this obnoxious z-lister.Well folks, another week in the life.

I’m beginning to get freaked out by the amount of limp-a-holics I’m seeing around the city, maybe this is a Mecca for the pedically inflicted. Its like some sort of subversive movement, akin to Fight Club, when you pass someone with a limp they give you that knowing glance of re-assurance and community. Only difference between us is we’re no secret, everyone can plainly see we’re gimps. I entertained a couple of Polskies in the apartment this week. ‘Beavisand Butthead’ as I like to call these squabbling buddies who came to Vilnius on a quest for the 'Beaver', of which they succeeded. By the way, don’t ever mention the war to these people, I found out the hard way as I listened to Jan for about 40mins shout on about Russians and German invasions, occupations etc. Just don’t go there. The guys did leave me a bottle of Polish vodka for my hospitality though, can’t wait to sample it. Slightly dubious about the label on the front which says that it’s flavoured with the favourite berry eaten by the polish bison. What??

Anyway folks, this week’s competition: After I destroy Greece what would you like to see in its place?

Staffowski, editor-in-chief, champion to the little guy, rumpologist tothe stars and all round nice guy

STD issue 3: Olympic News

2004-08-01T10:55:00.000+09:00

Loyal readers, we (I) here at STD would firstly like to apologise for the failure to deliver your favourite weekly read to your mail boxes by the close of business on Friday. Whilst finalising the current edition the editor was called away on an urgent matter which required his immediate presence i.e. train to national park left early on Friday, I heard the call of the wild and I duly answered.

So, instead of the team here at STD aiding your end of week transition from pencil pushing subordinate to CEO of your own personal enterprise, on a weekend basis only, allow us to invert our role, for one week only, and act as the badly needed lubricant to assist you into slipping back into the mundane routine of the 9 -5. Appreciating that eyes may be puffed and heads may be weary, after a weekend of debauchery, hooliganism or non-contact Origami, we will endeavour to keep this weeks articles brief and pointless, as per usual.

OLYMPIC NEWS: a lot of readers commented on my ‘unwarranted' cynicism withregards to the Greeks staging the Olympics. I stand by my comments 100%, and how I laugh to see the embarrassed Greek Olympic council representatives on a daily basis apologise for their athletes being EPO junkies, cheats and a disgrace to the Olympic ideals. Won’t harp on about the Greeks any longer, but what I will say on the mater of EPO is I gots to be getting my hand on some of that stuff. Macker...you know anybody that knows anybody that might be able to point me in the right direction? I am also considering taking up gymnastics and hope to represent Ireland in Beijing, the though of being seen by over a billion people worldwide as I prance round the floor in spandex is too much to resist, we all have dreams, its time I fulfilled mine.

Competition: In keeping with the Olympic theme, this weeks question is:As I begin my preparations for the 2008 Olympics, what other event do youthink I’d be most suited for? Answers to the usual address please.

Finally getting past the awkward ‘dipping your balls into the hot water’ stage, of the cultural bath that is, I find myself almost submerged in the Lithuanian way of life. Soon I will be walking around in white cotton trousers, a fake Armani tank top, carrying a man purse and walking around with 6 mobile phones just like my Lithuanian brothers. The previous weekends experience was my first not to have any contact with an auschlander.

Sauna swingers?
The previous Friday saw me accepting the invitation to spend the night in the forest with a group of my work colleagues. I was thinking that finally I would get to have a quiet evening and get to know my colleagues around the camp fire, relishing a night without the use of alcohol. I don’t think I could have been more wrong. Firstly, I though we’d be roughing it in a girls country house in the woods, like she said. When we arrived at the forest, straight out of a Brothers Grimm illustration, I thought we were still on course for the idyllic log cabin by the river. I certainly didn’t expect to be confronted by a wooden mansion that looked like it could have been built by Hansel & Gretel had they had the keys to the Wonka factory; modesty seems to be a speciality of this girl.

Secondly, I thought that the 40lithas I gave to the kitty was for food and a beer or two. If they had have asked did I want to join them on a session I would have said yes it just would have been nice to know that they had bought a keg and about six bottles of spirits (between eleven people). Never one to turn down a good session I quickly began to suck the booze from the keg. As the night wore on and everyone became ever merrier, I was really getting into the selection of Russian pop music, which included a rooskie version of 4 non-blondes, and impressing all with my lack of knowledge of any words to any song by any Irish artist. The party just got better with the mass exodus of all from the veranda to the sauna room. Earlier on I had noticed that I was the only person there without a partner, but didn’t really pay any attention it at the time. But when everyone began to strip down to their Speedos and enter the sauna all I was thinking was I’m in the Lithuanian version of Eyes Wide Shut and soon I’ll be asked to do something nasty to somebody’s wife while he tapes it.

Once I got over this initial uneasiness, where was booze when I had to do my communion reading in front of all those people?, I was happy to continue my boozing in the 100 degree steam pit. At this point I had developed a slight emphatuation with a couple of the wives but had the good sense to know that the Lithuanian police would never find my body in this dense forest, and left that to myself. Being the last man standing with one of the hubbies, who used to live in Russia and now owns a Russian antique store specialising in Russian bells (what a niche), there was only one thing that was gonna happen: Wodka, great, superb. After a few shots I was dead and the next thing I know I was being woken up on the floor of the changing rooms and being told it was breakfast time. Looking forward to some sort of grease-sponge to settle my stomach I was presented with a pint and a slice of bread with some tomato and cucumber on it, I passed at the pigs’ ear that was being passed around.

The day did, however, turn out to be fun with beers constantly being thrown down my gullet, hardcore sauna sessions being directly followed by dips in the sub-zero river. Can I just add at this point that to add to my limp I was now covered head to toe in mosquito bites, my back was raw due to Tomaz whipping me with a bunch of herbs in the sauna and I had only half of my chest hair left (had to shave off a portion due to rash which had developed), what a vision of beauty I was. So, looking like I’djust spent a week in the Chernobyl Hilton I was returned to Vilnius by my colleagues for some much needed rest. I get back to my place to find my new house mate, Axel from Germany, is there and being in no mood to go through the usual introductions I headed straight for bed. Ten minutes later Agne has arrived at my place with a rake of beers to drink before we go out on the town, what a girl.

Stunt-tastic
Fully refreshed on the Sunday and with a solid four hours sleep behind me it was time to introduce myself to young Axel. Tall, paler than Kelly (Bouli to those that don’t know him), from east-Berlin, listens to techno, and über-gay just about sums him up. I never thought it was true about ‘ze Germans’ before but they are so clinical and methodical about everything they do. Watching Axel slice his bread and place the cheese on it in the most precise fashion scares the crap out of me. Myself and Agne were given the full story of Axel, who didn’t get the Guns ‘n Roses or Beverly Hills Cop jokes which I was laughin my ass off to, I just can’t imagine what it was like to have lived in any of these communist places, some of the stories that you hear are just beyond belief. After a brief background exchange from me we decided to go to the stunt show in the national stadium. Doing my best not to laugh at the rainbow style suspenders that Axel is sporting, we ended up at the Lada stunt fest ‘04.

Watching the speeding Ladas whizz around the stadium on fire, sideways, with Ukrainians standing on the sides was all well and good. The main attraction for me was the mid 50's head of the team who was about 5ft tall wearing a pair of 1980 Adidas jogging shorts with matching singlet and luminous yellow head scarf, no matter how hard I try I just can’t get used to the all round hickness over here. The final couple of stunts really had the crowd on edge. Firstly they parked a lorry trailer across the track than a Lada came speeding round, drove under it, takes the top half of the car off and send the other half bouncing around the track towards the trackside spectators!!! It’s a miracle that nobody was killed as all that there was to buffer the impact was some security tape.The next couple of stunts saw more Ladas flip upside down and explode mid-airand bounce dangerously close to the stands.

The worst thing about last week was playing catch up with sleep as I decided to go boozing with Karolina on Monday night, what was supposed to be a couple of drinks turned into an outdoor session on top of a castle with some of her buddies watching hot air balloons taking off against the backdrop of the crimson Baltic sun dipping into the horizon. Doobers were passed around and we ended up in Broadway dancing till the wee hours to the birdie song, again.

Thankfully I move out of the Bronxski this week into new apartment which means I don’t have to out up with Radana any longer. She bestowed another pearl of Czech wisdom on me the other day after me telling her that I see to be attracting lunatic girls. ‘In my country we have a saying “A raven sits close to a raven”’. At this point I wondered why Dr. Xavier hadn’t given her a call up to the X-Men, perhaps the Garbage Pail kids are recruiting soon though. So folks, enjoy your Monday perusal through the pages of STD and perhaps try to spread it out as opposed to taking it all in one sitting, I find its better for the digestion system that way, and keeps you more regular. Look forward to the return of STD in its usual spot on Friday afternoon as you will hear all about electric storms, canoeing through unspoilt wilderness and of course me being naked in front of a German scout troupe (the polish vodka was consumed on Friday night).

Until then, Staffowski the brave, humanitarian and founder of the Lithuanian society for the protection of beetles

STD issue 2: Life in Lith

2004-07-27T10:56:00.000+09:00

Is it that time of the week again where all you lucky mail recipients get to take 2hours out of your, generally, mundane existences to read all about the Baltic Behemoth himself. Although judging by some of the harsh responses to previous mails regarding the amount of, and I might I just add that it is quality content, I will try and keep it down this week. So...it seems that everyone is off doing their thing around the world somewhere, the stories are coming in think and fast, whether it be stalked by a Mexican phone pervert, evading Peruvian gays, trying to score Texan lezzers in Paris or just your usual race of Vespa vs. Chris Eubank in articulated truck through the streets of London it all seems that you're all getting on well. Except, might I add for Kelly who loves toblerones.

So this week has been another horrendous bout of drunken debauchery in andaround the relatively quiet bars of Vilnius. It all started to go wrongwith the arrival of Gav, other irish guy here, mates arriving on friday. Started the booz-a-thon at 3...finished sometime on Monday morning. IN that time I:

1 managed to pick Macker up from the airport
2 drank lots of absinth
3 got thrown out of local dancery Jazzy Jeff style by bouncer for jumpingoff piano and break dancing in bar
4 watched a friend (identity disclosed to preserve dignity) get rejectedby a Russian prostitute at 5 o'clock on Monday morning
5 wake up on sun morn to find that I had lost Macker. he had to book himselfinto a 'hotel' (wink wink) for the night
6 drank absinthe...worthy of another mention
7 watch the craziest break-dancing of all time in Cozy club, was politelyasked not to 'show them my ill steps'
8 harassed the black freestylin mc, touting myself as the greatest offthe cuff mic battler since Kid'n'Play
9 used the chat up lines 'do you prefer space Lego or pirate Lego' and 'can I invite you out to share a packet of crisps' to no success
10 hung with hippies outside closed strip bar, thought they were my friendsuntil they asked me for money for spending time with them. I've a rekindled hatredfor pikies now. Man I hate those cunts (or should I say those Helen Hunts forthose who may take offence to the c word)
11 got offered a part in the major Hollywood production of Dungeons &Drgaons2...seriously!!! A friend of mine, he's English, won't hold it against him, and is working as cameraman on the production here in Lithuania. I met the directoron Sunday afternoon and was asked if I’d like to go down for a small part(after just writing that last sentence it occurred to me that sounds like 'I was asked TO GO DOWN, to get the part'...hey I’ll do anything for my 15 mins.And for those of you who remember my memorable performance in the Guinnessad, I promise to make this my greatest on screen performance yet. Watch out Colin Farrell.
12 got started on by Russian gangsters in pizza restaurant at 6 in the morning (Fri)
13 got robbed...wallet, cards etc, cd's and walkman.

Mallakas can't really think of anything else. Want to cut this short now. I know the braided beacon will be fuming at the amount of time she's been readingthis!! Oh....went skinny dipping in the most amazing lake on Monday night.Surprise birthday party thrown for me by my roomies and 20 other NERDS on Tuesday, they watched me get hammered and looked very un-impressed.

Ok folks, I’m getting ready to head off to the coast for a sea festivalwith diMac and a few others. keep the stories coming in from Fiji, Argentina,London, Paris, Barcelona, Korea, Basque country, USA, London and not to forget Dublin!!

Until next time.

Staffowski

STD issue 1: Lighting the Lith-mus paper

2004-07-06T11:00:00.000+09:00

Labas (hello...I’ve already mastered this commie dialect).

Well my beloved monkey/donkey touchers, its day four of the Baltic adventure and so far so good. Although, I have to admit that I was absolutely shitting it when I saw the runway into the world’s smallest airport. I have no doubt that the Czech pilot was under the influence of a copious amount of absinthe as he wouldn't keep his gob shut during the whole flight spouting all manner of tripe in about six badly spoken languages. I think he was excited about the semi-final with the Greek mallakas, guess he ain't laughing now and I sure do pity the bastards flying with air absinthe today! One good plus sign was the hot ass half Chinese half god-knows-what sitting beside me on the flight from Prague to Vilnius; she was like sooooooooooo coming on to me you know. Kept on putting on her lipstick and asking me, via the international language of point and smile, if it was okay, or did she want some lip action? Who knows? Would have been a superb entry application for the mile high club though!

As we approached the loop-the-loop runway, it is actually a circle and I did really think that the plane wouldn't come to a full stop and that the passengers would have to bail out onto a bouncy castle, or professional catchers, while the plane kept on going and took off again, wouldn't blame them either by the looks of the airport! And what can I say about the airport other than it looks like it was designed by the third place finisher in the u-8's Texaco children’s art competition. What a swanky little hovel it is, a minor gale gusted outside and nearly toppled the blu-tac jointed terminal into cardboard pieces. Then I was met by the arrival committee who welcomed me with some 'local' cuisine i.e. sour milk mixed with Wodka and black bread covered in salt. Needless to say I almost vomited all over the spud munchers there and then as I was feeling a little tired and hungover after the previous few days activities.

I was then whisked off to my new pad, let me just say that Vilnius, outsideof the oldtown, is just a maze of Ballymun-esque flats. I mean how many differentshades of grey can you colour an already drab as fuck building? Arrived at mine, I shall call it Staffowski Towers, and immediately expected Del Boy and Rodney to scoot by me in a reliant robin....now those two boys would fit in like peas in a pod over here. THE HICKNESS IS UN-FUCKING-REAL. The first thing I did in the flat, which is actually quite nice on the inside (oh really!!! it stinks of rotten spuds and random dead things) was to look out of the window and survey my new abode. All manner of lunatics aplenty, mostly people just boozin and chatting up slutty uber-trashy skank ho's in thongs and mini skirts. What a great first impression! I then got on the blower to young Anne to let someone feel my pain, the worry factor was off the scale at that point. But ever since then it’s been cool. I’m living with a Phillipino girl, Czech girl/man (haven't figured it out yet) and an Irish guy from Offaly. He took me to the local dancery on Tuesday and introduced me to some of his Lith buddies, who were supermodels! Himself and Gavin, the other Irish guy, by the way the Irish population here is currently at four people: us three and you're never gonna believe this, but there is a chick called Erica Connelly who's a chantreuss in the bars over here and has had top ten albums over there (mad). Anyway met Gav and Brens chicks, so hot, but hick, and I just got wasted as I danced to a range of chart-topping hits from the Birdie Song to New Kids on the Block! At less than one euro a beer I was rat arsed by six o’clocski when we decide to leave the Broadway club and crawl home.

Went on the piss again on Wednesday after trying some of the most disgusting food known to man. Everything over here is made from potato and comes with meat, no vegetarians for miles! I had potato sausage, which is a delightful little concoction which would have Gordon Ramsey frothing at the gash. Potato wrapped in pigs intestine with boiled meat and server with sour cream...mmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm also tried pigs’ ear salad yesterday and had a cherry beer to go with it. Off to a castle tomorrow which is by a lake thingy, then out to Brendan’s going away party and then an after party in a club which starts at half four in the morning, apples.

I still can't believe I’m over here!!!

Stay cool, and respect your freedom, Staffowski, defender of Baltic freedom and all round nice guy.

The story so far

2004-07-02T23:59:00.001+09:00

Labas (hello...I’ve already mastered this commie dialect),
well my beloved monkey/donkey touchers...its day four of the Baltic adventure
and so far so good. Although i have to admit that i was absolutely shitting
it when i saw the runway into the world’s smallest airport. I have no doubt
that the Czech pilot was under the influence of a copious amount of absinthe
as he wouldn't keep his gob shut during the whole flight spouting all manner
of tripe in about six badly spoken languages, think he was excited about
the semi-final with the Greek mallakas...guess he ain't laughing now and
i sure do pity the bastards flying with air absinthe today!!! One good plus
sin was the hot ass half Chinese half god knows what sitting beside me
on the flight from Prague to Vilnius; she was like sooooooooooo coming
on to me you know. Kept on putting on her lipstick and asking me, via the
international language of point and smile, if it was okay...or did she want
some lip action??? Who knows, would have been a superb entry application for
the mile high club though!!! so as we approached the loop the loop runway,
it is actually a circle...i actually thought that the plane wouldn't come
to a full stop and the passengers would have to bail out onto a bouncy castle
or professional catchers while the plane kept on going and took off again,
wouldn't blame them either by the looks of the airport!! And what can i
say about the airport other than it looks like it was designed by the
third place finisher in the u-8's Texaco children’s art competition. What
a skanky little hovel it is, a minor gale gusted outside and nearly toppled
the blutac jointed terminal into cardboard pieces.
Then i was met by the arrival committee who welcomed me with some 'local'
cuisine i.e. sour milk mixed with Wodka and black bread covered in salt. needless
to say i almost vomited all over the spud munchers there and then as i was
feeling a little tired and hangover after the previous few days activities...and
s somebody who shall remain nameless , ANNE fucking HARTE, calling me at
about three in the bleeding morning!!
I was then whisked off to me new pad...let me just say that Vilnius, outside
of the old town, is just a maze of Ballymun-esque flats; i mean how many different
shades of grey can you colour an already drab as fuck building?? arrived
at mine, i shall call it Staffowski Towers, and immediately expected Del
Boy and Rodney to scoot by me in a reliant robin....now those two boys would
fit in like peas in a pod over here. THE HICKNESS IS UN-FUCKING-REAL. The
first thing i did in the flat...which is actually quite nice on the inside...oh
really, it stinks of rotten spuds and random dead things, was to look out
of the window and survey my new abode. All manner of lunatics aplenty, mostly
people just boozing and chatting up slutty uber-trashy skank ho's in thongs
and mini skirts. What a great first impression!! I then got on the blower
to young Anne to let someone feel my pain, the worry factor was off the
scale at that point.
But ever since then it’s been cool. Living with a Pilipino girl, Czech
girl/man (haven't figured it out yet) and an Irish guy from Offaly. He
took me to the local dancery on Tuesday and introduced me to some of his
Lithuanian buddies, who were supermodels!!! himself and Gavin, other Irish guy,
btw the Irish population here is currently at four people...us three and
you're never gonna believe this but there is a chick called Erica Connelly
who's a chanteuse in the bars over here and has had top ten albums over
there???!!!! Anyway met Gav and Brens chicks, so hot...but hick, and i just
got wasted as i danced to a range off chart-topping hits from the birdie
song to new kids on the block!!! At less than one euro a beer i was rat
arsed by six o clocski when we decide to leave the Broadway club and crawl
home.
Man this email is long...I’ve been hanging out with Aoife too long. I’ll
wrap it up so. Went on the piss again on Wednesday after trying some of
the most disgusting food known to man. Everything over here is made from
potato and comes with meat, no vegetarians for miles!!! I had potato sausage
which is a delightful little concoction which would have Gordon Ramsey
frothing at the gash. Potato wrapped in pigs intestine with boiled meat and
server with sour cream...mmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
also tried pig’s ear salad yesterday and had a cherry beer to go with it.
Okay folks enough!!1
off to a castle tomorrow which is by a lake thingy, then out to Brendan’s going
away party and then an after party in a club which starts at half four in
the morn.
Still can't believe I’m over here!!!
Stay cool, and respect your freedom,
staffowskius, defender of Baltic freedom and all round nice guy.
I doubt any of you got this far though in the mail!!!