Monday, November 27, 2006

The Invisible Woman.

Along with your visa, something you are provided with as a foreign female arriving at Narita airport is a cloak of invisibility (I did ask if I could swap for a bullet proof one but they were out). It is regulation to wear this cloak at all times in order to guard oneself against the possibility of foreign intervention. After years of ''Hi wha's your name where you from whasa matter why you don' wanna talk to me?'' anonimity is a breath of fresh air (I'm told it remains so for about six months after which you start to wonder if what your mother told you about not making faces in a changing wind was true).

Obviously, as with anything gender related, double standards exist. A mutation occurs on the journey over, the plane acting as chrysalis to it`s male cargo so that on arrival former mutants with questionable ethics emerge to find themselves Charles Atlas in a land where living with your mum in Rotherham at the age of 32 does not prejudice your changes of coping off. Blinking in the new dawn of their existence they proceed to exercise their newfound appeal in the time honoured manner of all rock stars. By turning into arseholes. Haven't worked out what the attraction is yet. Perhaps the Japanese girls think those nice G.Is have come back with that Green Card. The boys are back in town ladies and they have some candy for you.

On our first foray into the wilds of Shibuya (which engendered some interesting 'pub or knocking shop' dilemas) we met an some elderly Japanese businessmen who were courteous to a fault and not at all overbearing in the way that many can be to unaccompanied females. The only slightly suspect inquiry was 'are you Russian'. This being slang it seems for 'are you a prostitute'. Those Russian girls, they'll do owt for a couple of potatoes and some vodka.

Tokyo is a very safe place to be both in general and as a lady. Leave your wallet on the cafe table and you will most likely return to find it still there with contents intact. The streets are safe to walk at night. In fact there is only one type of theft prevalent enough for our captors, sorry employers to warn us about. It seems unnattended laundry of the female persuation walks the `G` (yes I mean you Gareth) string of risk. Well, those vending machines have got to be refilled from somewhere.

Until next time. Get your mits off my pants Mr Kobiashi.

Saturday, November 11, 2006


Ain't Getting On No train Fool.

The Tokyo underground and overground (wombling free though any womble round here'd swiftly find itself gutted and its nostrils served to the gaigin) is legendary and I'm here to tell you it's all true. There really is a little grey suited man sporting white gloves whose job it is to greet you with a hearty 'Ohayo gozaimas' and gently 'aid' those alighting particularly crowded trains. Another dapper fellow has the job of leaning out of the window to make sure the doors line up exactly with the lines painted on the platform behind which commuters wait obediently in lines. It gets pretty damn crowded too. People spilling out when the doors open. I swear I once saw a lady doing the 'wide mouthed frog' against the window. Consider that Tokyo not only has both an underground system larger than the Tube but also an equally sizeable overground network both with trains running three minutes apart ata all but the quietest times. Now consider that both are rammed for several hours of the day and you start to get some idea of the scale of it's dedicated workforce. Despite the logistics of transporting so many people to their destination the system functions perfectly. Proving once and for all that Richard Branson and Railtrack are a bunch of shiteing cunts. The only thing to disturb the harmony is when some poor 'salaryman', faced with a lifetime of this daily soul sapping, opts for a swift exit in front of the incoming 7.35. This appears to happen on a daily basis judging from the on-train information screens broadcasting delays due to 'accidents'.

What makes this crush bearable is the knowledge that some greasy cunt isn't going to have your bag as soon as your back's turned. The Japanese are incredibly law abiding (one of Cath's students thought that westerners think an abandoned bag in the street is a gift to them from God) and it makes a very welcome change, if being taken to the point of bloody mindedness at times. This is how we do it, this is how we've always done it and no it can't be changed even if it makes no sense and no-one can remember why we started doing it this way in the first place and what are you doing asking questions about it anyway? They are also unfailingly polite (even through gritted teeth at rush hour). The theory is that Japanese society has a lot of social codes because so much of the land is uninhabitable and everyone has to rub a along together in a very small space and it's better not to kick up a fuss by questioning things. A well known motto is 'The nail that sticks up gets hammered down'. Indeed.

Gotta go. The office won't run itself you know.

Sunday, November 05, 2006


20 Seconds To Arrive.
A timely break this week from the daily bump n grind saw us in Kyoto, one-time capital of Japan, home to over 2000 temples and the last of the Geisha. Unable to face catching the overnight leg cramper I splashed the cash for the Shinkansen bullet train and was there before I'd got out of bed (not for the first time did I wish I'd invested in some respectable P.J's). An eight hour journey condensed into three. No excuses about no maple leaves on no line neither. En route I managed to spot the famous Mt Fuji coyly peeking its head out from behind some rather pituresque cloud cover.
Zen'd Out.
Kyoto made a nice change from the asylum that is Tokyo. We let the meaning (and the cash) unfold in a series of zen gardens (my that's a nice rock) and temples which preened like glamour models for the barrage of paparrazzi. Against the background of tinny tannoys and clicking shutters we attempted to achieve nirvana but the overall effect was more like listening to Courtney Love. Very pretty though. You can't fail to appreciate the simple organisation of a Japanese garden though I am left with the nagging feeling that there may be something wrong with your soul if the your overriding impulse on contemplating raked sand is to jump in and make snow angels in it.
Girls With Film.
It only takes a short while in Japan to realise why the Japanese go camera mad when they hit Europe. Everything must seem so different. And slow, like how a fly sees us moving into slow motion (geedaaaaa spooooon). At the plaza near my station I count four giant t.v screens with the volume turned right up. It's fortunate that the Japanese themselves are so well mannered and quiet or the extreem noise terror would be unbearable. It's like a living fun fair every day (scream if you want to go faster). Unlike a fun fair however the low pikey count means you can enjoy it without fear of flashing too much bling. You can see why they feel it's permisible to walk aroud with a Nikkon that cost half a South American country's GDP and not have it taken off you.
Livin' Doll.
I was also lucky enough to see a few real live Geisha in Kyoto. Glimpsed through teahouse windows laughing politely at the jokes of suited businessmen, moving as fast as their restricted little legs could carry them to their next appointment. The effect of painted faces and glittering robes suddenly appearing out of the darkness in front of you is quite ghostly. There are apparently less than 1000 Geisha in the country inhabiting a closed world somewhere between Japan's present and its past.

That's all folks. Next week; What Not To Wear.