Here I Go Again On My Own.

Take a hundredweight of rigid social conventions stewed in a thick broth of honour and isolation over several thousand years. Add two litres of U.S culture and a heaped tablespoon of rapid industrialisation. Stir well and simmer for half a century. Result; Japan. Aisa Lite. High in fun, reliability and work ethics. Low in danger, poverty and personal space.

So the sun sets for the last time on the land of the rising sun leaving so many questions unanswered. Such as;
Why is it polite to slurp your noodles but not to blow your nose?
Since when has velvet hotpants and silver knee socks been acceptable attire for the 8.30am bus to the office?
Who thought it would be a good idea not to bother with street names?
Why do all manga characters have such big eyes?
And unfeasible tits?
Why can't you just say 'no' if that's what you mean?
Would one ever cease to be 'Outside People' (gaijin)?
Will more strangers come?
Why is every sentence backward giving the constant impression that you are talking to Yoda?

Kate~o this is goodbye saying time being for. Blog checking please be doing as down under a few shrimp on barbie to throw go I. xx

Mind The Gap.

Japan is frequently (and clichedly) described as 'a land of contrasts'. And some. Edo era kimonos jostle with hot pants on the Yamanote line, the serenity and beauty of a zen garden is overlooked by deafening video billboards and a nation obsessed with consideration for others eats up game shows whose central premise appears to be the utter humiliation of the happless contestants.

Burger Flipping As A Spectator Sport.

During the short period in which it is possible to sustain interest in t.v you can't understand I managed to discern one fact central, I believe, to understanding the national psyche; the Japanese are mad as hatters. My first televisual treat featured a businessman being pursued at speed down a long corridor by a large polystyrene boulder. 'Indiana Jones and the Last Train Home' perhaps? The next foray was no less rewarding and involved what appeared to be a cooking competition for children in which everything hinged on the young contestants ability to flip various food stuffs. Charmingly, the host and camera would home in not on the winners but the distraught faces of the less than successful and their ruined offerings. Perhaps less a game show than preparation for the harsh realities of life in a culture in which coming second best used to mean a hot date with a sharp　blade. I didn't watch long enough to find out if this was the consolation prize.

Pachinko.

Descending the seven levels of hell the soul passes through various torments (Groundhog Day at 6.45am in Shinjuku station, an orientation session for all eternity) the utterly wretched (kiddie fiddlers, dog kickers and bag snatchers) coming to rest in the Pachinko hall. Comdemmed to spend all eternity stuffing handfulls of ball bearings into a vertical pinball game requiring no discernable skill to the accompanyment of manga visuals and a noise comparable to the boming of Dresden untill at last they win a giant teddy bear and exchange it with Satan for money in an attempt to get round Japanese gambling laws. To describe the Pachinko hall as an assault on the senses would be like describing a yakuza heavy as 'a weedy little nance'. I stood three minutes before I was forced back onto the zen like tranquility of the rush hour streets.

The Maid Cafe.

Ah Akihabara. Home to cut price electicals, pornographic clip~together manga dolls (for the discerning hobbyist) 'A Boys' and the place they all go when drooling over a scantily clad, wide eyed cartoon just aint enough; the Maid Cafe. In this haven for the socially skilless young girls with poker faces dressed in frilly skirts and cats ears ineptly serve overpriced fare while another of their underage number writhes on video (in a disturbingly childish fashion) on a bed or coyly takes bites out of a potatoe.

Little Pigs, little pigs.

Japan is a hotbed (sorry) of volcanic activity. Dig deep enough and scalding, stinky water comes bubbling up and into the giant bathtubs of it's many spas. The Onsen experience is a nightmare of potential social gaffes for the uninitiated. DO check first which doorway hyrogliphic indicates your single sex hot tub. DO shower before getting in. DON'T be embarrassed about having to do this on a pygmy sized stool in front of total strangers or your mates. DO add some cold to avoid striping your skin off and, whatever you do, DON'T sip too much Suntory (for relaxing times) in the bath and give yourself a funny turn.

That's it for the culture rundown. Sadly, having had no 'love', I am unqualified to comment on the delights of the ubiquitous Love Hotels (varying prices for 'stay' or 'rest') and capsule hotels (though the Leopalace might count at a push). I have failed you in my quest for enlightenment and must now horizontally extend my navel with a sushi knife for SHAAAAAAAAME!

Tune in for next weeks instalment from beyone the grave.

Those Boots Weren`t Made For Walkin`.

Image is everything in Japan so style matters. A unkempt Japanese is like an honest U.S president. A rare sight indeed. A recent straw poll in the classroom revealed that your average young Japanese would no more be seen as unfashionable or scruffy that they would a Kim Jong Ill sympathiser. Our survey said `It`s important to be fashionable` only one out of forty students said `yes but having a personality is more important`.

And what fashion it is. The `fashionistas` (does that word make you want to murder people too?) of downtown Tokyo gobble up yer Pradas, Guccis and Ralphs like hot sake. The most romantic present a boy can give is a Louis Vuiton bag apparently. There`s also plenty of room for the `completely out there` though, such as the kids that hang out by Harajuku station on weekends dressed as robots, French maids, goths and all manner of vaugely disturbing outfits that defy explanation.
For a nation so conservative by nature your average Japanese young lady about Shibuya displays none of the usual coyness dresswise. Those too old to compete for the 'Indecent Shortness of Underage Skirt' award (schoolgirls really do go about like Gogo Yubari by the way) do a passable impression of naive upmarket hookers. To get an picture of the `look` imagine a head on collision between your grannys wardrobe and that of a gangsta rappers moll. Missy Elliot meets Maggie Thatcher. And offs her scrawny ass. There follows a transcript of from the Shinjuku Finishing School For Young Ladies;

"0600 hours kit inspection. All present and correct?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Is your hair bleached an unatural ginger shade?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Do you have a bizzarely patterned jersey/blouse that would not look out of place in a nursing home or on an old rerun of Dynasty?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Have you teamed said jersey/blouse with a cropped fluffy or other jacket and oversized costume jewelry achieving a surprisingly stylish effect from items that should really never be seen together?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Are your boots knee high, spike heeled and worn over sparkly stockings for a disturbingly cute whilst sexual effect?"
Sir yes sir"
"Are the velvet hotpants/denim miniskirt so short as to threaten a display of wares?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Very good maggots. Now go....Wait a minute what's this? Private do I see a pair of jeans before me?"
"Sir I was cold sir. Sir it's the middle of December sir"
"GODDAMMIT PRIVATE ARE YOU IN THIS ARMY TO DISPLAY INDEPENDENT THOUGHT?"
"Sir no sir"
"Private get changed immediately and report for toilet cleaning duty"
"Sir yes sir"
"I can't hear you private"
"SIR YES SIR"

Next time; French Maids, gambling and 'four in a bath' shocker. No word of a lie.