Japan, Part 6
Hello all, I thought I’d begin this next piece with a little apology for the delay. Last week I had to attend a security convention at the NEC. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s safe to say we’re all doomed. The event culminated in one final heavy night on the liquor, and ultimately me accidentally nearly burning the grade 1 listed stately home I was staying at to the ground. This was before being found unconscious in a priceless chair; namely the one in which Napoleon was confined to during his imprisonment by the British post Waterloo. Luckily someone turned the gas off in time, and my website URL I scrawled on the arm of the chair isn’t anything a good French polisher can’t remove. Unfortunately my cheese on toast couldn’t be salvaged. Alas, this is all by-the-by; we’re here to address more serious matters – Japan! Part 6 no less! And so, on with the show!
I left you last time as I was hurtling towards Kyoto on the Shinkansen. The Shinkansen (新幹線, new main line), also known as the bullet train, is a network of high-speed railway lines in Japan operated by four Japan Railways Group companies. Starting with the 210 km/h (130 mph) Tōkaidō Shinkansen in 1964, the now 2,459 km (1,528 mi) long network has expanded to link most major cities on the islands of Honshū and Kyūshū at speeds up to 300 km/h (186 mph). Test runs have reached 443 km/h (275 mph) for conventional rail in 1996, and up to a world record 581 km/h (361 mph) for maglev trainsets in 2003. Obviously I only just found all this lot out from Wikipedia; at the time I just knew it was a fucking fast train, which statistically speaking there’s no doubt it is, but let’s face it – unless you’re a human fucking speedometer, I doubt you’ll notice the difference. What is noticeable however is the efficiency of their service; on average the bullet train arrives within 6 seconds of the scheduled time. 6 seconds! Christ almighty! We’re lucky if a train arrives at all over here. What’s also notable is the fact that you can still smoke on them – conclusive proof, if ever it were needed, that smoking carriages on trains significantly improve not only comfort, but reliability also. The train itself looks pretty goddamn righteous too, I likened it to a cross between a sturgeon and a dildo. Despite repeated letters to the JR (that’s Japanese Rail by-the-way, not that fucker in a Stetson off of Dallas. Jesus Christ! What were you thinking? (I don’t literally mean what was Jesus Christ thinking by the way, it was an exclamation. Why would I bring JC (Jesus Christ) into a comment about JR (Japanese Rail), not about JR (Dallas, Stetson botherer)) Why would I write to JR (off of Dallas) about JR (the Japanese train people) about trains? I only write to JR (fictional yee-haw oil Barron) to ask who shot him, and when he’ll free Deidre Rashid) they refuse to call any of their fleet either a Stildo, or a Dilgeon. Shame cos I think it would add an air of elegance, fitting for their sleek design.
The speed, the sleek design, the comfortable seats, the smoking, the view of Mount Fuji, ALL of these things, wonderful as I’m sure they were, paled into banal piffling triviality compared to my numero uno, ultimate, cannot-do-without-being-more-than-five-metres-away-absolute-NECESSITY on this journey… The lavatory. I swear to sweet fuck, my low-solid-high-liquid diet really began to take its toll prior to us leaving for Kyoto. Fruit Chi-Chu was literally pissing out my arse. My backside has always been a tad temperamental; I’ve been prone to the odd bout of the old cider shits before, but nothing could have prepared me for this. Talk about irritable bowel – mine was fucking livid. The main problem was the sheer unpredictability of it; each time I thought I’d cleared it, out of no-where I had to do the dirt-dash back to the lav. It was fucking exhausting. Fortunately, just like everything else in Japan, the toilets on the train were immaculate. In fact, at some points, they were sweet sanctuary away from a truly obnoxious bunch of Russians who were sat in front of us. All pissed up and carrying on like it was an Iron Curtain Club 18-30s; they had all the tact of a T-34, the decorum of a fucking Kalashnikov, and about as much panache as a piss ridden Ushanka. Ignorant Slavic slags! With their gauche dress-sense, brash behaviour and with haircuts ranging from the bubble perm to a Euro-mullet, you could be forgiven for thinking you were watching a badly dubbed version of Shirley Valentine.
Within 6 seconds of our scheduled arrival time we were in Kyoto, but working on a schedule of its own, my duodenum was still traveling at 130mph. Something had to be done. After some shuffling about the minder and I managed to locate a chemist, and after 5 minutes of rudimentary mime to illustrate my plight I seemingly broke the language barrier and Mr Pharmacist yelped “Ah…you want stop!” with reciprocal arm motions, just in case I didn’t understand. ‘STOP!’ as the crapper-stopper was now branded, certainly looked the part (see inset), although for accuracy the lightning really ought to have been originating from a different location…
And so, with my colonic confidence restored thanks to STOP! we headed off to find our hotel. The first thing I noticed as we were trudging around was that everything was closed; the bars, restaurants, shops…everything seemed to be shut. To begin with this wasn’t particularly an issue as we merrily dawdled round the labyrinthine streets trying to figure out where the hell the hotel was. That was until, fickle as ever, my guts began to gurgle. Fuck. It was unbearable. I don’t know what’s worse, being desperate to shit and knowing how far you have to go to expunge, or the madcap, balls-out terror-fest that is running around looking for a place to shit. The thing with searching for a place to drop trow is that you can convince yourself it’s just round the next corner, but this can be a very dangerous game indeed. You definitely don’t wanna be letting your guard down at a time like this; one slip of concentration and it’s game over – for you and anything associated with your grey skinny trousers and, if ass really goes awry, likely those nice shoes you got from Absolute Vintage – you know the ones you’ve been trying to keep clean cos they’re white canvas on the out-step. Now, on the other hand, if you know where you’re going, there’s a quantum of solace in the knowledge that, should you be able to reach said destination, all should be fine. Of course that’s if you reach it and if when you get there there it’s not already occupied. I found myself in the ethereal hinterland between the two scenarios, we knew we were in the right area, but there was nowhere else I could find open to go. We had to press on. What ensued over the next 15 minutes was like challenge-fucking-Aneka, except it wasn’t a local Parish roof we were saving from collapse, it was the very real threat of cataclysmic structural failure, on an entirely different scale. Thanks to the rest of the teams navigational skills, and my constant howling for encouragement, we managed to locate the street our hotel was on – I now knew, without doubt, I was within 50m of touchdown, I could NOT let the relief of this knowledge shadow my objective. My need had become so great I couldn’t risk any sudden movement, lest the jarring motion compromise what little intestinal integrity I had left. I motioned for The Tornado to put his out-in-the-field training skills to good use and check that coast was clear, and pinpoint the exact location of the lavs – this landing had to be fucking laser guided. Just as I’d reached the foyer, it was mission critical, I took off screaming: “Where’s the bastardin’ toilet?”
“It’s over there!” The Tornado pointed “Wait, wait wait! They need your passport!”
Passport? Passport! It’d be rubber gloves and a fucking mop they’d be needing if I didn’t get to that lav.
“Passport? Fuck the fucking passport!” I screeched, at which point I delved into my pocket, grabbed the passport and launched it with such frenzy that it twatted the poor receptionist right between the eyes. I managed to yelp a traumatised ‘sumimasen’ just before diving into the bog. I’d made it, well almost, just as the waist of my trousers was reaching the bottom my arse crack – AKA the safety zone- the relief of making it this far overwhelmed me and KAPLOW! I hardly dare turn round, hell hath no fury like a colon scorned; I pebble dashed half the cunting cubicle. What a horrorshow. The barely anything had gone in the bowl; the seat, the floor, the cistern even the fucking wall was plastered in a lurid yellow mixture of watery fluid and semi-digested organic matter. The toilet was electronic, and in blind panic I started mashing the buttons. Before I knew it water was squirting out the bastard in all directions, it was flushing, and much to my complete astonishment the fucking toilet seat started rotating smearing the shitty mess everywhere. Ergh. 25mins it took, 25 lousy stinking minutes before I could leave that cunt in reasonable repair. I needed a shower, a Chi-Chu, to ingest something solid, and definitely more STOP!
Whilst I was washing my bits and gathering my wits, I chanced upon the Japanese pay-per-view TV. If ever there was a perfect example of how insane the Japanese are, this was it. Let’s face it, the telly’s always shit in hotels. Over here it tends to be the last bastion of the local tourist board presentation; a fucking Partridge-esque travesty, hosted by some third-rate celebrity, with a tenuous regional link to the locale (like they once bought a baseball cap from the JJB there), and whose last appearance on primetime TV was when bomber jackets and spliffy jeans were still worn by people other than Dappy from N-Dubz. They always have the production values of a comprehensive school musical, and the so-called star probably does it for 2 cans of Fanta and a boiled egg. Whichever has-been bell-end they’ve managed to rope in starts with a piece to camera: ‘Why don’t you join me, Bill Beaumont, as I take you on a whirlwind guided tour of the historic town of Dudley, and find out why I call it: “A smashing little place”. On the way we’ll get to see such hidden treasures as: Daz’s Scrap yard “your trash, is their treasure” (cue star wipe to still photo of a load of rusty old shit); Nora’s tea room, “Where the kettle’s always on” (cue fade to still of startled OAPs supping PG tips); Boots the Chemists “3 for 2, mix & match” (cue side wipe to some old trout dishing out johnnies); ICI chemical plant “accident free since ‘92” (cue vertical wipe to Industrial Romanesque {you’ll see}), and many more enchanting locations!’
Don’t get me wrong, what the Japanese brought to the in-house audio-visual market was no big-budget blockbuster, but Christ was it weird! I noticed that there was a ‘preview’ facility, so my immediate instinct was to jump straight to the pornography, for a little self-relief. I resisted my initial base impulses, as my curiosity was tweaked by what the Japanese might consider – as the option was termed – ‘mild entertainment’. I hadn’t seen a god damn thing that could accurately be described as ‘mild’ so far from the country, so, intrigued, I navigated the cursor down and clicked OK. What I found defies all logic. All these titles are painstakingly transcribed exactly as they were on the screen, I say this so I don’t have to [sic], after each one:
1) How-to full length Marathon running: From what I can gather from the 45 second preview, this was just a guy, stood in a park, dressed like a 118-118 man TELLING you how to run a marathon. Who the fuck was this aimed at? Jesus Christ! Even if this were in London, and the fucking marathon were on, and you were sat in your hotel room on the night before the race, it’s a bit fucking late to be learning now! You shouldn’t be sat in your friggin’ tracksuit bottoms, watchin’ a bastardin’ VHS and stuffing your gob with prawn cocktail crisps, you need to get your fucking trainers on and go for a fucking jog! Find out what you’ve let yourself in for, you twat! Seriously, what in sweet Theresa’s name could a feature length ‘how to’, tell you about running? Did it just go on for the duration of a marathon? The guy going: “left foot in front, right foot in front, left foot in front, right foot in front…” For 26 fucking miles? “Remember to breathe, or you’ll die”. Incredible.
2) Sandwich Man #1: I’ll be damned if I know what the fuck this was all about, the clip was just a feller talking in front of an audience – a bit like Kilroy. Where the sandwich comes into play I haven’t the foggiest, but judging by the ‘#1’ there must be other episodes. It must be a foot-long.
3) The Strongest Insect in the World 2008: You know the formula; two combatants pitched in a battle of dexterity and might. Think UFC, but with big fuck-off beetles, praying mantids and various other bugs. To be honest, I’m surprised Sky haven’t picked up on this format and got Danny Dyer to host it.
4) Video for Drunk Alone: This is just such a fantastic concept; essentially, it’s a guy sat at a table, steadily get shit-faced. Seeing this made me re-evaluate my career opportunities in Japan – now here’s a town I could really make a name for myself! But seriously, who is this aimed at? Naturally, I was impeded by the language barrier, so I couldn’t discern whether it was simply good old mocking entertainment, or, as the title would suggest, it’s actually for the lonely drunk – a sort of surrogate friend to get pissed with. Either way I think it’s brilliant.
5) Industrial Romanesque: A personal favourite of mine. This was just a series of pans, tilts and zooms on abandoned industrial buildings in various states of disrepair. No narrative, no words-on-screen, just the ambient background noise of birdsong and the odd aeroplane – a bit like when someone’s been racist on Big Brother. How long did this go on for? Who watches this? Why film this? Nothing moves! Surely they could have just taken photos? And most importantly, why in Jove’s name is it on a hotel VOD? Baffling, truly baffling.
If the selection within the entertainment section wasn’t mystifying enough, fuck me, you should have seen the titles for the pornography. Talk about warped. Jesus. Again, these are all exactly as they were on the screen:
1) The female teachers anus hunting: First of all, I couldn’t preview the porn, I can assure you I was as disappointed as I’m sure you all are at not being able to cast my discerning eye over this madness. Grammatically this title is very ambiguous, is it one teacher hunting for anus? Or multiple teachers after a bit of ass? Is she hunting for arse? Or is it her arse that’s doing the hunting? Could it even be that her arse is the one been hunted? God knows, but I like to leave a bit of mystery in life; some things are just best left unexplained. Besides, I wasn’t paying a tenner to find out what happens to her, or anyone else’s ring-piece, for that matter.
2) Boin fetish: Who, or what a ‘boin’ is, god only knows.
3) Ejaculation to the inside: I’ve got a pretty good idea what this is…
4) Masturbation support: I’d like to think that this is simply an earnest and pleasant reference to pornography. Knowing Japan, it’s probably a crack-team of sexual ninjas who drop in through the ceiling and furiously toss-off all and sundry in the room.
5) Sit on the stand of the public bath: Is this a public safety broadcast? Or a dick flick?
6) Please train my wife: An emphatic plea, from a sexually bereft husband?
7) Public nuisance beasts: Words cannot describe how much I love these 3 words in series; I live in hope of one day being adorned with the title ‘public nuisance beast’. I bet this is probably the best pornography ever committed to film.
8) Pussy seal. Anus sex for 24hrs: Someone’s gonna be sore in the morning, or evening, or afternoon, I guess it depends when they started, but it’s safe to say, they’re gonna be sore at the same time, the next day, probably before actually. It must be some sort endurance thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if David Blaine’s involved, I bet he’s always shoving shit up arse for sustained periods of time.
9) The mother-in-law is a Widow: Grief can do strange things to a person, at what stage it turns you into a sex-crazed nymphomaniac, I’m not sure.
10) Hight [sic] consecutive by anus: I can’t figure out whether this is supposed to be advisory, like at Alton Towers or summat; ‘you have to be this tall to ride the shit-chute’, or if it’s some sort of mathematical formula, calculated by an ass-hole obsessed, Pythagoras type. Now, I’m no mathematician, nor do I have the will to start taking the various measurements of my anus, mainly because I think the pure logistics of the procedure would have to involve the enlistment of a third party. For these reasons, I think it’s best to leave this one in the dark.
11) Incestuous!!! Widow of Humiliation: Haven’t these poor women gone through enough? First the loss of their husband, now their forced into some sort of inter-family sex act.
12) Indecent debt collection: My guess is that this isn’t about the extortionate cost of inner-city privately owned wheel clamping. Or perhaps it is; violate the parking rules, prepare to get violated.
13) Delusion Theater [sic]: This has got to be in the running for the most high-brow title for a rub-reel. I mean, is it a porno? Or some avant-garde statement upon the failing sexual self?
I’d become so embroiled in defecating, cleaning up said defecation and trawling through Japanese VOD, that I’d completely lost track of time. That was when it hit me – every so often you’re faced with a cross roads – ITV had theirs, Britney had hers and I had mine: What do you do when it’s 10pm and everyone else has gone to bed? I contemplated shelling out a ten-spot, and spending the night with Video for Drunk Alone. Instead I spent 25 minutes expelling as much diarrhoea as humanly possible, and then hit the town, as hard as I did the lav…
