Andy's Glasses

I was standing on the platform this morning at Odawara station, getting the bullet train back to Tokyo. So this is what you do. You find the platform, it ain’t hard. Then along the platform are the numbers of the actual carriages on the train, once it arrives. So you go to the ‘4’ number and you know that is precisely, exactly, unwaveringly where the door to carriage 4 will arrive. So they paint lines to queue behind it and, being Japan, everyone politely, courteously, quietly, stands in a neat little line. They all know the rules.

I was standing in the wrong place. Mel pointed it out. So I modified my favourite football song for the good citizens of Odawara (all Japanese are good citizens, they don’t have burglars, muggers, homeless, smelly or Chelsea fans). “I’ll stand where I want; I’ll stand where I wa-ant: I’m a fuckin’ foreigner, I’ll stand where I want”.

Because wonderful and amazing and dependable that Japan is, there are lots of rules for someone like me who naturally just kind’a likes to circumvent, question, argue with or just ignore. Like waiting for a little green man to give you permission to cross the road. I’ve crossed roads since I was 5 without any green men, why do I need ‘em now? In London its an irrelevance, but here, you just… its just HOW IT IS DONE! And in the interests of harmonious international accord, I stood waiting with everyone else. Gritting my teeth and shuffling my feet.

But then Manchester City won the league and it all became a bit irrelevant. Spurs finished 4th, which was obvious after last week but in the interests of statistical possibility (Arsenal winning by 8 goals and us losing), we weren’t allowed to actually claim it. Though we were allowed ‘pre-statistical gloating and arrogance’ as per Premier League Rule 736-17, ch.4, pt.7.

And in fact Spurs could have finished 3rd, as Chelsea drew, but obviously we didn’t because at this end of the season, generally, we just don’t. They HAVE to make it hard on the fans, there has to be something of a collapse.

And because we have bigger fish to fry coming up. The biggest fish in the footballing pond, in fact. The final of the European Champions League on June 1st. In case you missed that. Liverpool are to be the haddock. Chelsea are the chips and Arsenal become a pickled onion in this over-stressed metaphor.

I’m getting on a very early plane tomorrow morning. We are returning to Lila. And the very soon to be ‘plus 1’. I’ve loved every minute of it here. Just amazing and totally excellent.

Sayonara

A xxxx

You arrive at the Ryokan and the first thing that happens is that you take your shoes off. That’s a big thing in Japan anyway, but in the ‘old Japan’ ethos of a Ryokan, its a red line. At the door, off they come and they lend you some sandals. You get to choose. Small, medium or large. Cool. Then they take you to your room, which is basically made for someone with no legs. The table is 6 inches off the floor, the chairs have no legs either, the bed’s on the floor. And its spartan. But nice. In a very Japanese way. A massive suite with nothing in it (nothing with legs, anyway) and an outside bath.

Then you have to wear a kimono thing, as you can see. And if you laugh I will kill you. Because its in the rules. Ok, you don’t have to wear it all the time but I need to get in character.

We’re in a place called Hakoni which is in the national park by Mount Fuji. Which is actually a ‘Volc’ rather than a ‘mount’. So the whole area is one pit of seismic activity. Which is very interesting if you’re studying geography or geology, rather more worrying if you’re just cruising round. But it also means… hot springs! And we love hot springs. And our Ryokan has its own. Lots of them. And the idea is that you use them to boil your testicles. And when they’re cooked you get out and collapse because of the outrageous temperature your body has reached. It’s great fun.

In fact our ‘outside bath’ is our own mini hot tub, natural spring, in a gorgeous little secluded courtyard. Which is wonderful. Everything here’s wonderful; its fucking Japan, innit?

And then they bring you dinner. At 6. No negotiation. Rules. And its in your room. And you have your own ‘person’ in her own kimono, who brings you course after course of the most amazing looking, tasting wonderful things. Most of which, if you have eaten before, you don’t recognise. The rest you’ve just walked past in the forest, fish pond or Japanese supermarket with no English translations. And the level of intricacy with every tiny little side-dish, every minuscule decoration, is an art. Much better than those art installations I saw the other day. And a lot tastier. Amazing experience. Even if you look a bit of a twat doing it.

Yesterday when we approached Hakone on the bullet train, Mel said: ‘oh look, there’s Mount Fuji’. Because it was. Magnificent in the sunshine with just the merest halo of cloud around its very tip. And we watched it for 10 minutes thinking; we’ll see that tomorrow. Alas, tomorrow became today and we didn’t see it at all. Because it was cloudy. And we learned that to see the mountain at all is rare as fucking hen’s teeth. Rare as an Arsenal Champions League match.

Back to Tokyo tomorrow, then home Tuesday morning. Gonna miss it here.

Happy Sunday; now for the footy

A xxxx

When in Rome, as the saying goes, do like the Romans. But what do they mean? Eat an unborn baby? Shag a little boy? Fight a lion, kill a Christian or just eat pizza?

And how does that help me when I’m in Hakone, which is where I’m headed. To Mount Fuji. To stay in the national park. In a Ryokan. Which is a traditional Japanese Inn, where you sleep on a futon, wear something like a kimono, and drink tea that tastes like shit? It has to be done. And I presume you have to eat with chopsticks.

Which is the ‘when in Tokyo’ bit. When you’re here, you eat with chopsticks. Except Mel. Who is genetically challenged in that department. I say ‘genetically’ not with any scientific validation but merely because it may cause insult to her (genetically identical) twin sister. Who, I believe, has no such issues, but still. I personally like eating with those things, its fun. Mel always gets a spoon. Unlike the chap next to me at breakfast yesterday who had 2 fried eggs with his meal. Which was otherwise a traditional Japanese one. So I looked at his eggs and his chopsticks and thought: I wanna see this. I expected him to just pick the entire thing up and shove it in his mouth, with yolk dripping all over the place. But he didn’t. He cheated. He cut a lump off with his sticks and shoved it into his little bowl. I don’t know what else was in that bowl, but it all got thrown in together. I was so fascinated I went and ordered him a 12 ounce t-bone, cooked rare. Sort that out with yer fucking chopsticks, mate.

Then we went to Miyajima. A little island just a 10-minute ferry ride from a station that’s a 25-minute train ride from Hiroshima. Possibly the most lovely place on Earth. You climb to the top of the mountain there and what you see is breath-taking. But for so long you actually pass out and need oxygen and paramedics. Ok and breathe…

You go to Miyajima because you have to. It’s in your tourist contract. And there’s only 2 things to do there. Firstly you see the famous (round here) Torii gate, the ‘floating’ one. These are the gates at the shrines. So you know where to pray. And you see the shrine, which in Japan are not like a little Buddha with a candle and an incense stick, not here matey. Here, a Shinto shrine is fucking massive buildings, loads of them, statues, alters, the whole 9 yen. So you see the gate and you go ‘ooooohhhhh’ and tick the box in your guidebook. Though it is lovely and the setting its in is divine. And you head off to the other thing. The mountain. Because from the top of that is visions of heaven.

And then you come back. But we didn’t. Because Miyajima is one of those places that, particularly in the gorgeous sunshine, you just don’t want to leave. Why would you? There’s loads to eat, loads to drink, deer walking the streets, and it feels just wonderful. So we stayed all afternoon and got a late ferry back.

Another day, another bullet train. And that’s the beauty of Japan, the real magic. It works. Perfectly. All of it. All the time. There’s an effortless efficiency about absolutely everything here. So every time you wonder: ‘now where is *****?’ a sign will just appear and tell you precisely. Or something will take you there. Maybe all those prayers in all those shrines pay off?

Happy Penultimate Day of the Premier League Season

A xxxx

What is art? Iss pitchers. Innit. Maybe skullptcha. Drawins. Nice. Pretty. Don’t’cha reckon?

Well you’d be wrong. You Neanderthal, philistine, anachronistic know-nuffink. Renoir? Tosser. Picasso? Wanker. Beethoven? Nob. Ok, musician, but sort of arty.

Because if you want ‘contemporary art’, you need ‘installations’. Tracey Emin does ‘em. Loads of people do them. And on the gorgeous little Japanese island of Naoshima, they love art installations like nowhere else. They take a whole house, an abandoned one, I presume as I didn’t see anyone in the middle of the installations, like making tea or watching Match of the Day, and they… they instal! And they’re brilliant. If you really like installations.

My favourite was the house that was a tribute to emptiness. Because you didn’t know if the house had been installed with emptiness or was waiting for it. Because you don’t know if a toilet is a toilet or a valuable and essential statement on existential nihilism.

But it is powerful. The over-riding emotion is ‘WHAT THE FUCK????’ but that’s just because, like you, I have preconceptions that looking at art should be easy, simply the admiring of an image or object, or a dislike of it. Not here matey. Here you have to work out what you’re looking at and whether its art or a brick wall behind that art. You have to understand the difference between… well, anything and anything else.

One house was in absolute pitch blackness. And you sat there, having felt your way around the walls to find the seats, and you dark-adapt. And that’s it. You can see nothing, then you can see almost something, and they let you go. Enlightened (very intentional pun) and blinded by the darkness.

How’s that fucking ART????

Then we reached a wonderful house that was made entirely from bits of old boats and it was spectacular. And brilliant. And wonderful. And fun. And I thought maybe… just maybe… art installations can be cool. But that was our 6th. And the other five were so obscure as to be totally impenetrable. Although some felt nice to be in, like the one pictured. A rock in a garden. You can’t get more inspired than that.

Well, Lucas Moura can, but I can’t. Still stunned, still amazed. Hiroshima never felt so good.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I wrote today’s blog last night. Due to Mel insisting that we sort of ‘catch trains’ and ‘eat dinner’ and ‘see things’, at all sorts of inconvenient times, you have to make hay whilst the rising sun. And its about art. I left a little space at the bottom just to put something like: shame about Spurs, great to have got so far, blah, blah, sadness, sorrow, few tears, not meant to be, injury-plagued, small squad, price’a wheat, better than Arse, blah, blah, blaaaaah.

Then we went out for a fab dinner (its so random here because you never really know what you’ve ordered or what its gonna look like until its on your fork, no matter how many plastic fucking models you see outside) and returned only mildly drunk for bed. At about 11. What you call ‘3 in the afternoon’. By kick off time I was in the fast asleep world of 4am.

There are ways to follow football. I’ve tried them all. Firstly you can go. Some say this is the best way, but they don’t run a fast train from Takamatsu to Amsterdam, I checked. Lila’s dad was there though. The first link. Next is ‘watching in a bar’, which is fun and shouty and wonderful, depending on the bar. Rachie found a bar in Berlin to do this and went there with a Dutch friend, an Ajax fan. Brave. Then there’s tv. But they don’t have such channels here. Although Lila’s mum was watching in London. Lila went to bed. Eventually. And the fourth way to really ‘soak up the atmosphere’, to really maximise the thrill and excitement of what was, along with Tuesday night’s Liverpool game, probably the most incredible match ever played, is to relive it retrospectively via our message group. Benny there live, Rachie in Berlin, Nat in London, Lila in bed, us in Japan (though my own contribution was obviously rather minimal).

So when nature called me (I think my bladder is linked to the Spurs website) it was just after 6am. 10pm in the Uk, 11 in Amsterdam, game just finished. I picked up my phone as I walked bathroomwards, to see the ‘bad news’ and standing there, I ‘followed the game’. It went like this:

(Nothing for virtually the entire first half because we weren’t very good, they were and scored two more effin goals)

And so is Dad.

But by then I was awake. And running round the bathroom screaming so Mel wouldn’t miss out on this profound and wonderful moment in our lives.

I’ll send the other blog tomorrow. It’s important. They’re all important. But this just couldn’t wait.

CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL!!!! AAAAGGGGGHHHHHH

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I’d love to tell you that my knowledge of the Japanese language has improved and my mastery has led to deep, meaningful conversations with the indigenous little people. But alas it remains as opaque to me as… Greek. Which at least I can read a bit. Yet its actually worse. The longer we’re here the more easily the names and places simply vanish from my mind. So to tell you that we traveled yesterday to Takamatsu via Okayama requires looking at the railway tickets. I look where I’m going and by the time the ticket’s back in my pocket that name has either vanished or worse, morphed into another, similar one in my head. Okayama, Okasaka, Sakayama… it just happens. Maybe its age, maybe its just overload of too many rhythmically sounding syllables divided by the letter ‘a’, but its not good.

But Takamatsu (copied from hotel book) is a gem of a city/town. Not sure how you tell when there aren’t any cathedrals in Japan. But it is just gorgeous. Clean, wide, tree-lined boulevards, a relatively small population so uncluttered and friendly. And it has ‘Japan’s oldest ornamental gardens’. Which we’d call Hampstead Heath but with order and, obviously, Feng Shui. And our Heath isn’t bordered by mountains like these gardens.

And in fact you kind’a get the whole ‘feng shui’ thing when you walk around. It’s about balance, its about wonderful aesthetic and its about places that just make you feel calm and relaxed and… ohmmmm…

Bit like the Tottenham Stadium does, but without the anxiety, disappointment, panic and upset.

We’re only in Takamatsu so we can go over to Naoshima (‘ere we go) which is supposed to be wonderful. I’ll let ya know. But I’m so pleased we’re here. Because its fantastic.

Liverpool beating Barcelona last night was quite unbelievable. Quite awesome. Very ‘Liverpool in Europe’ some might say. All I say is PLEASE GOD BY SPURS!!!!!

Got a boat to catch,

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

We’re on another burritt train. Looks like this one, pic of which I took this morning, but ours is going the other way. Just sayin’. And they’re fast. Though don’t really feel it. Not like you’re thrown back in your seat with your face pulled back with g-force. No. Feels nice. Smooth. Comfortable (not a word for Japanese people). They call these trains Shankansen. Which means ‘fast as fuck’. I think.

This time we’re going to Okayama, but only to change trains onto a local one to go over the bridge onto another island to a place called Takamatsu. From there, tomorrow, we’re going on a boat to a really little island called Naoshima. Which is famous for art. Not that ancient-Eastern art bollocks, but proper, modern, contemporary art for a- nofficiado like wot I am.

Japan is made from about 7000 islands of various sizes. Seven of my favourite ever salad dressings, even though I’m not allowed to have it any more because if you ask for it in restaurants people look at you with pity. And we’d have it in the fridge at home in the same likelihood as having nuclear waste in the larder.

Sadly we left our little house in Geisha-town which was just fab. I judge any accommodation by how many horizontal surfaces I can put my things on. I don’t do ‘shelves’ and I’m not a ‘hanging’ kind of a guy. I like laying everything out so I can see it. Thus our house was just brilliant. And it was gorgeous.

Yesterday we went to a place called Nara, an hour from Kyoto. Because there, in 800ad, some Emperor, possibly a Shogun, maybe a warlord, Samurai or possibly a start-up entrepreneur, built a few temples. And shrines. Pagodas. All spread out in a lovely park. It is truly wonderful. Yeah, buildings amazing, the biggest Bhudda in Japan (15 metres high, but can it ever be truly ‘big enough’??), fantastic gates and shit. But every single building, shrine, memorial, statue, relic or whatever comes with a caveat here. In the land of wooden buildings, absolutely fucking everything dates from eight hundred and… but burnt down 5 times, last renovated in 1957/1974/2003. Everything. Even big Bhudda who melted (I kid you not, bronze melts too, ya know) in 12-something, lost an arm in 14-something else, and was reconstructed numerous times along the way. It almost makes you scream: WOODEN BUILDINGS ARE WONDERFUL AND BEAUTIFUL BUT BRICKS DON’T BURN!!!!!! But it would fall on deaf ears. Or ears that don’t understand abuse in English.

They’ll never have religious wars here. They’re all Shinto AND Buddhist, and our lovely guide yesterday was a Christian as well. No-one is ‘observant’ in the way of ‘church every Sunday’. They’re more ‘high days and holy days’ types. Yet they all stop and bow at shrines (though they bow at us all the fucking time too and I look nothing like Bhudda, I hope) and say a quick prayer. Though its often for personal benefit, it should be noted. For an exam, a business meeting, family illness. And Shinto and Buddhism are more lifestyle philosophies than ‘proper’ religions, which creates the wonderful feeling of respect and decency and humanity without any of the holier-than-thou garbage attached to the ‘big 3’.

I might move here. Even without the football.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Ya need a plan. You always need a plan. Cut and cover. Death or glory. Laurel and Hardy. Well we have a plan when walking round foreign cities in search of certain shops or where to eat. It’s called ‘wander and stumble’. And sometimes it even works.

We booked this little trip through a Japan tour company, obviously. The Dutch one was cheaper but didn’t quite do it. So we did the British based Jap one. And in Kyoto they said: we won’t put you in ‘otel cos they’re boring. Instead we’re going to put you in an air b’n’b type place. In the Gion area. Yep, meant absolutely nothing to us either. Gion, shmion is what I probably said.

But once you arrive… you realise that Gion is in fact very special. It’s the old (hundreds of years, obviously, this is Japan) Geisha centre and place of temples, shrines and… old stuff. And its full of little alleyways and lovely wooden houses. And in the whole area, there is just nowhere you could put a hotel. So they haven’t. Ok, it does get rather full of tourists but we are living in a little wooden townhouse with all the geishas. And its brilliant. The house is hundreds of years old (apparently) but is the most hi-tech place I’ve ever been. Underfloor heating, air-conditioned throughout, has a fab little kitchen, 2 rather odd ‘Japanese rooms’, not sure what you do in them, something inscrutable, I reckon. The toilet, obviously, cleans your undercarriage in a way its never been cleaned before, heated seat mandatory, like everywhere else. But its also got a digital bath. No taps, no spout, just a ‘control panel’ at the end. Like operating your bath from your iPad fixed to the wall. In a power cut, you die.

Suffice to say: everything in the house works brilliantly and perfectly. It’s us that don’t. So everything is about referring to the very comprehensive guide-book which talks you, in English, through the hundreds of digital panels, which aren’t.

And big surprise: Geishas aren’t shy, retiring, demure little goddesses but bright, chatty, laughing, fun and funny real people. Who just dress up strangely and look really fucking odd and bizarre. This was our one. She was as delightful as she was strange. Geishas aren’t hookers. You just kind’a wish they were. They’re entertainers. Full stop. No add-ons, no ‘extras’, no ‘happy endings’ other than finishing your tea.

But ‘dress up’ is a big part of Japanese culture. Karaoke bars all have fancy dress rooms to use before ‘the fun starts’. And here’s the odd thing. Karaoke bars here are loads of private rooms. You don’t make a fool of yourself in front of 200 strangers, but just with the people you went in with. But dressed as Elvis/Marilyn Monroe/Harry Kane.

Lots of people walk around the shrines dressed in kimonos. As our guide said: none of them are Japanese. You rent kimonos (they’re outrageously expensive) for the gels and samurai silly black things for the boys and armed with the present day version of a sword (a selfie stick) you spend the entire day annoying everyone around you. It’s the best fun. We passed. Unlike all the Chinese and Koreans who just can’t get kimonoed up enough.

Football results last night simply amaaaaaaazing. Thank you, Arsenal, from the bottom of my heart.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Kyoto used to be the capital of Japan. Until I arrived, then they moved it. Actually it was ages ago. But they couldn’t move the buildings. So they left them here. Mainly, shrines and temples. The former Shinto, the latter Buddhist. They swing both ways here. Shinto is great, they have no God, no prayers, no hymns, no bible, no nothing. Just great shrines everywhere. And think there are actually 8 million gods, cos everyone and everything is a fucking god. My words, my interpretation. And they never skimped in the religious department. In Tokyo they have them, obviously. But in Kyoto, because of its ancientness and proximity to the Emperor, when he lived here, there is literally one on every street corner. Which makes it quite impressively beautiful. But its not the only thing you find on every street corner.

You also find ten of these. Really odd little electric cars. Cubic things with no style (who cares?) no streamlining (who needs it at 14 mph?) and no pollution. Funny that I’ve never seen any in the UK, which is probably where Honda and Toyota and Nissan build them (along with Hyundai and Kia and…) because we get a lot of Japanese steel on our roads. But apparently not all of it.

They all make versions of this same concept. Small, four seat, four door, cube shaped, electric. Most are black, some like this one, others in fab retro 2-tone colours, like light green and cream. They are City cars, I presume, and they come along in packs of 15. You wouldn’t wanna drive to Manchester in one (not from here anyway) but for town they’re just so cute and silly I might bring one home. Just as check-in luggage.

Then fucking disaster.

Spurs went to Bournemouth (they don’t play football in Kyoto, only Sumo and sushi), had 2 players sent off, both of whom will now miss next week’s final game of the entire season, and lost 1-nil in the dying seconds of the match. We haven’t had a man sent off all season and then this. Playing with 9 men is beyond difficult. It enters the realms of the ridiculously stupid, moronic, dumb, pathetic and insane. So now, unless Chelsea and Arsenal fuck up again today, both of them, we are in a ‘must win’ situation next weekend, the Premier League’s Finale, against currently unbeatable Everton. With 14 of our players injured and the rest banned. Not even mentioning a little game beforehand against Ajax. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!!!

It was to be a happy Sunday, but…

A xxxx

We left Tokyo and bullet trained it to Kanazawa. I wrote to tell you, then, because sleeping at nighttime seems to be a problem here, I collapsed in a heap of deep sleep. Neat.

Mel, who’d also been asleep for a bit, woke me up with ‘we’re there!’ The train was slowing down, coming into a city. I groggily roused myself (no coffee, no shower, no drugs), pulled the carry on bags from the overheads, gathered myself and left the train. With Mel but without my sweatshirt. Left as my gift to the lovely people of Japan. All 160 million of them, they can share it.

The station was fantastic and we got stuck in a food shop that was wonderful. We bought stuff, drifted outside into a sweet little market in the forecourt of the station. Wandered round, then finally got in a taxi and gave him the name of our hotel. Which we knew to be (according to Mr Google) 5 minutes away or a 30 minute walk. The taxi driver looked puzzled but eventually we got the name of the hotel to him. And he still looked puzzled. Plugged it into his phone and showed us that the hotel was in fact 65kms away. Lot of taxi fare.

The penny dropped. Or the yen. We’d got off at the wrong fucking station. We weren’t in Kanazawa but in Toyama. I’m guessing, about 65km away. We had UNDER MEL’S GUIDANCE!!!! got off at the wrong place, a station too soon. but I place no blame, no accusations, no… ok, I reserve the right to laugh about this each and every day as long as I should be breathing air.

Because it was just so funny. We took the next train, 15 minutes later, at no cost (we have ‘all you can eat’ rail cards) and I get to take the piss out of my wife for the next 47 dinner parties we attend. It was a win-win.

Kanazawa was fabulous too. And we went to the most amazing sushi place in the entire world. And this is from the least sushi-loving person on the planet.

We found this place on tripadvisor, on the basis of amazing reviews and that it was a 10 minute walk from the hotel. But it was a bit ‘off the beaten track’. And furthermore, the name I was looking for was no-where. There was a sign in Japanese but who the fuck knows what that said. No windows, closed door. Could have been a vet. A brothel. Massage parlour. But I pushed the door and saw people eating and a man in a chef’s hat. So figured this might be right. But it was tiny. Just a lovely old man, about 70, behind the counter, 10 people sitting all around, two little tables behind, 4 people each max, and the man’s wife bringing tea and sake.

You pointed on the vast menu (nigiri, nigiri, nigiri or, otherwise, 97 different nigiris) of a vast array of fish and ‘other seagoing things’, that we sometimes eat and sometimes just tread on and scream, and he made it, slapped it on the desk in front of you, and you just carried on talking, drinking. It’s leisurely. There’s no rush (you fucking, in a hurry, western bastard) that’s not how its done ‘here’. WE eat slowly and drink quickly and take hours.

The man was funny, even with the amazing gulf in language, the woman charming, the sushi the bestest, freshest, most everything-est you could ever eat anywhere in the entire world. Quite literally. And the experience quite magical. As are most things with enough sake.

And yet it convinced me yet further that although sushi is lovely, it is just not my favourite food. Not even close. Because it is essentially bland and tasteless, other than the soya sauce and wasabi, at which point it all tastes the same. If the fish has too much taste, its generally not fresh enough and rice is rice. I’ve had the absolute best, enjoyed it immensely. So I don’t need to do it again. You can keep your Nobu, I’ll take Dirty Burger instead. (HE’S SO UNSOPHISTICATED!!!)

Happy Saturday. On another train to Kyoto. I’ll decide when we get off this time.

A xxxx