And I'm back again. Only a few hours and I’ve been hurtled all the way back from the coast to the Capital once more; I can’t say enough good things about the public transport here. I thought I’d indulge and splurge; finding a place to crash in Shinjuku – one of the most expensive places to live in Japan (so I hear). It’s a mixture of crazy, miniscule theme bars, dodgy red-light streets filled with anything your warped and twisted male sexual mind secretly delights upon. Oh and there’s some electronic gadgetry. There’s also this sodding great big (tautology I know), train station that requires some patience to navigate, though once you’ve exited, it’s just as hard to discover the way onward. And without my watch (now in a permanent state of paralysis due to an idiotic dip in an Onsen), to assist with navigation I’m obliged to resort to the enemy of all womankind. Yes, that’s right; a map.
Check-in, drop bag, quick shower and out again. It’s becoming routine and I’ve got it down to a fine art now; preparing bag contents in advance with washing bits and clothing at the top for quick access. Grade two all over makes showering frighteningly quick – under two minutes is my best thus far. And off to brave the R.L.D. of Japan I head.
It’s an interesting place, with overbearing and heavily fed males of mainly Nigerian origin patrolling the streets and beckoning you in to their place of business. That’s of course the polite way of putting it; with many Japanese turning strangely blunt and harsh when describing this apparent blot (but clear necessity for males who all seem to be both bewildered and downright terrified of the opposite gender), on the landscape. [It’s a player’s dream, where women dressed to utter perfection sit in bars literally like sedentary ducks waiting to be gunned down by your AK-47 loaded with chat-up lines.] I prefer not to be taken for a ride to the tune of the entire contents of my wallet; so “I’m not a rich man” gives me all the leverage I need to stop a following pest dead in its tracks. There are plenty of bars around offering Rhapsody on a Theme of English pubs and plenty of ex-pats inside to converse with. My evening is spent with a bunch of cherries (English students), who are presumably all raging masturbators and in need of popping; judging by their skills with women.
The following night I decide to try my luck at a differing Variation on a Theme of Irish pub, where being friendly scores me a double for the price of a single. And having befriended a group head on to Mother, a small twelve-seat affair with reasonably priced drinks (for the area), and Rock music played loud enough to drown out – well just about anything in fact, considering the speaker was directly behind me. With a huge selection to pick from, English speakers surrounding me and the last Christmas Number One blaring expletives, a few more drinks and then on to Karaoke we head.
Champion Bar is almost equal in its square metre-age, facilitating barely enough space to hold the microphone and sing, flat – as everyone seems to here. A lad from Wimbledon who’s name escapes me (possibly due to the amount of Gin following the proceedings), singing so badly that I'm literally in tears of laughter, causes embarrassment to the Japanese in my group; it seems it’s impolite to make fun towards others. He’s happy for the criticism; “Ah f*ckin’ ‘ell mate, I miss it! They’re all too f*ckin’ polite here, y’know?”, though it seems a difficult concept for the Japanese to understand. Where they would congratulate a batsmen going out with a Golden Duck, we’d hurl enough abuse their way to ensure they improve their game or never come back.
Overall though, my experiences in Tokyo have made London nightlife seem like dull monotony; we’re really missing a trick here, themed bars make for something different and Karaoke is simply fun. Hitting bars and simply drinking the night away in to a stupor will forever seem dreary.
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Ghibli Museum
Harking back to a time when originality was king and the films were still imaginatively told with beautiful animation, the Ghibli Museum references little of its newer features; preferring to use nostalgia as a chosen route to cash machine lubrication. And this machine is a slick, well-oiled piece of money extraction engineering; a truly cynical way of exploiting the parents of goggle-eyed children and reminiscing adults alike. It has, however, been almost a decade since the last feature length of note and yes, everything since Spirited Away has been utter pants: The kind of pants that prefer to admire their own construction and design, rather than concentrate on serving the purpose at hand. Presumably telling a decent story that is focused more on characters, plot and story has taken a back seat to the technicalities and absurdly complex animations simply too overbearing to be processed at 25fps.
So too is the nostalgia; it feels like Hollywood whilst waiting for the performance to begin, along with the screaming baby to be carried outside. The in-house cinema shows a short feature – being an epilogue of the classic "My neighbour Totoro". It’s truly awful and I can describe the story in one sentence: A little girl gives sweets to strange cats that transform in to vehicles. It'd be a fantastic advertising opportunity for Cadburys, Nestle or any other manufacturer you care to mention. Get on the case Ghibli and admit defeat – you've evolved from animation studio with great stories to tell and become a bloated corporate money-sucking behemoth. Join up with Pixar, you're peas in a pod.
Stand in line and queue in one of the few spots where photography is actually permitted; on the roof garden with a large statue of a robot. As much as I tried to shoot conspicuously inside, the shutter blinds mark me out for immediate crossed hands by the numerous blue-suits ensuring no one else realises just how small and disappointing the building actually is. Worse still is the discovery that every book on offer is in Japanese, except for a solitary overview of the museum. It's piss poor I tells ya and I genuinely feel let down; probably in much the same way every adult does when realising that their entire childhood was filled with shows, films, cartoons and toys essentially designed to extricate every penny of your pocket money. Nostalgia sucks, and I'm glad to have paid precisely nothing to watch any of the Ghibli films; Arigato gosaimasu μTorrent.
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