A trip down to the shops.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Do You Believe...?
The Japanese are an incredible people. Despite a dubious past centring around World domination, Imperialism and barbarity, the Japanese people have left that way of life behind them, preferring now to concentrate their efforts on dominating World markets, idealism and barbarity. Whilst their society is most certainly a Capitalist one now that is not to say that they don't themselves have strange and bizarre ways of going about certain things that will seem completely alien to us in the West; after all, they are foreigners. A concept that is gaining more and more popularity in the Far-East is that of living a liberated life with regard to casual and rampant sexual congress, a life free to be exploited and abused by all and sundry, but this being Japan they have gone one better, upping the ante in both physical and mental relationships with partners.
Niko-Wo Fi-Wia, literally translated as 'Love After Death' has created one of the biggest cultural revolutions in Japan since the introduction of karaoke, a past-time manufactured in Taiwan to their own, special, secret recipe. The philosophy behind Niko-Wo is this:
"Once death has taken us our spirit goes on, but our body remains, and it wants, and it needs. The body must be sated or the spirit may return, called by the need of the body, condemning the spirit to eternity locked in the mal-attended shell forever-more."
Taken from Da Joi Ah Sehks, a 13th century, Japanese, holy scripture.
Whilst for centuries this passage was translated by the majority to mean that the disposal of a corpse must be done with respect and thoroughly else the memory of the deceased will be tainted forever, there were those who always claimed that these words had an entirely different meaning. The second interpretation is that the corpse should be supplied with those things which, in life, gave them the greatest pleasure, and in Japanese society, as with so many, that means regular and thorough sex until the body is no longer capable due to an excess state of decomposition. If this seems disgusting to you then the only reply can be that you are a racist who has absolutely no understanding of another culture, like an American. The escalation in the popularity of this second interpretation has meant that a number of changes in funeral homes and chapels of rest have come about to accommodated in the recent years.
The higher-classes of 'rest home' provide staff who perform all the required sexual activities, as laid out in the will of the deceased until the body can no longer stand the rigours of its intrinsic needs. The most popular necrotorium, situated at Bung-Kup in the Fuk-Cha Province, offers everything from the humble kiss to all the latest sexual deviancies, such as pookkake. This is similar to bukkake, only, as with everything they turn their hands to, the Japanese have turned it into a scatological art-form. Pookkake is the violent ejection of the bowel contents, preferably enema-aided, into the face of the recipient. This is said to be an excellent treatment for the dead, replenishing essential oils into the skin of the pookkakee and proving a healthy irrigation for the pookkakist. The less discerning customer can of course be kept in motel conditions and treated by members of the family and close friends for a very reasonable price, although due to constraints with cleaning costs pookkake may require additional payment.
It seems clear by simply judging from the very number of these 'homes' in Japan that it is a ritual that is set to stay, with some even offering a post-decay treatment that leaves the liquidising remains to steep in an aquarium of up to date pornography on subjects of of the deceased’s choosing. Whilst it seems unlikely that this is a craze likely to spread far from the shores of Japan itself, who can say what will happen? Could the popularity of sushi, overly made-up prostitutes, The Mikado, or even suicide attacks have been foretold fifty years ago? I don't think so.
For more information why not go to Japan? Alternatively, there is a special helpline available, run by the BBC in concurrence with their 'Japanties - Oriental Sex-Film Season' on BBC2. Just call the operator and ask for Free-Phone Japan (calls are charged at £1.00 per minute). So, with all that in mind, let's say 'three cheers to Japan'. Hip-hip...
Saturday, May 15, 2004
I know hell, his name is Sam.
like genital herpes, some people are just near-impossible to get rid of. I wish I could say that the following story I am about to recount was a fantasy, something pulled from the dark sinews of my mired brain, but sadly I can't.
September is an unhappy month for most, mainly due to the three identical vowels it contains, but for me September now holds the most miserable anniversary of my life. On September the 22nd, 2001 I met a man who I have only ever known as 'Sam'. I have heard others call him Samuel, but I can never be sure that it is his real name. Perhaps in his younger days he answered to Rapheal, or Umberto, but in my experience it was more likely that he was referred to as arse-hole.
I met 'Sam' through a friend, although the thought 'what sort of friend would inflict such a man on me?' has occasionally drifted through my mind. Such thoughts are soon dismissed though as the memories of that 10 month period comes flooding back like a nightmareish wall of dread, closing in on me, suffocating me, chipping away at my already diminished sanity. My friend had been introduced to 'Sam' through a wine-appreciation society, but a more ignorant and uncultured person you would have trouble finding. Perhaps it was because of his total lack of knowledge that made him seem slightly retarded and was thus pitied by others that allowed him to latch onto people, but it seemed clear to me that everyone in his company felt like it was a duty, a chore, something they were obligated to accept and never complain about, but they would secretly have relished bludgeoning him to near-death. I could never accept this!
I admit to being a harsh judge of character, but I was prepared to give him a chance. Even though our first meeting was awkward due to his incredible social ineptness we found a few points of common ground. Although I am unashamed of my fondness for drugs I do not advertise the fact that I take them. I'm discreet in such matters, and whilst indescretion is one thing, indescretion that is nothing more than bragging about drug-conquests leaves me as cold as the heart of Fred West. This is something to keep in mind, but not a crime that 'Sam' comitted on that first meeting. He wasn't reluctant to talk about the subject, allowing me to find out about his fondness for psychoactive substances in the first place, but it didn't turn to bragging until our second meeting.
His arrival at my house a couple of days later with a bag of psychadelic mushrooms was a surprise to say the least. I felt obliged to let him in, and like the greedy fool I agreed to take some of the fungi he had brought. Within half an hour we were both tripping, but the effect it had on 'Sam' was startling. I found it hard to believe that he could become more annoying than at our first meeting, but I couldn't have been further from the truth. By the time I convinced him it was time to leave blood clots had already started to form in my brain through sheer dismay at how unbelievably annoying, stupid, uneducated, inept, naive, unreceptive, infuriating, sickening, and mind-nubingly dull one person could be. What made matters worse was that he seemed to have had a marvellous night. How could he not have picked up on my signals of rejection? Did I mention unreceptive?
Words could not describe the sheer depth of negativity surrounding this man. I saw no good there at all. He was like a social void, a true anti-social being, destroyer of atmospheres. Was it possible that I had met the worst person in the world?
"Wasn't it the mushrooms?" I hear you all shouting. "You had a bad trip obviously, fool."
And I answer thusly:
"Yes, that was what it must have been I though, the mushrooms clearly had some kind of adverse effect, clearly a third chance was in order, clearly."
After finally convincing him to leave three hours into our third meeting in a pefectly sober state I had proved you all wrong. Yes, it was possible that I had met the worst person in the world, he goes by the name of 'Sam' and is a danger to your mental health. Over the next nine months he continually turned up at the door like an unwelcome and unwanted disease. He eventually got the message when I simply refused to answer the door to him and rejected all his phone calls. I haven't seen him in a while, but I know he's still out there . . . somewhere.
Beware York, here be 'Sam'.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Its a sunny day, its a bank holiday weekend. Most families chose to spend hours in a hot car driving to the coast to indulge in that great British tradition of burning themselves lying on a beach surrounded by dog shit and discarded babies nappies that have been washed up on the shore by the ebbing tide. I was a slight exception to this rule.
Yes I sat in a hot car for an hour following the incessant queues of traffic all heading to the coastal delights that Hunstanton apparently has to offer. But, I refused to wander round with my chest exposed to all and sundry whilst walking along the rubbish strewn shore line. I started out with my fleece on tutting loudly at the barely clothed members of the public that littered the path, after 30 minutes I realised that I would have to relent and accept defeat. The sun’s force meant that the fleece would have to be taken off and strapped to my waist – increasing my ample waist ten fold.
Numerous families their young children and babies wheeled to where the water was breaking on to the shore. Babies unable to feel the sand beneath their feet. Once brought to the edge of the water the hapless parents would remove their sproglets from the safety of the tri-wheeled pushchair and hold them in their arms. The parents removed their own shoes and ran carelessly into the water holding their children above the grasps of the lapping water whilst shrieking ‘darling, darling, get the camera. Look at Holly’s face, she is loving it’. Holly, bless her, was straining from her mothers strong hold desperately clawing the air, trying to grab her father who was standing camera in hand on the safety of the sand.
There were the families that had come prepared for their children to swim in the sediment that lapped as the sea crawled slowly up the beach. These children were dressed in a variety of lurid swimming costumes all running in and out of the sea screaming and yelling to each other in tones that even dogs struggled to hear. Children are fantastically naive when it comes to pools of water that are brown coloured, with bubbles creating a froth that is almost beyond description. They leap into these pools with carefree abandon unaware of the negative effects this could have on their health. The parents sitting on deckchairs or beach towels smoking and drinking blissfully oblivious to the fact they will be returning with desperately sick kids.
Sitting on the rocks watching the birds nest and feed, my attention turned to an elderly man. He wandered backwards and forwards across the beach. Initially he picked up large rocks, clutching
them to his chest he walked purposely to a huge rock pile and began throwing these recently collected rocks onto the already large collection. I watched him do this for over an hour. Backwards and forwards collecting rocks and sorting them into different sections on the large formation. Big rocks at the front, small rocks behind.
Woe betide anyone who got in ‘Rock Man’s’ way. He would not be swayed from his chosen path walking into people if they stood in the way. Absolutely fascinating really.
Moving on from the sea front, I wandered up into Hunstanton Town. I walked into a lovely sandwich bar, Wendy’s I think it was called. Where I ate a baguette with chicken, mayonnaise, bacon and salad. I thoroughly enjoyed this dining experience a hideaway from the baying throng that surrounded the bandstand crooning to the cheeky chappies singing to the basking crowd.
The crowd happily laze amongst the dog urine and faeces, I have now bought myself a cigarette rolling machine and use my discarded fleece as a shield against these hazards. I practice perfecting my rolling techniques. Realising that I am showing the great British public my bottom cleavage I lie backwards forgetting all about the abominations that could be lying in wait for me, hoisting my jeans up ensuring that those behind me don’t get a look anymore. I sit there for a while savouring the crowd and the cheesy music. Looking around me I can see elderly people sitting on benches with cardigans draped around their shoulders tapping their feet in time with the music. Well it’s a day out of the old people’s home isn’t it? Scanning the perimeter of the green I could see about a hundred motorbikes with leather clad riders stripping to their summer garments trying to catch the rays of the sun. As each bike started off taking its rider back to their resting place the singers began to compete with the loud exhausts, their voices rising the melody disappearing in their effort to drown the din of the motorcycles.
I got up and walked back to the car, overhearing on the way a young boy dressed in a t-shirt and a towel informing his mother in no uncertain terms that he really needed a poo and he couldn’t stop it coming out. Upon second glance at the child he was last seen to have fingers up his back passage trying to stem the flow so to speak. Continuing my journey back to the car I passed through a fairground full of ripe smells of fried food and candyfloss, shrieks of enjoyment/terror from the more daring rides and finally the sedate pace of a carousel with small children held by doting grandparents rode the horses.
I got into the amazingly hot car leaving windows and doors open whilst I prepared for the journey home. Driving along the road I passed a road accident where one of the unfortunate bikers had come into contact with a large red van. Police were in attendance and many motorists slowed down to get a better look at the carnage on the road.
Upon arrival at home an hour later, I walked into the bathroom to inspect my exposed limbs and face only to find that every exposed inch of me was bright red. So I am currently sitting here feeling increasingly uncomfortable wishing that I had kept my fleece on and worn sun lotion. But hey! I am British and I have to do these things otherwise what is the point of a bank holiday weekend when the sun shines?
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
God Hates Fags.
It started as a murmur, a low whisper in the background spoken about in hushed tones like the ashamed parents of a deformed child. The voices became louder, nagging but never really making much of an impression, similar to the warnings disregarded by youths around pylons, but it didn't stop there. Before too long it was being openly discussed, genuinely considered and in some places actually put into action. Banning smoking in public places has become a plague, its oozing sores pocking the country like a self-righteous pandemic. First it was the lower decks of busses and most train carriages, then it was all of the bus, restaurants, the underground, fireworks factories, everywhere. Before too long entire countries began to ban smoking in public places altogether, condemning the activities of a dwindling minority and forcing them to conduct their dirty actions behind closed doors, like a homosexual in the fifties.
The time has come to stand up and fight, to say 'no more, enough is enough', the time is now to force a rebellion. Yes, we are a minority, and yes, we do something which has a slight effect on other people, but people need to be reasonable. When the young married couple down the road have the disillusioned idea that bringing another wretched life into our fascist fold would be a good thing do we demand that if they wish to do so they must only do it on enclosed property that they own themselves? Of course not, confining a child to a box-like prison room until the age of eighteen would only encourage antisocial and psychopathic behaviours, much like those exhibited by serial killers and breakfast news presenters. No, we appreciate that the pros outweigh the cons, but that there are cons nonetheless. The screaming of babies on busses, trains, aeroplanes, restaurants, tube stations, parks and brothels is accepted as a necessary evil. Likewise with the deformed. We smile politely as they wheel past you in the supermarket, but it's certainly not something we would imagine in a perfect world. Even so, do we condemn these people to death, or worse still, a life locked behind closed doors? Some may say that there is a valid argument for this, but ultimately we put up with the odd horrifying image in our local Tesco because we're not totally heartless and bastard-like. So why do smokers get the leper treatment, condemned to lighting up in back alleys and squats like a Glaswegian scag user? Here is what I think:
It is a well known fact; even known by most school children that smoking is cool. It makes the smoker have an air of panache, sophistication, and gives them that edge that the rest of the drab, non-smoking population lack. So why ban such an obviously positive past-time? The answer is obvious, the non-smokers are jealous, as jealous as I am of Tommy Wright and the great things he has achieved (Only I don't sign on).
Smoking improves ones lifestyle by a factor of at least seven, that's a seven hundred percent increase, so why ban this activity? The answer to this one is simple. Who bans smoking? The government. And who would gain more from giving you more to yearn for in vain? The government. It all seems so simple when printed in black and white in front of you, similar to the clarity achieved when watching a minstrel show.
The third and final reason seems to be the most terrifying of all, to both the way of life in this country and the way of all lives all over the world, and it is this. If nobody smoked then the only people who could be blamed for being socially unacceptable would be the disabled and the very young, both prime victims for a fascist regime.
So what have we learned? The smokers’ helpline is nothing more than a death machine for a Neo-Nazi resurgence. Doctors that encourage stopping smoking are clearly supporters of eugenics and genocide. Our current government system is taking us down a road that can only lead to war, defeat, and the ultimate destruction of our stable ways of life. By smoking you are upholding a moral decency that has previously only been attained by Jesus and those popes. Don't be a quitter, you're letting the side down, and that makes me regard you with less respect that I have for the dog excrement that has hardened in the tread of my shoe.