Damnit

So school doesn't start for another couple of days, but guess where I am.  Unfortunately my criminal ineptitude means that not only could I have stayed at the festival (photographs incoming) for a lot longer, I could have properly thanked those who helped me out over the weekend.  It was excellent.  On the Saturday we had a Lion training session in Summer heat that shouldn't be legal - then a superb barbecue hosted by a fellow Englishman on his penthouse terrace (whom I'm asking for a job, which is a shame because his abode is something to aspire to and I don't want to seem like a kissass).

The training session consisted of me trying my best to stay in the shade; on a rugby pitch.  As you may imagine that didn't work out well.  Nor did the sun-cream that kept removing itself due to my incessant sweating.  I ended up being burned in more ways than one, because the fitness session we had at the end caught me off guard.  It was (what seemed like) an incredibly simple concept, do ten sprints over 50 (or so) metres, broken up by a minute or so rest.  Each set of sprints was conducted in pairs, so we left the line five times.  The execution was quite fun - a race between two teams to pick up cones scattered around the pitch and then feed them onto a pole placed on the halfway line.  Getting the cone and placing it onto the pole was the first sprint, with a few seconds rest while you're threading a surprisingly difficult needle, then sprint back to your team.  I didn't know when we started, but the losing team had to buy drinks (non-alcoholic) for the winners.

It caught me off guard because I was trying my hardest.  On the final sprint I ended up just flopping over the line and collapsing in a giant heap.  Afterwards, as cliche as it might sound, my legs were jelly.  They barely responded to commands and whether it was the heat or the exertion, I felt awful.  It took about twenty minutes for my body to behave normally again, which is a long time to remind yourself of the old american frontier literature, where they take glee in pointing out to the reader that overworked horses are sent to the knackers.

One of my friends was performing at a concert on the same day.  Unfortunately he was playing at a place that cost forty quid to enter, on the other side of Tokyo, at the same time as my training finished.  To cap off the impossibility of going to see him, all the tickets were booked so I couldn't get in anyway.  It's a shame because I'm not normally interested in music and events like that, except when a friend or acquaintance is involved.  He's the guy I went swimming with a year ago, whose shorts were far too small.  I was thinking about buying a cheap pair of kids shorts to give to him.

So I ended up wiling away the interminable hours at a barbecue, forcing myself to eat sausages and burgers provided by a fellow Englishman who goes by the name of Liam.  The burgers were particularly good as they were chunky things - none of this macdonalds style american nonsense.  The sausages weren't so good as they were the american style nonsense; but they were edible.  I'm thinking about having a spare key secretly made, so I can sneak onto his patio and chill out without the need for a pesky invitation.

Unfortunately I lost track of time (something I do with alarming frequency) and missed my last train home.  I therefore had to stay around the team captains house (again) so I could play in the small 9's tournament being held at the gaijin home ground.

It was a lot of fun, but somehow hotter than the Saturday which meant a lot of hiding under the various tents people had erected.

Our club were banned from our own competition by the council (the long arm of local politics reaches far in Japan) because one of our players threw their boots away in the wrong rubbish bin a month or so earlier (evidently boots are not combustible) necessitating a divide within our team.  A few of the Japanese players went to a team in blue.  A few of the foreigners went to a different blue team, and the rest of us went to a team that goes by the name 'dandelion.'  With this stoically branded team, we would embark on a six (or so) game campaign to win the title.  It's worth mentioning that me and Bati (a Fijian guy who is over forty) initially went to the light blue team and were rejected, turned away like the fat kids in school.  This was to fuel for us to burn while playing.

The games went by surprisingly quickly, with the green team consisting mainly of foreigners (for some reason they'd turned up to this tournament with few players, most of whom weren't even willing to participate) and spoonfuls of luck.  We won every game of the league stage, meaning we went into the knockout competition for the top prize.  The matches were seven minutes long (there were ten teams, so a lot of matches which was the reason for the short games) with no turnaround at half time.  The scrum situation was bizarre, with the attacking team picking however many players they wanted, the defending team being obliged to match that number.  Any fewer than five people became an uncontested scrum so everyone opted for four men each time.  It was quite strange.  There was an eight man scrum at one point, which meant there were no players in the back line.

It was exceedingly hot, but a lot of fun.  It wasn't particularly serious so it made a nice change from the other competitions I play in, and there was a great atmosphere among the foreigners, even though we split up into different teams.  We didn't end up playing the light blues (a crying shame, in my opinion) but we did play the dark blues in the final.  A couple of our Japanese players were playing for them, and were dominant in their previous games.  We were expecting a tough game, which they delivered due to a late fightback after we went a couple ahead.  Bati, a veteran in sporting terms, has this incredible ability to turn on his Fiji within the short format game.  It's often said that Fijians go through spaces no one else could, but it's not true.  I watched him actively make space, where none existed before.  He's not the fastest guy, but he has a psychic ability to split defence despite there being more than enough people to cover him. In the final he took a defensive line of five people, and walked between two of them to score.  When he got the ball, one of the defenders was actually standing right in front of him, but Bati mesmerised him, telepathically forcing the opposition player to move out of his way without so much as a touch.

Mojee, another Fijian, is much more direct.  At four foot nothing and a hundred or so kg's, he essentially makes like a temple of doom boulder and bowls people out of the way.  A pretty effective combination.

Anyway, after the tournament I was escorted to a local public bath by an american who has studied Japanese for a long time, and who has lived here long enough to know all the customs and traditions.  It's not the first time I've been to one, but it is the first time I've been so filthy when going in so he imparted practical knowledge unto me, for which I am grateful.  The first thing you do is clean off, showering away the grime so that you can enter the hot baths to chill out.  Unfortunately I never got past the cleaning off the grime part as I couldn't get the dust out of my grazes.  I spent a fair while rubbing down the cuts and scrapes, quietly cursing the fact I eschewed taping in favour of vaseline.  I also have some nice blisters on my feet - nice enough to take a couple of photos tonight I think.

After that we went to a massive festival - the biggest one I've ever been to by a long stretch.  I'll write about it at a later date, but for now, that's all you're getting!

#EDIT#  The other pictures are now annotated.

Oh Boy, Who Wants Some Photos?

So I have absolutely tons of photographs to present you this time.  There are too many to write at length for each one, so let's dive in.

This is one of the island contingent, big Joe as he's known.  110kg's, but doesn't like to pass.  He's generally who we look to for big line breaks to get the opposition on the back foot.  As is traditional with the islanders; a bloody nice guy who doesn't stop smiling.

A tough match for the wingers, we had a lot of supporting to do, along with some back and forth defence.

I stayed around this womans house along with her husband this night - he monged his knee terribly so I helped him hobble home.

Another islander, who takes on a fatherly role for the team.  Not so much administration as spiritual guidance.

The opposition after the match, a somewhat comprehensive drubbing.

Big Joe, with the smile that sends chills down opposition spines.

Big Joe the Fijian, with Mao the Samoan.  Great things are expected of the guy on the right, once he gets his surgery done.

The islanders love their tattoos, which is unfortunate in Japan because they symbolise organised crime, and most places won't let you inside with them.  These kinds of tattoos mimicking tribal designs from a bygone era are about the only ones I can stomach.

Our regular 9 was away for this match, his stand-in did a good job.  (He kept stepping off to the side, or taking an extra step before passing though, which frustrated me a little I must say.)

Stern looking guy.  Always has that face.

He chipped his eye socket - no surgery required.  I suggested casting his whole head, but they were worried about cutting the eye holes.

Nick the number 8/flanker with his ladyfriend; a fierce combination.

The winger, contemplating a match of incident.

One of the club administrators on the left, it took me a while to warm up to him but now I have, I see that he's a really nice guy.  The man of the match on the right.

One of the local contingent, not afraid to bring a small child into the fold.  (I would be)

Apisai Bati; he asked me for a profile picture and this is the best I could come up with.  I'll need to work on that one.

I don't know why this guy isn't called big mao; he's pretty big.

One of the kids.

Same kid.

Paulo who is most certainly not French, he's Basque.  The distinction is difficult to make when he smokes like a frenchman and pops his collar like that.

The guy on the right is the one who stayed all day Saturday for the 7's.  We were like two frozen cavemen, blue toes and all.  The guy on the right is another one of the administrators.

He likes sausages.

Man of the match.  his surname also means cute in Japanese, interestingly enough.

I never know whose face to focus on in situations like these - next time I'll bump the f stop up and get both of them.  You live and learn.

I don't know who this guy is, beyond the fact he went to Manilla.

Rich (the husband of the woman whose beanbags I slept on (he he)) pretending to be a shopworker.  I think he needs to shrink the best part of a foot before he really fits in, but when he gets old he'll have the practice necessary to open his own shop, as most of the old folk do here.

The shop keeper was pretty cool about the picture.

Joffa, a good old fashioned Australian name, talking to someone.

Going a bit deaf in his old age.

One of the helpers who came down - each team is required to bring an army of helpers to every game in this league.  We needs waterboys, medics, touch judges, ball boys and administrators - usually several of each.  Every item of clothing needs to be IRB approved (and it's rigorously checked), our footwear is checked, and so are our nails.  The locals have real problems if they think this somehow legitimises the competition.  Maybe they've given up trying to play good rugby, instead focussing upon the lofty goal of global domination within the ranks of bean counting and administration.

Maos' tatt's.

The name of his wife.

I've no idea what this says.

I'm not going to lie; I don't know who this is.

John 'viking' .... something.  One of the powerhouse forwards who so often drag us to victory.  It's extremely easy to look good as a backline when these guys are running rampant.

The first game for this guy - either an Englishman or Welshman, who knows.  They're starting to breed the welsh without their accents in order to facilitate a smoother transition when they inevitably leave their homeland.  They also teach their kids to smoke pipes, because that's what English gentlemen do.

I fear their intelligence might be a few hundred years out of date.

Erm?

Back of the net!  Hitomi making like an adopted Welshman.

Also, of note, her last name is the same as the director whom I wrote my dissertation about.  It's worth pointing out that Japan have billions of surnames just like England - the opposite of korea and china.

Someone desperately wanted to take my picture with my camera; so I handed it over.  THEY DIDN'T EVEN GET ME IN FOCUS!  Jesus.

The bar everyone went to after the party.  I drank my fair share of orange juice, but did not pick up the ladies.  I hear that orange juice is 'hip,' and 'cool,' these days.  Like cigarettes were in the 70's.

Some pebbles.

Most old school shops have flags that advertise their wares - this is theirs I guess?

A few of the crew, chillin' with a brew.  OH JESUS I'M A POET OR RAP STAR OR SOMETHING.  Yeah.

Also, it's really difficult to take pictures indoors without a flash - but I prefer the images.

The same guys.  Pro-tip, take lots of pictures because most of them will be bunk.  None of these are as sharp as I would like.

As long as it's canon...

Two of the stalwarts - the little guy weighs about as much as the flower below, but tackles well.  Goes to show that size isn't everything.

A flower.

A building?

A staircase/doorwell.

Some traffic lights.  I had to wait ages for them both to be green.

Pachinko is a form of gambling that circumvents their gambling laws.  There are millions of places around Japan where you can play pachinko.  They're noisy, smoky and cramped.  STD paradise, I'd imagine.  (By this point I doubt anyone is reading any more!)

 A bicycle hidden in a bush.  That's a beer can nestled in there.

It was an extremely rusty chain.  Oil being at a premium since the anti-whaling commission put more restrictions on their research - presumably.

A train.  All the lines are colour coded so if you know your stuff, you know which line this is.  I don't, so I don't.

A dude with shoes and a bag.

So Rich really badly messed up his knee, we had to put him in a wheelchair (he's seven feet tall, so he couldn't lean on me and walking became too painful.)

The upside is that he got to ride on this badass stair/elevator contraption.

When we got him inside the train, I only stepped on his foot once (causing him to flinch and hurt his knee an awful lot) which is amazing, considering I'm the clumsiest person this side of a clumsy thing.

The Japanese backstreet boys, heading home.

He's looking a bit beaverish in this picture.

This thing is a popcorn holder, amazingly enough.  I was really interested in it because it doesn't have ears.  Weird right.

And the dad was holding it.  Never grow up, dad.

The village people had to go back to their everyday lives after their song rights died down.

This is Tokyo by night.  The car at the foreground held two secret agents talking about issues of international importance.

Despite the inherent expense of taxis in Japan, everyone still uses them.

That's how tall Rich is - other people can rest their heads where his arms begin.  Amazing.  (Good job he's not too sweaty)

When you're running, your knees take 5 times your bodyweight.  I assume that's a full sprint.

Particularly relevant given my own issues at the moment.

4 western men =/= 300kg's.

Where I'm heading tomorrow - BBQ and picnic central for Tokyoites.  So I'm told.

My favourite picture.  The one I like the most since getting my new camera.  I absolutely adore this.  I don't know why - I can see a thousand imperfection from a technical standpoint.  There's no accounting for taste I suppose.

This is what messed me up in Osaka.  In Tokyo, the anti-molesting trains are run on a schedule.  Rush hours only.  In Osaka, they're permanent.  You can draw your own conclusions as to what happened...

Proto-typical train track picture.

I can see foreeeeveeeeeeeeeerrrrrr....

Childrens day fish flags.

Apples, with bandages to help keep them together.  Without those, they fall apart.  Like Rich's knee.

I don't know.

Again, I don't know.

Tiny octopus on a stick.

Some unhealthy looking shrimp.

Not a master sushi chef, but he was pretty mean with that knife.

I can't imagine the spectacles instil confidence in those work work near him; considering the size of that knife.

We entered a new apartment complex for the BBQ, it was brand spanking and quite beautiful.

Modern art.  It's not a new development without some pseudo artistry adorning the foyer.

The patio had a couple of square metres of vegetable patch, some welcome greenery considering the concrete nature of Tokyo.

Everyone started dancing when the condiments were presented.  I don't know if this is a traditional Japanese ceremony, or whether they saw the camera and were playing up for it.  I suspect the former.

Onions.  Red ones.  Yum.

We were subjected to the lowest flybys I have ever witnessed.  You don't get that close to aircraft at airshows.  Even the ones where people plow F-16's into the crowd.

Mid squirt.  As it were.

Stripey.

The worlds most ridiculous hat, for the guy with the chipped eye bone.

One man and his BBQ.

Some more cute kids.

One broken eye, to go.

The Japanese half of the English/Japanese couple who own this apartment.

His good side, at least for the time being.

D'awwwwww.

This is with a 105mm lense.  So low.  To give an idea of how close that is, the pilot leaned out of the window and snatched a burger out of my hand as I was waving to him.

Evil eyes, plotting something.  Never trust kids.  Something I've learned since being a teacher.

Content with the burgers, sausages and lamb.  A fine meal.

I didn't get the face in focus, this would have been a brilliant picture had I managed that.

Planes at night.

The KFC guy dressed like a samurai.  This is why I don't take whiteys, dressed in kimono or yukata, seriously.

That guy again.

A lone man standing on an empty platform.  Symbolic in a thousand ways.

An enthused train driver.

AND THAT'S THE END.

Phew.

More to come at a later date, no doubt.