Thursday 19th September [No games, only planes]
Being thirty-one now, and classy as all hell, I walked past the Heathrow Weatherspoon’s with barely a sideways glance. Classic remoaner behaviour, I know, but ‘it is’, as the kids say, ‘what it is’.
Not one-and-a-half, two pints later, into the non-‘Spoons airport pub came the dashing and newly engaged pair of Soshiteumi-san and Beteran-chan. [Soshiteumi (the taller one) has previously cast his lengthy shadow over Straight Down from Chicago, as well as Los Blogs de Beetha, which – I’m sure you remember – also included Beteran (the one with hair) amongst its sprawling cast.]
Together, we travellers three wolfed down some final English stodge before jogging over to the gate and hopping aboard our Flugzeug. Why so stodgy? Well, where we were going, my friends, pie would be in mighty limited supply.
*
Our Air China flight to Beijing took place on a plane so old I was surprised it boasted only one set of wings and that said wings weren’t constructed of canvas, spruce and hope. I watched unchallenging superhero movies and napped, as is my wont on these long-haul trials. The food was bad, as was the cask-strength flatulence seeping out from one of by neighbours.
A lively market for Rugby World Cup tickets began to break out amongst the various giants who had squeezed onto this orient-bound, malodorous cocoon. Perhaps 80% of the passengers were bouncing on to distant Tokyo, you see, and they already had ruggers on their mind.
Sadly, my spare ticket for Argentina vs. France received little-to-no love on the trading floor, so I returned moodily to Wakanda and its glistening abdominals, sipping a warm and morose Tsingtao, whispering soft curses.
*
My mood, already lowered by my failings as a sky-bound horse trader, was not improved by Beijing Airport doing Beijing Airport things and almost making us miss our precious connection.
‘You want me to re-scan my coins?!’ asked an incredulous Beteran-chan, once we’d finally made it to the (completely pointless) mid-transfer security numbskulls.
‘Shi,’ confirmed the numbskull.
‘And my phone charger?’ I added.
‘Shi.’
‘And you particularly object to my umbrella?’
‘Shi.’
‘But the kilo and a half of delicious black tar heroin Soshiteumi here has crammed up his sweet Aris’ is fine?’
‘Shi.’
Once released, we were instructed to sprint umpteen hundred yards round to our gate through an oddly deserted airport, just in time to make final call. We then, of course, stood in a packed and stationary bus for 15-20 minutes, for no known reason other than simply ‘China’.
The second plane, once aboard, was, in fairness to Air C., at least built this century. My new Scottish neighbour, Shortbread-san, was the recipient of ‘bland’ then ‘kosher’ meals, as his mischievous friend had called ahead, listing a host of fictional dietary requirements, just to vex him. Looking around, I was, in fact, completely surrounded by Celts – a feeling which I was to become more and more used to as this Tokyo trip took shape…
Friday 20th September [Japan 30 – 10 Russia]
Success – we arrived safely in Tokyo.
Balls – we are on completely the wrong side of the city, and not a small city at that.
Our first stop was the post office, of all places, as Beteran-chan, ever organised, had ordered herself a ‘pocket wifi’ gadget, for without internets, we are lost. Meanwhile, Soshiteumi-san, playing the role of Teenage Asian Girl #7173, dashed into the nearest Starbucks for a sweet potato golden Frappuccino.
Cooking now with gas, we plotted out our four-train route to distant Wakabadai, where we would be squatting in an apartment ever-so-kindly lent to us by Beteran’s uni pal, Stacey of Arimathea: First, The ‘Skyliner’ took us into the city proper – a craft notable because its seats swivel 180 degrees between trips in a way which struck this observer as, frankly, showing off a bit.
It was on this speedy little train that old Soshiteumi discovered that his state-of-the-art 195-country Google adapter does not, in fact, work in Japan. He was unamused. I was much more amused. Beteran-chan was asleep, so was unable to cast the deciding vote.
*
Traveller’s tip #1: a number of different companies run the Tokyo area tube system, and tickets for some lines will not, curse them, work on others. Be ye, therefore aware.
Traveller’s tip #2: When you make mistakes with your underground tickets (and you will) the barriers which close upon you are surprisingly puny, and it is perfectly possible, with sufficient western aloofness, to ‘gaijin smash’ your way through regardless.
*
At long last, multiple changes later, we finally arrived at Wakabadai Station and met Tokyo Josephine who, saint-like, showed us round the corner and unlocked the spacious lodgings which would serve as our HQ for the coming week. Why such kindness from this stranger? Well, Stacey of Arimathea’s husband, y’see, is a professional rugby player here in western Tokyo – for the might Suntory Sungoliaths no less – and Tokyo Josephine is a fellow (smaller) Sungoliath employee.
Sungoliaths forever, my friends. Sungoliaths forever.
With the flat’s usual occupants away in New Zealand for the birth of their second wee teammate, we had the full run of the place – a perfectly appointed and spectacularly gratis place to base oneself, all told. Once might go as far as to say, ‘a right touch’.
Wakabadai itself, it must be noted, we found somewhat wanting: exploring around we discovered sprawling supermarkets and precious little else – certainly nowhere to watch the Rugby World Cup’s opening (miss)match between the Brave Blossoms and lowly Russia. In the izakaya joint we found near the flat, for example, World Cup fever had quite clearly failed to erupt, though the beer and gristle was plentiful, keeping body and soul together.
With no further bars in the immediate vicinity, we toddle back home, whereupon the jet-lag descended like a thick, dark cloud, and within mere moments all within were dead to the world.
Saturday 21st September [Australia 39 – 21 Fiji; France 23 – 21 Argentina; New Zealand 23 – 13 South Africa]
I slept well, albeit in two distinct chunks, as is so often the way with me ‘out east’. Either way, once showered and groomed I was very much ready to go seize the virgin day.
A swift Keiō line eastwards to Chofu drop-kickstarted this first of two splendid ‘rugby days’. It was here that I reunited with The Old Sensei (he of Les blogs bourguignon et breton, Shanghai nights, Borneo days, and Thai Times fame) – over for the weekend from China to celebrate his 60th with his firstborn. (That he actually turned 60 in early July is neither Japan-here nor Japan-there my friends.)
Together we wandered round this Chofu gaff, having a wee explore and comparing it, not always favourably, to his current borough of Shanghai. We soon found ourselves in the RWC official ‘fanzone’ and found it rather uninspiring– though, once again, few other rugby watching spots presented themselves.
Passing up on a fine looking pizza parlour due to Beteran-chan having haughtily maintained previously that she lusted not for overtly western cuisine while way out east, we opted instead for the adjoining (and excellent) tapas-style restaurant, ‘Pep’. Low and beyond, however, after investigating some familiar voices in the next-door pizza p., who did we stumble upon but Soshiteumi-san and Beteran themselves who, now up and dressed, had indeed made for the cheesy, sliced stuff after all.
Rank culinary hypocrisy? Perhaps. Yet this, I’m afraid to relay readers, would become a familiar pattern as the trip wore on.
*
The four of us ended up watching much of Aussie vs Fiji in what seemed like a non-aligned late-1990s church hall-cum-cinema, up at the very top of an eight storey ‘cultural centre’ – as you do.
Here the moderately sized, chiefly Japanese, crowd clapped politely every so often at some very fine Fijian play; the smattering of Aussies watching looked mighty confused at both their surroundings and the scoreline, but still appeared confident that their side would pull it back…which, indeed, they did, damn their hides…
Following this rather surreal episode, we taxied over (NB – try not to taxi anywhere in Japan, they want your money and they want it bad) to the Chofu-located ‘Tokyo Stadium’, where we would be supporting the Argies lustily against the accursed French.
Splitting into two pairs and heading to opposite sides of this elegant rather than humongous arena, The Old Sensei and I quickly made friends with a group of broad-minded Argentines who didn’t mention the Islas Malvinas even once. Together, pre-kick-off, we all made enemies with a trio of Frenchies equally swiftly, one of whom owned trousers which simply did not fit his Aquitaine-sized rear, much to the dismay of all behind him.
It was, I’m happy to say, a genuinely great game of ruggers which went right down to the wire – albeit, worse luck, with the French triumphant once said wire was reached. This exhibition was then followed by a far superior fanzone to that which we’d suffered before, with readily available (overpriced) Dutch beers and a giant screen, which displayed all eighty minutes of an inevitability/tediously impressive All Blacks side’s victory over the much-fancied Saffers.
*
Still thirsty, post-game(s), we hopped a singsong-filled train across to Shinjuku, where we strolled over to ‘Golden Guy’, where one finds numerous tiny, dodgy bars and numerous large, drunken foreigners. The dive we dove into was, truth be told, a bit of a hole, but they had a table free and served beer (alongside very questionable snacks) so I, for one, two and three, was not complaining.
The Old Sensei, a wise head on only slightly wizened shoulders, bailed out at this point, back to his overly luxurious hotel. However, he was almost instantly ‘replaced’ by a half dozen new companions, mostly Googlers, who we knew from London Town – they too over for the RWC and also keen for good times by the sackful.
We ended up, as we were always fated to, in a random karaoke joint, to sing the night away. Your correspondent here received surprisingly good reviews, though the competition was far from strong.
Such were the revels that we (the Wakabadai trio) ended up comfortably missing the last Keiō back home, so the day ended for us fast asleep in the back of a lengthy and reassuringly expensive taxi home, dreaming of Keating and bottles of beer.
Sunday 22nd September [Italy 47 – 22 Namibia; Ireland 27 – 3 Scotland; England 35 – 3 Tonga]
Sometimes, boys and girls, it is acceptable for a weary fella to sleep in.
Therefore, I felt no shame, aye no shame at all, that I was awoken at 11.30am by Soshiteumi-san banging upon me chamber door, cursing my name. We had to head south to Yokohama, post-haste, you see, to pick up our rugger passes for the afternoon’s all-Celtic clash. The fellow was as excited as I’d ever seen him. That is to say, a solid three or four out of ten.
Plenty of rattling trains and a short walk later, we were at the foot of the looming International Yokohama Station, a good bit bigger than the Chofu/Tokyo equivalent, and swimming in a green sea of Irish. Somehow, The Old Sensei managed to met us there, despite the myriad barriers and checks, and despite me having his ticket grasped in my paw…
This time we all sat as a quartet, and much to Soshiteumi’s (mild) delight, Ireland bossed the game from the very off, scoring three swift tries and effectively ending the contest. Pouring Tokyo rain put a bit of a…dampener on the second half (I’m here all week, folks), slowing the game down appreciably and ensuring that the wretched Scots could gain no foothold in the match-up whatsoever.
All in all, then, it seemed to bode rather well for Ireland – though the smart money remained on them exiting, as per, at the quarterfinal stage.
*
The monsoon had set in in earnest post-game and the much-moistened scrum to get away from the stadium was a little bizarre, given the Japanese reputation for infrastructural efficiency. Three of our number sheltered safely beneath the bar, but The Old Sensei was, to his horror, swept away in the crowd towards Shin-Yokohama, having foolishly stooped to retrieve his mackintosh and gotten caught in the green, inebriate current.
We only found the aged fella, sodden and bedraggled, perhaps an hour later, telling wild and raving stories of Hibernian depravity and feeling pretty darn sorry for himself.
That every establishment in this quarter of Yokohama, be it a bar, eatery or ‘Club 7/11’ was simply heaving with Irish did not improve his mood. However, just as the rainstorm began to border on the ridiculous, we found sudden salvation at a very serviceable Chinese joint, which Google Scanner unreliably informs me was called ‘Cha Ita’ or ‘Italian tea’ or something curious like that. Whatever the name, the food was flavoursome, the Guinnesses questionable, and soon spirits were improved no end.
*
Now well-fed and slightly dried, we bid a fond farewell to The Old Sensei, who now had to hasten back to Shanghai and his (occasionally) honest toil. Worry not, blog-fans, I daresay he’ll be back for another one of these overseas absurdities at some point in the future.
Our remaining Tokyo triumvirate then waded around the corner to a dive called Ajito for many, many beers with the Google lot, who had also scored tickets to the game and who were, by now, several sheets to the typhoon, challenging all-comers to street-corner line-out battles.
Beteran-Chan, she who shuns western cuisine with her tongue but devours it apace with her maw, insisted, after this extended session, on one final stop before we return to HQ. A world-famous stop. An infamous eatery: The Golden Arches.
I watched in helpless horror as she and her lofty fiancé put away a Trumpian-level Maccas platter, with nuggets and chips and double cheeseburgers flying in each and every direction. One thousand, two thousand, one trillion calories came and went, and still the pace remained ‘deliriously breakneck’.
‘Why didn’t you just eat more Chinese?’ I wailed, but, alas, truly, they could no longer hear me. The clown Ronald had got ‘em tangled beyond salvation in his red and yellow snares. All that was left was the sound and the fury. And the ketchup.
Monday 23rd September [Wales 43 – 14 Georgia]
Classically jet-lagged slumber all through a Monday morning resulted in us leaving the flat at a scandalous two o’clock in the afternoon. Looking to make up for lost time, we headed apace to the celebrated Shibuya area, where we searched for a spot of late lunch.
Having found the joints at the top of the very fancy Tokyu shopping mall to be, well, very fancy, we hopped into a nearby, orange-fronted ramen place, ordered (unsurprisingly) ramen from the handy machine outside, and then hugely enjoyed the stuff upon arrival, guzzling it down without pause or mercy. Flavour, truly, thy name is ‘cheap Tokyo ramen’.
Ramen-ed now to the gunnels, we rolled north to Yoyogi Park, where dogs bundle happily about in strict weight classes and leafy trees are apparently innumerable. Then, a short stroll from this happy spot, the famous and colourful Harajuku shopping area could be found – a district which proved well worth an explore, even for folks who habitually never, ever buy things (like your humble narrator here).
*
Back after this to Shibuya proper, for the indispensable ‘Lost in Translation’ crossing photographs, before a swift tube took us back to Shinjuku, where we met up with Kobe (beef) Bryant – a good and undeniably Aussie pal of mine from back in London town – at one of the innumerable ‘Hub’ pubs one finds dotted here there and every-damn-where. Together, beers in hand, we surveyed the wondrous Wales and their comfortable victory against the spirited Georgian ‘Leos’.
Dinner, post-rugby, was enjoyed at a really rather excellent ‘yakiniku bar’ named ‘No Meat, No Life’, where we sampled delicious self-barbecued beef, including some truly sensational wagyu cuts. The mouth waters just writing about it and, by the time we were replete, it had cemented itself firmly at the very top of our ‘Japanese culinary charts’.
Tuesday 24 September [Russia 9 – 34 Samoa]
The lovebirds decided that it was now high time to gaze upon a temple of some kind, so off they hastened, seeking out culture with a capital C. I, on the other hand, opted for a chilled morning of reading and writing and generally ‘chill-axing’. This rubbish doesn’t pen itself, after all, and if I didn’t do it, who would? Someone with talent? Ah, bitte schon.
Once I’d scrawled down a few days’ worth of the overwritten stuff, I cleansed and garbed myself and grabbed an afternoon train, again to Shinjuku, to have an explore, find a snack and get a bit lost. Here I met up with a certain Peregrine Took (AKA Mrs. Kobe beef Bryant) to sink a drink or two, to chat concernedly about how our mutual pal The Jane Janey keeps all her dead hair for making up underwear, and to guzzle down some choice yakitori near Shinjuku station.
We then took a stroll down the horribly named ‘Piss Alley’ (which I will refer to henceforth by its less popular, but much nicer secondary nickname, ‘Memory Lane’) for further beers and yakitori.
At this juncture, Kobe beef Bryant joined us down Memory Lane, and the orders got bigger and brasher almost immediately. The experience, all told, gave a fella a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘If Memory serves’ – for yes, yes it does, my friend.
*
A (second) dinner of very good tonkatsu proved to be just around the corner, of course at Kobe’s suggestion. Indeed, the food here at Tonkatsu Niimura (possibly – it may well have been another, similar joint) really was really worth writing home about, if you choose to travel sans blog.
[Though, as I’m only 55% sure that ‘Niimura’ was the name of the place, were I to write home about it, blog or no blog, I may well be guilty of spreading that #fakenews I’ve read about in the broadsheets…]
Anyhow, we rounded the evening off at Kurand Sake Market for sakes warm and cold – though not without drama, as the waitresses wronged my friend Kobe beef Bryant and ol’ Kobe ain’t the kind of Australian who takes these things lying down!
Soshiteuni-san and Beteran-chan met us there for a nightcap, before the three of us all bid the antipodeans farewell and headed back Wakabadai-wards. It turns out that my sake tastes differed from the norm (I enjoy it cheap and warm) which meant that I often seemed to be drinking our various samples and medium/small measures alone. This perhaps, would explain how they stood much more steadily on the surprisingly heaving tube than I. Or perhaps it was a cruel conspiracy. History, I am sure, will decide.
Wednesday 25 September [Fiji 27 – 30 Uruguay]
This was the day I finally bit the bullet and got around to purchasing a ‘Pasmo’ card for the metro, ending my promising gaijin smash career. Now fully and cravenly ticketed, it was off to the Google offices in Roppongi for lunch and for some cask-strength Soshiteumi-san networking.
Great views from the panoramic windows and plentiful free food abound up here in Google Towers. I perhaps overindulged slightly, but when the price is right the price is right, and a fellow can always purchase bigger belts.
By the end of our time there though, Soshiteumi-san was not quite sold on transferring over, chiefly, in his words, because his ‘Mommy don’t live near Tokyo’. A fine and true sentiment, I’m sure you’d agree – though a mega-Yen move to the biggest city around surely still held certain charms? We’ll put this one down as a ‘maybe’ and get back to you with further developments.
*
Somewhat stuffed, we then headed up towards the Imperial Palace, though, once there, much of it seemed shut up tight in unsightly scaffolding. Instead, we wandered around the adjoining gardens, soaking up the late summer rays offered by an absolute scorcher of an afternoon.
Sticking with the ‘shoe leather’ theme, we kept wandering along, up through Akihabara and what can only be dubbed ‘the ubernerd district’, stopping only to grab a swift and cooling ‘Hub beer’ before exploring a temple rich and reed-filled park in historic Ueno.
Dinner, that night, was to be at Uomaru Honten, a tight and bustling covered food market, stuffed to the gunnels […what is a gunnel, friends? I should really stop using the word until I nail this down…] with innumerable izakaya joints and assorted miniature restaurants.
Here we feasted on some lovely little titbits, including a round or two of ‘deep-fried oyster sushi rolls’ and some curious Soshiteumi-ordered croquettes. The choice was, truth be told, somewhat overwhelming, but I feel we acquitted ourselves rather well, and supped that eve from the amongst the choicest of cooking pots.
We felt, perhaps oddly, perhaps not, like milkshakes for desert – and the most likely joint in the environs proved to be ‘Shake Shack’ – a shack, if you will, almost perfectly designed for dispensing shakes.
Now, I would oh-so love to report that an additional, wildly unnecessary cheeseburger was not ordered by the fallen pair with whom I voyaged; that they were not, in fact, bonded slaves to their western, glutenous indulgences. But I took an oath – a thrice-damned oath I tell you! – to impart only the truth and nothing but the t. upon these online pages. And so, alas, I cannae report ye this. The cheeseburger in question lasted, at most, 7-13 seconds.
Thursday 26 September [Italy 48 – 7 Canada; England 45 – 7 USA]
Skipping the morning as unnecessary, away I went at noon for a lovely Thursday lunch with Mr & Mrs Kobe beef Bryant at their favourite Ramen joint, again near mighty and oft-visited Shinjuku. If memory serves, it was a place by the name of Tatsunoya Ramen – and believe me when I say that it is well worth a visit, should you find yourself nearby and if don’t mind a short queue for tippity-top quality ramen.
After a final cup of (very questionable) tea and a bittersweet goodbye with Kobe beef Bryant, that unquestionably steadfast Aussie gourmand, I wandered on my merry way, via the Hanazono-Jinja Shrine, to the beautiful and sprawling Shinjuku Gyoen. A genuinely gorgeous, if mosquito-rich, slice of tranquillity, I managed to while away much of the afternoon exploring its peaceful gardens and hidden secrets.
Following this top-quality garden time, I journeyed on through the (surprisingly lovely, dark and deep) inner-city woods to the rather impressive Meiji Jingu Shrine, replete with high wooden gates and sweeping, carved roofs. Only then, filled up to the hat-brim with natural and cultural delights, did I seek out some local station or another to grab a Keiō which might spirit me westwards.
*
Soshiteumi-san and Beteran-chan, up to their own adventures that day, managed to mess up their own trains royally, and, as they were the ‘key-holders’ that day, I was obliged to hop into a nondescript Wakabadai coffee house for another tea-based tribute act. I toyed with the idea of a personal izakaya session, but we were Out To Dinner that evening, so I behaved myself, attempting to verge upon contentment with a cup of low-quality warm nonsense.
Once quorate again, back at HQ, I washed and dressed for Gonpachi restaurant and some fancy-pants Shibuya dinner. The food here was objectively great, as might befit the sister restaurant of the famous spot where Uma Thurman slew the Crazy 88s in a fabulous yellow jumpsuit: All sorts of lovely delicacies came our way and went post-haste, with melt in the mouth sushi and skewered morsels of the very highest quality.
Such was the tone of the occasion, a minor UK celebrity even came by to sit at the neighbouring table – young Beteran-chan ‘losing her chill’ somewhat, but just about holding it together. In short, a successful binge, and a damn fine way to bid farewell to a sensational city.
T.H. Mansfield 