Alien in Manhattan

I am lumpen. My lump gives the startling impression that I am cultivating a second head, or perhaps that the alien inside me is straining to burst forth from within to spray the hotel walls with a spatter of bloody froth before darting under the trouser press only to pounce on my mother's face later as she is applying her blue eyeshadow. The alien is preventing me from turning my head independently of my body, and making getting dressed a bit of a challenge because bending forward is tricky and tends to be accompanied by squeaks of pain. Frankly, my own behaviour is starting to look increasingly alien. The lump is not (only) the result of stuffing bagels in my face like there's no tomorrow, and putting away three courses of American sized portions plus a bottle of overpriced, overpowering Californian red every night. According to Dr Takahashi, whom I consulted the day before I left Japan, it's my lump...I mean lymph... nodes.

The bad news

What I didn’t mention is that I shall be accompanied on my trip to New York by my mother. It’s not that my mother is a bad person, you understand, just that she’s a bit scary. When my parents were in Miami airport around twelve years ago, my mother noticed an unattended bag and reporting this finding to a heavily armed policeman. He smirked at her and told her to relax. My mother, having lived in the UK through the IRA bombing campaign in the 1970s (and not taking kindly to such instructions from someone half her age), mentioned the possibility of a bomb, to which the policeman replied, “We don’t have terrorists in the US”. While such naivety may, in retrospect, be touching, my mother did not find it altogether justified. Before turning on her heels in disgust, she demanded to know just whose bloody plane it was that had crashed on to Lockerbie then. I am hoping that she behaves herself this time and doesn’t come up with any smart answers to the landing card’s question, “Are you planning to commit any terrorist acts whilst in the USA?”

The good news

Having sworn that I wouldn’t go back to the USA until the swivel-eyed cowpokes were no longer running the country, I now realise that if I stick to my word, I might never get back. Middle America, it seems, simply doesn’t subscribe to the view that presidents need to be a different class of individual from ole’ Hank down the rodeo. I blame the American Dream – if you all work hard enough and stop being lazy-assed/sick/black, you too can be the prez. Anyway, I am now selling out and submitting myself to the pleasures of a 14-hour flight in order to visit New York City. The good news is that New York is not really America, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Truth be told, I love New York and am just bitter because I can’t afford to live on Washington Square and while away my days reading Henry James and eating bagels.

Is there such a thing as feminist footwear?

A comment by Chaucer’s Bitch on women’s universities prompted this rather serious post. I am a little worried about the prospect of working at a women’s university, not because I am afraid of butch women in dungarees, but because I am afraid of women who study childcare and wear sparkly pink sandals. It is the latter that tends to represent the face of Japanese feminism (or least Japanese women under the age of 30). I know that in these post modernist times feminists come in all shapes and sizes and I shouldn't get all high and mighty about the sparkly shit, but I can’t help it. Which reminds me of this story:

A postgraduate student of mine majoring, of all things, in Gender Studies, took me aside one day and in whispered tones, asked my advice about what to wear for her forthcoming presentation. I advised her to wear whatever she wanted, but suggested something that made her feel comfortable and authoritative. She turned up the next day looking like a prostitute. Apparently that was the look at made her feel empowered. Later I found out that she was working as a hostess to save money for her tuition fees.

If that does not throw enough light on the state of Japanese gender relations, the World Economic Forum’s 2006 report might. It reports on the health, educational achievement, political empowerment and economic participation of women in various countries around the globe. Japan ranks 79th in the world. Out of 115, making it much closer to Yemen (115) than Sweden (1). Albania, a dirt-poor country in the darkest corner of Europe, ranks 61st; the war-torn Republic of Georgia comes 54th, and even Kazakhstan, home of the sister-fucking Borat, ranks higher than Japan, at 31. Getting closer to home, Communist dictatorship China comes 63rd. Indonesia, a largely Muslim country not known for its women’s movement, comes 68th. Kenya is 73rd and Malawi ranks only marginally worse than Japan, at number 81. It seems there’s a case for women only universities after all. If only the women who attend them would wear some bloody sensible shoes.

Women's universities

I have been offered a job at a women’s university in Tokyo. I once did some examining at a Women’s university in Chiba, and the basis of this experience, I have some reservations. All the students were studying nursing, cosmetics or small fluffy animal welfare and we had to shuffle around in slippers on the campus. However, this is perhaps not really surprising in Japan, where the wearing of shoes indoors is second only to paedophilia in the hierarchy of barbarity. And in a country where discrimination still severely limits women’s career opportunities, women-only universities play an important role; and not just in teaching women about cosmetics. The nice people at the place in Tokyo have assured me that my students will be literature and linguistics majors. They didn’t, however, mention the footwear.

How to get a free lunch

I got Mutt No. 2, Honza, when he was twelve years old. He was a silent little dog, who didn’t bark or lick or run. He was deaf, he had warts and the pink, glistening end of his knob routinely dangled perilously close to the carpet/grass/foot of the person he happened to be sitting on (as you can see from the picture). But he was a contented fellow, who wanted nothing more than his pipe and slippers and a bit of peace and quiet.

I have said that Honza didn’t run, but this not exactly true. He could summon up something akin to speed trotting when it was a matter of escaping from what he perceived to be mortal danger. I have also said that he was deaf, but that is not strictly true either; he could hear thunder.

We were in the park one summer afternoon when the sky began to yellow and darken. We didn’t quite make it home before the first clap. All four of Honza’s legs left the ground at the same time, and when they landed again they did not stay put for long. He scuttled off unsteadily down the hill towards home without so much as a glance in my direction, his eyes rolling wildly, his tongue lolling, and his gammy leg giving him the appearance of a startled crab. To get home from the park, he had to pass that special type of old-fashioned Czech pub where cockroaches scurry across the tablecloth and the chef has not bathed since the Communists were ousted. When I finally caught up with Honza, he was under a table in that pub feasting on a huge bowl of gulas and having his ears rubbed by a crowd of large, sweaty, cooing men, the life-threatening thunder long-forgotten.

Get out of the water!

I've said it before and I'll say it again. RUN!!! The jellyfish are coming!!

A shaggy dog tale

I had gone to the dog home with the intention of buying a small, female dog. Any breed would have done except Poodle, Pekinese, or Pomeranian Pansy Pooch. Alas, there were few small inmates on offer that day and those that there were had something disturbingly frou frou about them – a touch of the demi-wave, or a springy tightness about the fur. So I ventured to the end of the table, where the photos of the larger dogs were displayed. And there he was, a dashing chap with a blaze of white on his chest.

I was happy to cough up the one pound twenty he cost, especially as this included collar, lead, muzzle and licence. Having fetched him home and observed how the furniture shrank to doll’s house proportions next to him, I happily settled down to await the onset of bonding. First, he vomited lavishly on the Persian rug. Then he managed to be gripped around the throat by a pit bull terrier. Within the week I’d lost a chunk of my thigh to an enraged springer spaniel and he’d shat in seven different places in the living room.

His tail was a haven for small spiky balls, pieces of rotting vegetation and a variety of woodland creatures, so I took him to the park and attempted to brush him. I muzzled him and set about his nether regions with a currycomb, but he wasn’t having any of it. He wriggled and snarled and twirled around, teeth snapping and legs a-tremble. Unable to bite me, he simply sat on his tail so I couldn’t get at it without throwing myself upon him in the style of a rugby player and pinning his body to the ground. From this position he would thrash and flail, making a spectacle of himself as the gentle citizens of one of Prague's better neighbourhoods, out taking the air on a quiet Sunday afternoon, looked on in dismay.

That evening, as I tapped away at the computer, he lay at my feet glowering and sighing heavily, his tail festooned with verdure. I, meanwhile, had one hand under the desk, toying with my rather tantalising scab.

Alas, he is now gone to the big park in the sky, but at least I have this photo thanks to the mancboomerang. Next time I'll post a picture of Mutt No. 2.

Anti-anti-discrimination

“Religious groups” are up in arms, to the extent that they have actually organised a protest, about a proposed law to outlaw discrimination against gay people. Obviously discrimination against gay people is a good thing and something we should all be fighting for. Their argument is that the law will force them to condone behaviour that the bible/Koran says is wrong (such as worshipping the brown star, presumably). The basic dilemma, therefore, seems to be which should have greater force over the lives of UK citizens – the law of the UK or the bible/Koran? Tricky one, isn’t it, given that the UK is a secular democracy?

Twelve days of Christmas

Happy New Year to you, and apologies for my long absence. Here is a potted history of what I've been up to.

Day 1: Out of Japan and into the soup
Thirteen hours were spent cooped up in the middle seat of the middle row next to a squirming, squeaking Timorous Beast. Toothache and altitude is an ill-starred combination. Upon arrival in a 1950s-style “pea souper”, I found that my flight to Scotland was cancelled. Cue expensive train journey to Yorkshire, complete with unexplained 20-minute stopover in Acton Town, courtesy of the London Underground.

Day 2: Out of the soup and into the Smiddy
After night at Beast’s mum’s, followed by a further three hours standing in the freezing chasm between carriages (that’ll be 65 quid please), I arrived in Scotland just in time to enjoy my sister’s treat of night out down the Smiddy. Fortunately, I was incoherent with jet lag by 9pm and so managed to make an early escape.

Days 3-5: Cake, noise, dribble
For three days, noisy boys gorged themselves on cakes and chocs, played violent video games and attempted to break each other’s legs. Mother and sister demonstrated the cream of Scotland’s parenting skills (“Are you ready to be a responsible boy yet?” to a misbehaving 11 year old being just one example). I was generally incoherent with jet lag by 7pm, and thus often found slumped in the corner of the sofa, dribbling.

Days 6-7: Mancsville
The lovely Mancboomerang showed me a good time in the smokiest pubs in Manchester, with one evening culminating in a dinner of dry roasted peanuts and a drag act, accompanied by the campest guy on canal street, his mysterious Scottish mate and their toy boys. The second day was more civilised, involving a follow-up date with Daniel Craig’s thighs followed by dinner of goat’s cheese and mushroom pie in a restaurant that called itself a shed.

Day 8: Hello 2007
Over the Pennines to Yorkshire again, where Timorous Beast picked me up and took me for fish and chips in Scarborough. We strolled along the prom taking in the local cuisine and the farting plastic arses. I was pleased to see that the Harbour Bar, the beloved institution of my childhood, remained untouched by debauchery and still serves a great cup of Horlicks to keep out the cold. We repaired to Beastly Sister's farm, a place where every available surface is covered in half-sucked lollipops, engine parts and dog hair, often combined in one otherwise unidentifiable item. Beast and I were dribbling into our (hairy) mince pies by 10pm on New Year’s Eve and in bed for the dawning of the New Year.

Days 9 and 10: Take me to your leader
After a night at the home of Second Beastly Sister, we returned to York, where Beast had more dental treatment and I had a plastic rod inserted into my arm so that the aliens know where to find me when they come to take me away. Either that or it really is a three-year contraceptive implant, which seems unlikely. Later, we had a posh Italian dinner with the lovely Amanda. Beast was offered a gig after playing a bit of Satie on their piano. Another missed vocation.

Days 11 and 12: The twilight barking
Next stop London. We trailed our sorry bodies round Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park, goggling at the fancy apartments while keeping an eye out for Pongo and Perdita. We popped into All Souls, visited old haunts at Holborn, and spent a distracting afternoon at The British Museum, which should by rights be called The Stolen From Other Countries and Then Called British Museum. We saw mummies whose brains had been scooped out of their left nostril, mummies whose internal organs had been removed via their anus and mummies whose previous incarnation had been crocodiles, falcons and fish (but not at the same time). My favourite item of all, however, was a tiny bronze wolverine from Greece. Finally, we walked miles along the Thames to London Bridge and down to Lewisham to visit Al and co, who entertained us with cheese, songs and tales of suppositories. Lovely.