When society ages, so does the prison population. Twenty years from now, Japanese prisons are going to be full of old criminals.
Here are some good statistics.
"Among newly admitted convicted prisoners in Japan in 2003, the eldest convicted prisoners were 89 years old for theft, 83 years old for fraud, 79 years old for Stimulant Drug Control Law violation, 79 years old for Road Traffic Law violation, 85 years old for homicide, 78 years old for robbery, 83 years old for injury, 78 years old for embezzlement and breach of trust, 84 years old for breaking and entering, and 85 years old for arson."
Take hope.
You're never too old to pickpocket, fleece an innocent fool, do a line of coke, drive over a pedestrian, kill the motherfucker, break into your neighbour's house, hit his dog with a hammer, blackmail and lie to his wife, break into his house again, and then burn it down.
Another British soldier was killed yesterday in Iraq.
The British military spokesman said the soldier was killed by the "enemies of peace, freedom and democracy."
Getting to the place where this picture could be taken was the plan for today. The place is the peak of Mt. Kurodake, one of the mountains behind Kawaguchiko. It's semi-famous for its Fuji/Kawaguchiko view. I got there alright, but Fuji and the weather just weren't interested in photos. So you'll have to imagine how good this picture could have been.
Then, on the way back from a tougher-than-expected day in the mountains, the sun was setting over Kawaguchiko. I miss sunsets living in Tokyo. So any chance to record them, even from speeding buses with the mobile phone camera.
A while ago, Ted promised me a story on the time he encountered a Japanese Brown Bear on the remote Shiretoko Peninsula in Hokkaido. True to his word, he sent the story today. Scary stuff with an interesting twist at the end. I don't think I would have ever been able to leave the tent. If you're ever up in Shiretoko, take those bear signs very seriously. And bear bells are good.
I'd been walking for two days down the mountain range that serves as a spine for the Shiretoko Peninsula. Typhoons rarely hit Hokkaido, but a recent one had given the area a good soaking. I'd had a rough day, pushing along soggy trails, and it's entirely possible I'd nearly died a couple of times due to my own stupidity. I finally hit the trail end at dusk. In front of me was an observation point where cars can pull off the road, and between the guardrail and the cliff's edge I had enough room to set up my tent. With the fly facing the moon now rising over the sea, I'd have a lovely view with dinner. A half km up the road were some waterfalls, the water heated by the volcanos I'd been hiking over. It was great place for a natural warm shower.
The moon was up and full, so I used its light to make my way back to my tent. A few meters away, I saw something move above me on a slight ridge. A bear. Keeping my eyes on it, I slowly got into my tent, then into my sleeping bag for extra protection. I listened. Within seconds I heard a loud sniffing. Amazingly, this large animal had come down the ridge, across a gravel road, and over a guardrail within seconds, without making a single sound. I'll never forget the mushroom shape of its nose sliding against the tent wall. It moved around to the front flap. Ah! It was after my shoes, soaking and reeking after the wet slog. Suddenly, it fell down the cliff, breaking branches as it rolled down the slope. I started laughing with relief, but within a few minutes it was back. It lingered around for about ninety minutes in all. At first I was terrified. (They say that if you are within a fifty meters of a bear, you are as good as dead. These higuma (Japanese Brown Bear) are related to the killer grizzlies of both Alaska and Kamchatka.) After a while I began to get pissed off, wanting simply to eat and sleep after a long day walking. I reached into my bag for the bell I'd bought in Sapporo. At its first peals the bear tore off. Not long after I fell asleep, but not before ruining my water bottle since I was too scared to go outside to pee.
The next morning cooking breakfast, I noticed that the water I'd collected at the falls was yellow with sulfur. If I'd drunk any the night before, I'd have become incredibly sick. The Ainu up in Hokkaido consider the bear to be a god. Had one come to protect me? I pondered this as I walked up the road toward town.
I have a sore head.
After yesterday's tears and joy, it's time for some "cold-light-of-day" analysis.
In my opinion, Ancelloti made three major tactical errors.
First, he took off Crespo, scorer of two of the goals. John Dahl Tomassen came on and had a great game. For us.
Second, he didn't react quickly enough to Liverpool's changes in the second half.
Third, and perhaps most significant, he got the choice and order of penalty takers wrong.
Serginio, the Brazilian, who I can only describe as fashionable-looking, had been thwarted by Stephen Gerrard every time he attacked. Every single time. To dip into the cliche bag, it was a real case of men against boys. I couldn't believe it when he was the one who stepped up to take the first penalty. What was the logic? The guy had been outclassed and humbled all night. His confidence had been shattered. And then he steps up to take the first penalty, which he predictably skied. Very strange.
p.s. Was this viewer the only one to notice and espouse on multiple occasions the possibility of a resemblance between an Italian midfielder and a certain fictional race of beings from Lord of the Rings? Sorry, Mr. Pirlo. It was heat-of-the-moment stuff and I needed an outlet.
This is the first time I've written a post drunk, so please bear with me.
Vladi, Didi, Jerzy.
On Ni-Channeru, they are talking about Jerzy's antics. For me, they are just a continuation of Liverpool's history, a continuation of Brucie, a keeper we never wanted.
Walk on, through the rain...
Last night we saw many things. We saw resilience. We, or at least I, never hated Milan. We celebrate Kaka and Maldini. The beautiful game.
But today we celebrate. We celebrate Vladi. Today, you hold your head high, my Czech friend. You scored the second goal, and you converted your penalty with calm.
We celebrate Jerzy. Thank you, with the help from Jamie, for remembering history. Thank you for remembering Brucie, and thank you for the most miraculous save I have ever seen.
We celebrate Stevie. The best converted right-back in the history of football.
We celebrate Igor. Thank you Igor. I saw your face, and understood your intentions, even though you never played.
And we celebrate Didi. Didi, you changed the game. We hope with all our hearts you will be at Liverpool next season. Don't let Didi go,
As I said, I'm drunk. It's been one of those nights.
At 3-0 at half time, I searched for positives in a world of negatives,
Now, my friends, I celebrate.
When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high,
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm,
There's a golden sky,
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind, Walk on through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown...
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone... You'll never walk alone.
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone...
You'll never walk alone
I would agree with your comments below. I have read everything there is possible to read about this final. My Turkish has improved considerably over the last few weeks.
In Belgium everyone has cable so I zap like a fiend looking and listening for any mention whatsoever of Liverpool or Milan. The Greek channel had a small segment so I sat there transfixed as dodgy, cheap graphics flooded the screen extolling the virtues of defensive formations, attacking pace and changing hair colours. (Cisse - the Blue Bullet).
The atmosphere looks great over there and now the regrets are slipping in just a little. But not enough as with Rafa's guidance we will be back and hopefully next season when the game will be in Paris.
I have had some considerable e-mail arguments with Mancunian "friends" recently. They are worried sick that after 15 years of being able to say we have nothing "important" (that was debated but they stand firm) this is really worrying them that we could actually win the European Cup and shut them up for a long time. They are twisted people and the fact they are more preoccupied with us than the Americanisation of their club speaks for itself.
I refuse to predict any score tonight as this has been my ritual. I will arrive at the Old Oak pub near to the European Commission in Brussels with a copy of today's L'Equipe. My friend has to arrive one minute after me and he too will bring a paper - a Flemish one. Then we will order a cheap beer and toast each other. Once the bottle is close to being empty then we can order food and wait for other people arrive. God help those who are already sitting at "our" table when we arrive at 18h15!
I can't fucking wait for tonight and it has indeed overidden everything I have done the last few weeks. Tomorrow will be bleary eyed and red-faced. I hope to provide a proud smile to those that await a reaction rather than a grimace.
Come on you mighty redmen, do us proud over there and bring the big cup back to Liverpool...
As the players and fans of Liverpool descend on the city of Istanbul, the nerves have suddenly arrived in distant Tokyo.
Nerves that I know are also arriving or have already arrived in Brussels and in Dublin. Work tomorrow is going to be somewhat difficult for Liverpool fans, whereever they are in the world.
The traditional ways of filling the waiting time are now redundant. I've given up on the forums that have served me so well since the semi-final. I've read all I can stomach about the disaster of Heysel. I've marvelled at the solidarity Milan showed after Hillsborough. I've enjoyed the writing of songs and the preparing of banners. I've had my fill of the permutations and possibilities, the tactics and the dangers. The cultural discussions on the wearing of the fez. I know Milan inside out by this stage (which is something considering my aversion to Italian football). There is nothing more to read, nothing more to consider. The vacuum of redundant time until the early hours of tomorrow morning knows no more filling.
If you're not a football fan, you may think I'm being sentimental and dramatic. But this is an honest account of my life right now. If you're a football fan, you know this obsessive narrowing of focus and you understand.
Games like this are not once-in-a-lifetime affairs. I remember 1985 in Brussels clearly, 1984 in Rome slightly less so. There was also 2001 in Dortmund, but that wasn't quite the same. Nights like tomorrow don't come often, and when they do they take over your life.
Now, twenty years later, with 36 hours remaining, we wait.
Just below the peak of Tateyama, North Alps.
Mt. Shibutsu, Oze. A lovely mountain.
Looking down on the Katanokoya Hut, Kitadake, South Alps.
You can describe just about anything, but only once you recognize.
The kingdom of the mind is divided and deceptive, a place of false power balances and hidden hierarchy.
Before the gates of recognition and the inner society of consciousness lies the animal realm of the subconscious, a place of savage honesty, where the real decisions are made with scant concern for the ideologies, morals and luxuries of the decorous society within.
Looking at the glittering palaces of the intellect inside the gates, an outsider would be forgiven for thinking the seat of power in this kingdom lay on that side. But unlike in other kingdoms, it's not the case.
The real decisions are made outside in the darkness, well before the aggrandizing society of consciousness ever knows. With time they are passed on and eventually even make it through the gates.
On learning of them, the society of consciousness pretends it had known all along. Its justifies them and explains them to all around. It even claims to have made them, and finally, inevitably, it comes to believe this lie.
You see, it has no choice but to co-opt. Powerless, all it can do is pledge allegiance to a ruler it neither knows nor understands. To survive, it becomes its messenger, receiving in return the sterile comforts and futile dominion of the isolated showcase society within.
But deep down it knows its real position. Outside the gates in the dark realms is a world more complex, more savage, more pragmatic, and more honest than its society will ever know—and this world is infinitely beyond its control. It knows.
Outside the gates, the real power brokers have no need for knowledge.
If you follow the "bear" aspect of this blog, you might remember Ted. He's the guy who met the brown bear on Shiretoko Peninsula in Hokkaido.
Ted's now started his own blog, Notes from the 'Nog. Words, music, and stories to tell. They're having quite a party over there in west Japan. A welcome new voice in the Japan blog world.
The sky is tinting the windows of my office a kind of bad-sunglass, Duracell amber. The world has turned the seedy colour of cheap porn. Amsterdam amber. This is no normal gone-in-an-instant Tokyo twilight. The skies are about to open and we're in for a storm.
Yesterday I took photos of beautiful, majestic tori (birds) and then ate yakitori (grilled birds on a stick). No remorse.
In my defence, I'm not completely heartless. I have yet to describe a dolphin, seal, killer whale, otter or other kawaii (cute) sea-related animal used in posters for environmental conservation or nature films as oishisou (looking tasty).
An Indian woman gets spat at by a white man outside a football stadium in England. A racist attack, right? Or is that making assumptions, as it can't be proved that the attack was racially motivated?
Follow the debate here.
The brother of Akihiko Saito, the latest Japanese person taken hostage in Iraq, has apologized to the Japanese public for the trouble his brother is causing.
Last year, when five Japanese were taken hostage in Iraq and later released, they returned home to face a public backlash, with many criticizing them for recklessly entering the country. In October, when militants brutally beheaded a young Japanese backpacker in Iraq, many here blamed the victim for his own death.Saito's brother, Hironobu, in apparent awareness of such a response, apologized profusely to the public at a news conference.
''I am so sorry that my brother Akihiko caused lots of concerns and troubles to the Japanese government, the people of the Foreign Ministry, and the Japanese people. I am sorry,'' Hironobu said, sobbing.
''More than anyone, I think my brother went into Iraq aware of the dangers,'' he said. ''If the Japanese government decides it's best to stay in Iraq, I will support (that). ... I do not expect the Japanese government to waver for the sake of my brother.''
Boston.com: Japan says kidnapping won't lead to withdrawal from Iraq
(Compare this story with the scenes and response in England after the death of Kenneth Bigley for an insight into cultural difference.)
I've written before about my love of the Odakyu Line because it takes me to the mountains quickly and cheaply. I have one more favourite train line: the Tobu Line.
Like the Odakyu Line, it's private and much cheaper than the former state-run Japan Railways lines. Like the Odakyu, it heads for the mountains.
And there's one more massive plus: the Nikko Mini-Free Pass. With this 2-day pass, you can travel from Tokyo to Yumoto Onsen and back for just 4,950 yen. Yes, return. Two hours to Tobu Nikko station, and then a spectacular 75 minute bus ride up the Irohazaka to Yumoto, and back, all for less than 5,000 yen.
Yumoto Onsen on the shores of Lake Yu, with Shiranesan, Senjyogahara, Lake Kirikomi, and Kotakubokujyo all within walking distance, is one of the most beautiful places in the Kanto region. Great cheap onsen ryokans if you want to go the onsen, rainbow trout and yuba meals route. Pitch your tent in the campsite if you want to spend even less.
As I've said before, if you're going to Nikko, forget that over-rated tourist-trap bridge and the Tokugawa temples below. Go up beyond to the high lakes. It's surely the ideal cheap weekend away from Tokyo. Even without the mountains.
And all thanks to Tobu Railways.
Lake Yu in Golden Week.
A hungry duck on the shores of Lake Kirikomi.
You might remember this scene.
Photos in the gallery.
I'm leaving the words to Pat this time.
Games like these demand irrational behaviour. They search out people too weak to let logic rule. Superstition dictates what one does during the day of the match. Which route did I take to work? Is my bus on strike? Where are my lucky boxer shorts? (Have they been washed?) Who did I watch the game with? Are they in the country?
My problem is I can't really remember what I did last week, apart from come to work then go to the pub, as I was so nervous. I know the pub had happy hour until 10pm so bottles of Stella and Maes will be consumed at one euro a pop. I know I ate at a cheap yet gloomy restaurant near the office. I think I had pasta but know I read l'Equipe, the French football daily. Despite having bought the paper 30 minutes ago I know I am only allowed to read it once the pasta has arrived, not before.
People may mock but this kind of stuff actually works. In 2001 I was at home near Liverpool watching the FA Cup final with my folks. Liverpool vs Arsenal. A great occasion. Arsenal battered us for about 75 minutes. Scored a goal, hit the post, should have had a penalty, were well on top. I told my mum to wear the Liverpool scarf I had bought my dad for his birthday. 5 minutes later Owen scored. I almost smashed the living room lamp open with my head as I jumped up to celebrate. Then, one sublime pass from Paddy Berger later, Liverpool had won the cup. Wonderful day. Four days later I was in Dortmund to see another wonderful game, but no scarves were necessary that time.
Tonight the famous 12th man will play its part. Banners, flags and of course scarves will fill the Kop. Mourinho, clearly respecting our club and its manager will have to acknowledge such fervent support. On nights like these Liverpool truly have the best fans in the world - and this is not just some platitude to appease those eager to hear such tributes as perfected by Jole Cole after their Championship clincher on Saturday. Chelsea are a soulless club and despite the vast difference in Premiership points, tonight's game and the depth of fervour and history will overwhelm these young upstarts.
I didn't predict a result last week, or prior to the two Juventus games. Suffice to say I will be in my dull restaurant this lunchtime, pasta in front, paper just to the left happily anticipating a hangover and a smile of remembrance as I wake up tomorrow morning.
The view from the peak was short-range.
Kenashiyama is only 17 kilometers away from Fuji.
I was wishing I had a wide-angle lens.
The site of an Edo-era brothel hours up in the remote mountains.
Apparently from when Kenashiyama had its gold-rush.
The things you see in forests...
Talk about omens. Even the signs looked like they were from
a horror film.
Portable foregrounds and the rotation of famous mountains.
Photos in the gallery.
At seven o'clock on Sunday morning, I walked into the women's onsen dressed only in my yukata. After a short period of making sure I wasn't a woman, the naked girl inside started to scream.
It's a mistake anyone could make, your honour. The night before that very same bath had been the men's onsen. I know because I was in it. Theoretically, I also know Japanese-style hot-spring inns alternate their baths: the men's bath becomes the women's bath the next day and vice versa, so guests can sample all the different baths on offer. And I know the kanji characters for "man" and for "woman." I just didn't know any of this in my half-awake state at seven o'clock on Sunday morning. So I did what anyone would do: I legged it. And only cocooned in the safety of the "new" men's bath did I start to see it as an omen.
On Saturday I'd had a lazy travel day. From Tokyo I'd taken a bus to Kofu, the gateway to the South Alps and the mountains of Yamanashi. A town of memories for people who love the mountains of Japan. This time I wasn't taking the cliffhanger bus to Hirogawara. I was about to enter the world of the Minobu Line.
I nearly missed the train, mind you. Kofu's ticket machines are still having difficulty differentiating between old and new bank notes, and their Suika machines are still learning how to be Suika machines. There was panic in the ticket area of Kofu Station. Panic, I tell you. The Tokyoites in the considerable crowd were cursing the bumpkin-ness of this backward little outpost, and flustered local railway workers were having difficulty keeping control of the unruly mob. I went to buy a newspaper and came back to order restored.
The Minobu Line cuts deep south through the mountains of backcountry Yamanashi to the coast at Shizuoka. It's a bizarre line. For one, there doesn't seem to be a road equivalent. The run-down train runs an arrow-straight course through valleys of rice-fields on the skirts of the mountains on either side for hours on end—and not a road in sight. And it was packed full of screaming schoolkids. There I was on a crowded train of kids ploughing deep through the rice fields into the mountains of nowhere, wishing I had earplugs. Get away to the wonders of pleasant, peaceful, rural Yamanashi, me arse.
I had reason to be seeing omens. Kenashiyama, the mountain on the menu, was 1946 meters, a considerable height for early May. In terms of mountain conditions, I was worried about snow and the dangers it brought. On a personal level, I had a much bigger concern. The Sunday morning a week before I'd injured my back playing football—one of those slow-burning injuries that didn't really take hold until later that afternoon. By 4 pm I could barely walk. For the whole of last week I'd been covering my back with poultices before sleeping, and though I was gradually recovering, I still wasn't sure if it would hold up.
But it was the start of Golden Week, I hadn't exercised for a week, and the weather forecast was good. I had to take the risk.
In the car from the hot-springs to the start of the trail, I regretted that little city decision and its implications in the here and now, wallowing even further in my own foreboding. This was remote country—really remote country—with big, imposing, "fuck off" mountains. The endless, winding, one-car road was as hair-raising as the road to Kitadake. The owner of the onsen, who was kindly driving me there, looked tense, and who could blame him?
This road also had a major x-factor, an even bigger omen than the ones I'd seen already. Fallen rocks. The road was covered in rocks from the mountains above. Big rocks, little rocks, rocks of all shapes and sizes. Whatever their kind, you don't want rocks crashing through the front windscreen. Especially on a road like this one.
I looked at the driver and knew what he was thinking. I was asking myself some serious questions too. Like what the hell was I doing here? What the fuck kind of way was this to be spending a holiday weekend? And when was it exactly that I lost the plot?
I seriously contemplated asking him to turn the car around and take me back. The only reason I didn't was it would have been embarrassing. And it would have meant asking him to come all the way up this scary road for nothing. Take care, he said, when we reached the trailhead, the look in his eyes suggesting he thought I was mad.
He turned the car and set off back for the safety of his family and his world of lower land, leaving me in the middle of nowhere in a deserted mountain range. I tentatively put on my pack and started up the trail. The only return to civilization now was to cross these mountains and arrive safely on the other side.
