Out a while back with a group of Japanese people, I realized the conversation had been focused for too long on Irish food, because one of them had lived in Ireland when she was a kid and we were reminiscing about scones and Pancake Tuesday and other Irish delicacies and traditions, stuff we probably hadn't thought about in years, and then explaining them to the rest of the group.
I could see the others were getting bored, so I turned the conversation to Japanese food, saying:
"Irish food is great, but I don't think Ireland's food culture is anywhere near as advanced as Japan's."
I really think so too. Japanese cuisine is one of the most sophisticated in the world. I love Japanese food. Where would you be without your udon and your soba and your sushi and sashimi and your nabe and your shabu shabu and your miso soup and your tofu and your ajitsuke and all the rest of it?
Then one of the other Japanese people there, who I like as a person and respect professionally, says bluntly, "I hope so."
It sounded at once dismissive and arrogant, and whether it was intended that way or not, it became my lasting memory of that night.
I bumped into her today and we shared a lift and talked about the weather.
"It getting a bit warmer now, isn't it?"
"Yes, especially in the mornings. It's been such a cold winter," she said, smiling.
But she wasn't finished her sentence. She added two more words: "for us."
The peak marker at Jimba-san near the end of the hike.
Snow fallen on cedars.
Rumours of his demise have been greatly exaggerated.
A concrete statue of a horse. Putting the "ba" into Jimba.
Snow may make your legs heavier, but it certainly improves the view.
It started as the great upbeat rousing tune it has remained to this day, but the lyrics were hardly inspirational. In those days of the U.S. Civil War, it was called John Brody's Body, and it was sung to inspire the troops of the North in their battle against the Confederate South.
It starts like this:
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave,
But his soul goes marching on.
Later it gets down to its true message, that's it good and holy to die for the North in its battle to free the slaves. Even in death, they'd nothing to worry about, a message most Irish people will know well from their own history.
John Brown died that the slaves might be free,
John Brown died that the slaves might be free,
His soul goes marching on.
A great tune, which may well be in your head by now, but certainly lacking something in the lyrics department.
Then along came a woman by the name of Julia Ward Howe. In 1861, while visiting a Union soldiers' encampment on the banks of the Potomac river in Washington DC, she heard the song and was impressed by its tune, so impressed that she decided to rewrite the lyrics.
What resulted was one of the most famous hymns ever written, beautifully named the Battle Hymn of the Republic, but which often goes by its legendary, often quoted first line. Sung at the funerals of Winston Churchill and Robert Kennedy, the Battle Hymn of the Republic is a truly amazing feat of words complementing music. And I say that without a organized religious bone in my body.
Here's the famous and incredibly poetic opening verse:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword
His truth is marching on.
And you can be carried away by the rest of it here. Julia Ward Howe certainly had a way with words, and though countless others have tried to rewrite this tune's lyrics, nobody has come near to matching the beauty of her words.
But as I said, many have tried.
Remember the white supremacist anthem in American History X?
Oh, mine eyes have seen the glory of the trampling of the zoo
We have washed ourselves in niggers' blood and all the mongrels too
We're tearing down the ZOG machine, Jew by Jew by Jew
The white man marches on!
And now most recently, and the reason I'm giving you the history of the transformation of an old marching tune, has come a new football version. This version is inspired by Liverpool's heroic deeds in Istanbul last May. And with this Sunday's game against United on my mind this Friday afternoon, I thought I'd quote it for you in full. Non Liverpool fans should probably stop reading now. Nothing to see here. And lovers of the beauty of words will recognize that Julia Ward Howe has nothing to worry about. However, Liverpool fans indulging in reveries of magic nights of the recent past might disagree.
(If you've actually read this little Friday afternoon ramble through to the end, good luck getting that tune out of your head anytime soon.)
An army amassed just like centuries before,An army of thousands in livery of red,
Liverbirds on their chests and a dream in their heads,
With smiles on their faces and songs in their hearts,
Of hope a new era was waiting to start.
Stood on the North Tribune I looked all around,
A sea of red swamping 3 sides of the ground,
Flags, scarves and banners that covered the crowd,
A show of red strength to make Chairman Mao proud.
I surveyed the scene in awe and in bliss,
How could we fail on a stage such as this?
I reckoned without an AC Milan team,
With the class to make nightmares out of our dreams.
And so it transpired in a half straight from hell,
A Maldini sucker punch straight from the bell
With 2 blows from Crespo 5 minutes apart,
Milan drove a dagger through Liverpool's heart,
We staggered and reached the refuge of half time,
Our worst fears were realised, 3-0 behind,
Ashen-faced Reds with their heads in their hands,
Slumped in despair on the steps of the stand.
An anger rose in me, but not with the team,
Where was the 12th man? Was Chelsea a dream?
We had to show pride, try to lift them somehow,
We'd come much too far to give up on them now.
Somebody somewhere had shared the same thought,
My faith was restored in our famous support.
YNWA grew in strength, as did I,
And I sang.. as if it was for the last time.
Looking back now I can't honestly say,
That as I sang, I thought we would find a way
To come back, but I wanted the whole world to see,
We still had pride, we were still Liverpool FC.
That chorus will live on in legend and lore,
Cruyff said he had heard nothing like it before,
Maradona said it made him convert to a Red,
Luis said it spurred them to rise from the dead.
Then came the reverse of our first half ordeal,
6 minutes of mayhem that didn't seem real
6 glorious minutes that none will forget,
When Stevie and Xabi and Vlad found the net.
Milan came again but at each turn were foiled,
Once more a siege played out on Istanbul soil,
As the seconds ticked down, the Redmen stood tall,
Though their muscles screamed "stop" they ploughed on through it all.
Then came the moment God's will became known,
The ball fell to Shevchenko with Dudek left prone,
With the goal at his mercy, our Pole somehow saved,
Someone from above must have smiled on the brave.
It was then that it suddenly all became clear,
Milan realised that this wasn't their year,
Alongside the Reds stood an ally too great,
There was no resisting the power of fate.
So when the game entered it's final test then,
They bore the demeanour of half-beaten men,
Defeat after so much no player deserved,
But while Milan's men wilted the Red's kept their nerve.
And when Andrei's nemesis foiled him once more,
The night air was pierced by a deafening roar,
Destiny fulfilled all that was prophesised,
And I hugged all around me with tears in my eyes
The Redmen all met us, celebrations they led,
Carra The Lionheart, Gerrard The Red,
Sami The Mighty, the sturdy Hamann,
Dudek and all, heroes to a man.
And Rafa, our Moses, by his guiding hand,
He led us all back here to this Promised Land,
When the road became hard no excuse did he use,
And when all seemed lost here his genius shone through.
Emotion flowed down from the stands like a shower,
As we watched Stevie lift that old trophy of ours,
You'll Never Walk Alone once again we did sing,
As we all heralded the return of the Kings.
Now on the bus back to Taksim I went,
My voice was in tatters, all energy spent,
Utterly drained but smiling ear to ear,
I thought back to the road that had led me to here.
As a boy I had watched all the legends parade,
As they conquered all Europe and history was made,
As the years passed, now no longer watching a screen,
I thought I'd never see what my elders had seen.
I wondered if my eyes would yet see the glory,
And whether in years to come I could tell stories,
Of great Anfield nights and of crusades abroad,
When the Mighty Reds put Europe's best to the sword.
2004 then turned into 05,
And finally all of my hopes came to life,
It seemed fate was there with us right from the start,
It happened as if it was written in the stars.
I watched from the Kop on that December night,
The pivotal moment when dark turned to light,
4 minutes from failure, then hope was restored,
We all dared to dream, when Stevie G scored.
Echoes of the past rang as clear as a bell,
The late Kop end goal, the same scoreline as well,
My generation loved tales about way back when,
But we now had our very own St Etienne.
I was there against Juve when ghosts of the past,
20 years in the waiting confronted at last,
The Kop spelled out friendship in red and in white,
And in silence we remembered the fallen that night.
The whistle it blew and the silence gave way,
To a whirlwind of noise that blew Juve away,
I saw a red tide almost swallow them whole,
And I saw Luis Garcia's 30 yard goal.
I saw Chelsea get their come-uppence at last,
On a night at Anfield that might not be surpassed,
The primeval force of The Kop in full cry,
For 96 minutes the noise wouldn't die.
96 minutes for 96 souls,
They surely were watching the drama unfold,
For something divine intervened on our side,
'Cos I can't explain how Gudjohnsen shot wide.
The Kop danced long after the players had gone,
The glory of years passed remembered in song,
And when we were thrown out we danced on outside,
Around Shankly's statue long into the night.
And now I had witnessed a moment so rare,
It's drama and splendour were beyond compare,
A moment in Sport we may not see again,
A moment I'd waited so long to attain.
Istanbul was for one night, Heaven on Earth,
So special you can't put a price on it's worth,
I give thanks I was one of the privileged few,
I was there and I saw all of our dreams come true.
A banner I'd seen and there saw it again,
"My Eyes Have Seen The Glory" it proudly proclaimed,
Four symbolic stars were emblazoned thereon,
I could now say "me too" when the 5th one was won.
I’ve seen the Kop's legacy upheld and enhanced,
And seen us win when no one gave us a chance,
I've seen us rise up and be crowned Europe's best
If it's the last match I see I'd still think myself blessed
This lunchtime I went to my City Office to obtain a certificate of proof of alien registration. I need one of these to give to my City Office.
A certificate of proof of alien registration is different from a card of proof of alien registration. One is a certificate. The other is a card.
But there are similarities. Both would seem to serve as proof of alien registration.
So why did I need a certificate of proof of alien registration as proof of alien registration when I already had a card of proof of registration?
Because my City Office requires both a card of proof of alien registration and a certificate of proof of alien registration for the procedure I want to take.
Based on the logic of that requirement, we must draw the following conclusions:
To acquire a certificate of proof of alien registration, you must produce your card of proof of alien registration. In other words, the only requirement to prove alien registration to obtain a certificate of proof of alien registration is a card of proof of alien registration.
And yet, the reason you require a certificate of proof alien registration in the first place is because a card of proof of alien registration does not prove alien registration.
And when you get it, it won't prove alien registration.
Got that?
Hmmm.
"But it's okay," she said. "I have my own dongle."
"You do?"
"Yes. And you can use it if you want."
"Really?"
"Yes, but only for the night. I'll need it back in the morning."
Nice word, dongle, he thought to himself. Wonder what the fuck it is.
Dongle. Dongle. Dingle dangle dongle. Don't dangle your dongle in Dingle. His mind filled with serious thoughts.
What's she doing with "her own dongle"? Why would I need one? And why would I have to bring it back the next morning?
"Thanks very much. That'd be great."
I went to the doctor's today for the first time since I was a child, to have a full health check-up no less, known in Japanese as the kenkou-shindan.
It's quite something, your first full health-check up. First off, it costs a lot. I did it all in Japanese through a regular Japanese clinic, and it cost 42,000 yen, which is about 305 euro or 370 dollars. Had I gone to a fancy English-speaking clinic aimed at the Azabu expat crew, it would have been almost double.
The kenkou shindan requires some interesting preparation. You can't eat after nine p.m. the night before, and you can't drink fluids after midnight that night. You have to fill in an epic, epic questionnaire about your health conditions. And then there's the small matter of having to provide and package a sample of your own, er, stool. All of our modern world's great technological advances don't make this task any easier. Your panicked fumblings in the bathroom this morning are testament to that. They'd be great slapstick entertainment for others. You semi-recognise this yourself. Somewhere in a toilet in North Tokyo, you've become Peter Sellars.
You're also advised to be liberal with your weeing on the morning of the test. You take this advice seriously.
And it's just as well. On the morning of the test, you show up at the clinic at the appointed time with your completed questionnaire and your jar of stool. You're given a locker key, told to change into the hospital clothes, and then to wait in the waiting area. You do this, apprehensively. Then a nurse comes in, calls your name, hands you a plastic cup, points you to the toilets. Off you go, son.
Your mission is to fill the cup to the 25 ml mark. No more, no less, and no warm up. This is straight from the first whistle, serious stuff. Errors will not be tolerated. You're in a dark toilet, pissing seriously into a paper cup. Accuracy and control is everything. You're Daley Thompson, competing in the javelin at the start of the Olympic Decathlon. Happily, compared to the sideshow that went on vis a vis the stool sample, you pass this little test with accomplishment and ease. You return from the toilets triumphant, like a proud young hunter returning with his catch. And suddenly the tides have turned and now you're Spartacus, letting your people live.
You're then weighed and measured, and your body fat is recorded. You regret them now, those Christmas beers. Then comes the eye test. Migi Hidari Shita Ue. They always come in order. You're back on old ground again, Bill Murray from Groundhog Day.
The hearing test is like being on a quiz show. You put on some metal headphones and sit inside a telephone-booth-esque cubicle. You're given a buzzer. When you hear a sound, you're to press the buzzer as fast as you can. The theory is this: the longer it takes you to press the buzzer, the worse your hearing is. You don't have to be a genius to work out how to cheat. Your competitive edge and the delusion you're on Blankety Blank take over. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! You're on a roll here. You think you might have won a checkbook and pen. But by the time they let you out again, you're Donny from Magnolia, and it's not going to stop. Terry Wogan, unfortunately, has already left.
You're then told to lie down on a bed and open your gown. They put clamps on your ankles and wrists, and some electrode-like things on various points on your chest. Immediately you think two things: torture and bondage. In truth, it's the closest you've been to either, but the similarities are far too striking to ignore. Tabloid thinking. At least half the world probably thinks the same. Now you're Dustin Hoffman from Marathon Man, or you're in a Ken Russel film with his namesake Theresa.
Then come the x-rays. You ask if you need to take your top off for the chest x-ray. The doctor reckons there's no need. You're intelligent and wise, like Trigger from Only Fools and Horses.
And then you come to the part where you have to drink barium so they can check for abnormalites in your upper gastrointestinal tract. This is the dreaded ii no kensa. You can read all about the wonders of the barium swallow here. I might just add that drinking something with its own entry in the periodic table of the elements is disgusting, and in combination the moving torture machine they put you on immediately afterwards and spin you around in all directions on, it doesn't help the tranquility of your once calm and healthy stomach. You're Buck Rogers, returned from strange adventures in the 25th century, down but not out.
Then, to top it all, they take you outside and make you take a laxative.
You're nearly finished. You have a blood test. After the barium and spacecraft thing, an injection is nothing. You look the nurse straight in the eye as the tubes fill up with your crimson blood. You're Clint Eastwood now. No problem, this once potentially squeamish stuff. Then you go to visit the doctor. She tells you the lump on your leg is not cancerous and probably just fat. You feel relieved, but you keep the facade of nonchalance.
And then the show is over. The 3-hour health check up has been finished in 1 hour 15 minutes. It's businesslike, this production-line health check, for profit in every sense. You don't mind. You collect your results in a couple of weeks.
You get dressed, pay up and stagger back to your office. Your stomach feels sick, and you sense a certain laxative starting to kick in. Somehow, amid the frequent rushed trips to the bathroom, you find it hard to concentrate for the rest of the day. Fittingly, life has turned full circle. This morning you were Peter Sellars with the bathroom equivalent of writer's block. Now you're one of those who ate the beans in Blazing Saddles.
Of course I'm talking to you. Who else would I be talking to?
Do you have NPD?
According to DSM-IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders; the mental illness bible), NPD is distinguished by
"a pervasive pattern of grandiosity (in fantasy and behavior), need for admiration, and lack of empathy..., indicated by five (or more) of the following:
- An exaggerated sense of self-importance...
- Preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love
- Believes that he/she is "special" and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people...
- Requires excessive admiration
- Has a sense of entitlement
- Selfishly takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends
- Lacks empathy
- Is often envious of others or believes others are envious of him or her
- Shows arrogant, haughty, patronizing, or contemptuous behaviours or attitudes
If you think you might have it, Narcissistic Personality Disorder (Wikipedia) makes for a challenging read.
It's happened to you, too.
You go to a restaurant with a Japanese person. The waiter or waitress comes to take your order. They pointedly look at the Japanese person you are with, ignore you completely, and wait for the transaction to begin.
You decide to cause trouble. You start speaking. In Japanese. This goes against the accepted behaviour for this situation. After all, you're supposed to be invisible. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. The door has been opened to confusion and ill will.
Invisible men are not supposed to speak.
The next move of the waitress is predictable. After the initial shock wears off, she answers your perfectly understandable Japanese with monosyllabic English that can only be described as "simian with an American accent".
The invisible man may be no longer invisible, but he's still a foreigner.
You're insistent and rude: You answer her English with Japanese.
By now, tension reigns. And it's your fault. You didn't follow the script. You were supposed to be invisible.
It seems to be a much colder winter than last year, and yet there isn't a drop of snow on Mount Takao.
The Japanese language--sometime's it's quaint, sometimes it ain't. Did you know that the Japanese for vasectomy is パイプカット (pipecut)?
