Off home

I get up on time. I’m supposed to be seeing Andrew at 8:30. Just need to brush my teeth, ram a few things into my bags and I’m ready to go.

The bathroom is tiny. Larger than an aeroplane bog. But only just. I can only just about fit my arse on the toilet seat. Not a wonderfully comfortable experience. Andrew would have to bend double to get under the shower.

We check out and walk to the station. It’s not too far, even for someone as old and radged as me. It’s good we know exactly which entrance and staircase to take. Saves pointless fucking around.

After a bit of fiddling with the machine, we get ourselves tickets to the airport. I walk through the barrier and wonder why Andrew hasn’t followed me. I turn back and see he’s talking to a member of staff. Turns out we’ve just bought seat reservations, not actual tickets.

Ticketing issues solved, we go up to the platform. Where our train soon pulls in.

It’s around 45 minutes to the airport. With a pretty fast train. Which, on reflection, looks more like an airliner inside.

We can see a lot more than on the way in, when it was dark. It’s built up very differently than Korea. There, it’s just forests of high-rise blocks. Here, the majority is low-rise housing, with the occasional 10-storey block.

The further out of town we get, the more industrial it becomes. Oh look, there’s a massive Nippon Steel works. Cool.

“We used to have those things in the UK. Places . . .

“Where they made things. Factories. You’ve already done that joke, Dad.”

“Well, I only have a limited number of them.”

“I’ve noticed.”

A long bridge forms the last run into the airport. Which is on an artificial island. One of the largest in the world, Andrew tells me.

It’s all very well organised. The train runs right into the terminal. From there, it’s a few storeys up into departures.

The nice lady at the Korean Air check-in counter asks: “Is Seoul your final destination?”

“No, Amsterdam.”

“Do you want to check your bags all the way through?”

“Yes, please.”

Hopefully, they don’t get lost on the way. Though, as all that’s in them in dirty clothes, it doesn’t really matter that much if they’re delayed. Unlike on the way out.

She also prints boarding passes for the second leg. Zero fucking around needed in Seoul.

The annoying formalities are over quickly. A quick shuttle ride and we’re out at the gates. With almost zero walking involved. That’s what I call a well-organised airport.

The KAL lounge is small, but perfectly-formed. All self-service. I get myself a coffee.

“Where’s the beer machine?”, Andrew asks.

“Next to the coffee machine.”

As these things are quite impressive, I video it while it pours Andrew’s beer.

“Mmm, it’s after 10. Must be time for a whisky.”

“It’s always whisky time for you, Dad.”

He’s not wrong. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

There isn’t a choice. Just a bottle of Ballantine’s 17 year. It’s OK. Having just the one glass would be impolite.

The plane is pretty big for a short hop. A wide-body Airbus. We have two seats on the outside. Again, the legroom is dead impressive for standard seats. Even Andrew can sit comfortably.

Not bad food. Chicken with rice. Not spicy, but pretty tasty. I scoff pretty much the lot. No alcoholic drinks. That’s no biggie, as I’ve already had a couple in the lounge. And I’ll be having a couple more in the next lounge.

We need to go through security again. Doesn’t take long, luckily. Now all we have to do is to find the lounge.

Not as easy as it sounds. We spot one. But it clearly says, on closer inspection: “Not a KAL lounge”.

My back is killing me. I really don’t fancy random walking around in hope.

“Andrew, I need to sit down. Can you try to find the lounge?”

“I’m feeling tired, too.”

“Fucking brilliant. I’ll do it, then.” I’m a bit pissed off. To say the least.

I decide to find a gate with airline staff and ask them. After asking at a few desks, I eventually get directions. Now I remember where they were on the way out. At either gate 249 or 253.

I realise we’re in a different lounge this time when the bar isn’t where I expect. This is an exact mirror image of the other lounge.

What should I get? I know, what about a whiskey? And a beer for Andrew.

I’m going to have to pace myself. We’ve a long layover. A very long layover. As in a full eight hours. No need to go crazy shovelling down the booze. I’ve more than enough time.

Bits of food. Some of those will help. Fruit. That’s always a good idea. And cheese. You can never have too much cheese.

I flip out my flaptop and fire up some Early Doors. Soothing and entertaining. It fills the time like a smelly fart fills a bus.

A couple of hours pass reasonably quickly as I sip whiskey and nibble on cheese.

“Do you fancy some cheese, Andrew?”

“No.”

“You can never . . .”

“Have too much cheese. I know, Dad. You keep saying that.”

I’m feeling a bit knacked after a couple of hours and decide to get my head down. The seat is comfy and I can stretch out a treat. The lights? That doesn’t bother me. I don’t need darkness to kip.

After an hour spark out, I feel much better. Now where’s that cheese?

I work away steadily at the Jack Daniels. Until Andrew returns from the bar tells me that it’s about to close. You what? I rush up to get in another and ask precisely what is happening. Yes, they close at 8. But the liquor bottles will be left out for us to help ourselves. There won’t be any Jack Daniels, though. I’ll have to make do with Glenmorangie.

There’s still some time left when I finish off season two of Early Doors. As with much of the best British comedy, they called it a day after two series.

Andrew starts getting panicky when he sees “Go to gate” next to our flight. Almost two hours before departure.

“I’m not traipsing down there to sit on an uncomfortable seat for 2 hours. I’ll have plenty of time for that during the flight.”

As a compromise, I agree to leave the lounge 15 minutes before boarding is due to start. It will still mean sitting around at the gate for a while. But I feel guilty about how fine we cut things on our previous flight out of Incheon.

Of course, we have some hanging around at the gate. Not too annoying, mind. As we have seats.

The flight is very full. Luckily, for reasons I don’t understand, the bloke in the window seat fucks off somewhere soon after take-off. Giving us a lot more room.

After nibbling listlessly at the food, I attempt sleep. Having tanked myself up well, I don’t even bother drinking any wine. I doze around ineffectually for a couple of hours. Then put on What We Do in the Shadows. To which I keep falling asleep. That sort of works.

I nod off briefly watching more TV. Outside there’s an amazing strip of dawn, a horizontal rainbow. Very pretty.

The breakfast omelette could be worse. Definitely needs some seasoning. And cheese. Everything is better with cheese.

We land at 5:20. Quite likely the first arrival of the day. On the way to passport control, groups of border guards keep passing us. Obviously, just starting their shifts.

No queue at passport control. I guess because we’re so early. Our bags are already on the carousel and Andrew whips them off, sticks them on the trolley and we’re through customs before the lazy arses have even got out of their office.

A cab has us home not long after six. Where Dolores awaits us with tea.
 

Off to the castle

I hear my phone beep as I’m lying in bed. That can only mean one thing: a message from Andrew.

As I’m feeling nice and comfy, I don’t bother getting up. It’s not like he’s going to be saying “Dad, can we meet earlier?”

I slowly drag my fat, old sorry arse out of bed and tinker with my flipflop a little. As you do in the morning. Andrew has messaged me: “Can we meet at 11?” 

No problem for me. I can do some tippity-tippy tapping. These trip reports don’t themselves, you know. No matter how much they read like AI text prompted by “write a travel report based on Father’s Day and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.”

There are some weird signs in my room. I particularly like the combined no smoking and no hair drying sign. The latter seems weirdly specific. Who dyes their hair while on holiday? It must have happened though. Otherwise why have the sign?

We have a dead touristy day planned. Visiting the castle. First, I warm up with some of yesterday’s sarnies and whisky. While Andrew goes for the health-food option of beer and beer.

By the time we shuffle off to the lift, it’s well after one. The plan is simple: walk through the market to the metro station, then take a train to the castle. Oh, and get some food on the way.

The beef was good yesterday, but I can’t justify 5 euros a bite. And, being honest, I preferred the molluscs on a stick. The same old chav is there as yesterday. And he remembers us. Still using a twin blowtorch technique.

It’s only three stops to the castle. But we need to change. Andrew has already worked out the route. Though it’s not exactly complicated. The ticket machines are pretty easy to use, too. 190 yen each, it is. Not too expensive, either.

“Do you know which line to take, Andrew>”

“Yes. Don’t worry, Dad. Just follow me.”

“Like Jesus?”

“No, like a normal person.”

A new experience for us, this is. We never got to ride the metro in Tokyo. Just the local trains. The first metro uses an overhead wire. The second, a third rail.

The second line comes across as having been built earlier. It’s the Central Line. I can read that, as it uses the Chinese character. “chung”. As in Chungguo: China.

It’s weird how much more reassuring the writing is here. All through the use of characters. In Korea everything was just squiggles. Here, through the scraps of Chinese I remember, I can read at least a little. Amazing how much more secure that makes me feel.

The metro is bright and clean. Well signposted. But without fucking escalators. Or any lifts, that I’ve noticed. Lots of stairs. Not good for an old Dalek like me.

I have to pause for breath halfway when leaving the castle station.

“Hang on a second, Andrew.”

“What’s keeping you?”

“Crappy old lungs.”

“That’s a rubbish excuse.”

“I’ll try getting some new younger ones before our next trip.”

“Stop taking crap, Dad.”

Before venturing into the trek up to the castle, we pause at a vending machine. I get a tin of cold coffee. I need me some caffeine.

There are a lot of foreign tourists around, surprisingly. And flocks of uniformed schoolkids. As a bunch of six-year-olds walk past they wave at me, for some reason.

The castle is in some ways like and European castle, and in others quite different. There are moats and concentric defences, but no towers, really. More pagoda-like structures. And some of the stones are way bigger: bus-size.

And, being 16th-century, the walls are backed by massive earthworks. I wouldn’t fancy storming the fucker. Even with cannon.

We don’t venture into the keep. You have to pay. And I’ve done enough climbing for one day. For two weeks, really, in combination with all the stairs in the metro.

In the inner bailey, there’s a very European-looking building. Formerly an army headquarters, currently a shopping centre. We check it out.

“Do you fancy a beer, Dad?”

“What do you think?”

“That you’re probably more interested in a whisky?”

“Very funny.”

Souvenir shops, a couple of cafes, even a crane game place. No fucking bar, though. No point hanging around.

The walk down is much more fun. Despite it heating up. It’s not that warm, but Andrew’s melting point in 25.3º C. And it’s 24.9º.

We get out of the wrong exit from the metro. Right next to a pharmacy. Which I notice has a “liquor” sign. I need to check this out. I find the booze section. Where they have Nikka Black. For 850 yen. For70 cl. Around 6 euros. The robbing bastards. Andrew saves himself some money getting a six pack of Asahi.

As we’re walking back through the market, a bloke with a full neck tattoo and a girlfriend who looks about twelve bumps into Andrew. He doesn’t say anything. Andrew, I mean. I wouldn’t have, either. You need to be a total psycho to walk around looking like that in Japan.

We lounge in our hotel for a little. Plan for later? GULP, a craft beer place. We would have dropped by yesterday. Except they don’t open on Tuesday.

They really don’t seem to be into daytime drinking here. None of the beer places open until 5 PM. Which is almost going home to bed time for me, nowadays.

“I wonder why everywhere opens so late and closes so early?” I ponder.

“Because everyone is working.”

“That’s a rubbish reason. Work never stopped me drinking.”

“Which may explain why you were sacked so often.”

“It wasn’t that often. Only a couple of times. Three or four. Half a dozen, at most.”

“Right.”

“It’s not my fault I kept having rubbish managers.”

“Always someone else to blame, eh, Dad?”

GULP should be just down the street. For some reason it seems to be way further away on the map on Andrew’s phone. Not wanting to piss around too much, we settle on the brewpub in the station again. Which gives us a chance to check out exactly where we need to buy tickets and catch the train tomorrow.

Settled into our booth, we order the dark beer. And gyozas. You can never go wrong with them. Around us, salary men and women are doing something similar.

They have lots of little bits of food. Just perfect to add a little ballast but not bloat enough to get in the way of beer.  We order more beer and more bits of food. Tasty and relaxing.

We don’t leave things too late, buggering off before last orders at 9. It’s still buzzing outside. With scurrying commuters and younger loungers. It’s all very Japanese.

We get to our beds pretty early. We aim on rising at 8:00. Our flight is at 12:300 and we want to be at the airport in plenty of time. What with having lounge access.



Dotonbori Craftbeer Brewery Namba
5-1-60, Namba,
Chuo-ku,
Osaka-shi,
Osaka,
542-0076.
https://craftbeer-namba.gorp.jp/
Open:
Mon - Fri 11:30 - 15:00, 17:00 - 22:00
Sat - Sun & Holiday 11:30 - 22:00

Off to Dotonbori

Andrew calls at 9:30. We head off to the combini. And then on further. Through the Kuromon market a bit and on to Dotonbori Street.

It's a bit early and most stuff is closed. Or just opening. We sit in the shade and have a drink. While trying not to get run over by the vans dodging around us.

Andrew wants to look at the river, so we head over there. And walk down the side a little. Snapping away like the other terrorists.

Feeling peckish, I get some strawberries on a stick. 300 yen (+-2 euros) for five. But very nice.

Just past an offie, we spot a craft beer. pub. Not open for several more hours. "I'll remember that for later."

“I’m sure you will, Dad.”

We walk a little more. And my old legs start complaining. My mouth follows.

"I fancy sitting down for a drink. Even just a coffee, Andrew."

“OK.”

We find a western-looking cafe. With an Hawaiian theme. Andrew has a draught beer, I get an iced coffee. It comes to 1,700 yen. Or about 12 euros.

We walk back through the big covered market. God, there’s some yummy looking food. All the local stuff: okonomiyaki, the octopus balls, lots of grilled things on sticks, including wagyu beef, marbled to hell.

"We need to eat here later."

"We can get something on our way out tonight."

We hit Lawsons before returning to our hotel. I get a bottle of Suntory whisky. At 1,500 yen, cheaper than the two drinks we had in the cafe. WTF?

After waiting out the hottest part of the day, we go through the market around 5 PM, just before everything starts closing down. My plan is to get some food. Starting with some wagyu beef. Which, though pricey, is dead good. It comes on a stick. As does pretty much all the carryout food in the market.

What seasoning do I want? Just the salt, I think. No need for barbecue sauce. Judging from the server’s reaction, that seems to be the right choice.

Our next course also comes on a stick. Some sort of shellfish. Not sure exactly what it is. There’s no English translation, as there is with the other items. An old bloke patiently grills it with twin blowtorches. Occasionally squirting over what I assume is soy sauce. It tastes dead good.

We continue on to Dotonbori, which is now really livening up. As coaches disgorge tourist parties to clog the street. Our destination is the tiny craft beer bar we walked past earlier in the day. 

On the way, I notice that the street is full of host bars. With the occasional hostess bar just for variation. How can they support so many of these places? Who goes to them?

“A lot of the customers are hostesses.”

“Did I just say that out loud?”

“Yes, Dad. It’s your senile thing, remember?”

“That all sounds a bit circular. Don’t they get into a feedback loop?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

The occasional work-bound hostess passes. I’d be much more reluctant to walk around the street the way they’re dressed, like stocking-clad maids. Then again, I am an old, fat bloke.

The bar is tiny. Even tinier than the one in Kyoto. But has nine draught taps. Unfortunately, no seats.

The barmaid is also tiny. Having the floor behind the bar six inches lower means she barely comes up to our midriffs. I order an Our Brewing Break Time, billed as a Juicy Double IPA. 8% ABV and 60 IBU.

My beer isn't bad. And hardly sludgy at all. Andrew has a Pilsner. Then a cider, which is so sludgy it looks like milk.

I can walk around OK, but too much standing does me in. A third of the way into my Juicy DIPA, I have to go over the street and sit on some steps. While I'm sitting there, someone comes out from the building behind me and set up a sign right next to me. It's for a host bar. I'm surprised he doesn't tell me to fuck off. I'm not the greatest advert for the place.

I only have the one. Then we go back to or hotel. Past ever thickening crowds of tourists. And men clearly on their way to work in host bars: jacket and tie, dyed hair, make up. Either that, or they’re on their way to a Eurovision party a week early.

Walking past a hostess bar, the draggers-in smile and wave at me.

“Look Andrew, the hostesses like me.”

“Dad, that’s literally their job.”

“Are you sure? They look really genuine.”

“Stop being stupid, Dad.”

Back at the hotel, we rest a little and I pick at some strawberries as we check out where to go next. There's a brewpub in Namba Station, Dotonbori Craftbeer. But it shuts at 10. And it's already after eight.

It's not obvious where the place is, as it's tucked inside a shopping centre under the station. Luckily, we find a map.

As we're walking down the stairs into it, Andrew bangs his head. First time this trip. Hopefully, he isn't concussed.

A waitress tells us when we enter that last orders are at 9 PM. We've about 20 minutes.

We're shown to a private booth and quickly order two beers. Pils, I think. It's hard to be sure as the menu is only in Japanese. We order a plate of gyozas, too.

Quickly knocking back the beers, I notice they also have a dark one. We order two of those. I'm guessing it's a Stout, as it's a bit roasty. We manage to slip in another brace of beers and a plate of gyozas before closing.

While Andrew goes for a piss in the shopping centre, I watch the salary men rushing to get their trains home. And a lone hostess, presumably on her way to work, looking very out of place. It's a very Japanese scene.

Outside the streets are bright and vibrant. People rush around. Like Blade Runner without the rain. Andrew takes a snap of me for Dolores.

We enter a weird “Lowsons”, which seems to be an anime-themed version of Lawsons. We get ourselves some more drinks and nibbles. Wouldn’t want to run dry.

Back in the hotel, I drink some whisky and Andrew some beer. While we watch the Standy-Uppy guys on Youtube. It's been a full, fun day. With lots of walking. Which is probably good for me.



Stand Umineko Craft Beer
2 Chome-2-11 Shinsaibashisuji,
Chuo Ward,
Osaka,
542-0085.
https://www.instagram.com/stand_umineko/
@beersnack.umineko
Open:
Mon - Fri 17:00 - 23:00
Sat - Sun 15:00 - 23:00


Kuromon Ichiba Market
2 Chome Nipponbashi,
Chuo Ward,
Osaka,
542-0073.
https://kuromon.com/en/


Dotonbori Craftbeer Brewery Namba
5-1-60, Namba,
Chuo-ku,
Osaka-shi,
Osaka,
542-0076.
https://craftbeer-namba.gorp.jp/
Open:
Mon - Fri 11:30 - 15:00, 17:00 - 22:00
Sat - Sun & Holiday 11:30 - 22:00 

Off to Osaka

I rise at 8. To watch Match of the day 2.

So depressing, as the fascist Arses win. The jammy twats. Totally undeservedly. Then again, I always think that. In my mind, the Arses never deserve to win. Just for being the Arses. I dream of their relegation from the Football League. If it was up to me, they'd start every season with a deduction of 60 points. Or maybe more.

We get to the station early. Very early. Andrew is a bit paranoid when it comes to travelling. We sit in the station for 2 hours waiting for our train.

There’s some shouting going on. A bloke is very unhappy about something at the ticket counter and keeps slamming down some piece of paper. All the station staff look very uncomfortable. Soon enough, it ends. Without police intervention.

There’s a little shop on the concourse. I go to check it out. That is, get something to drink for the journey.

At first, it looks like they don’t sell any alcohol. Then I spot some cans of beer. And, just further along, soju. Though only 200 ml bottles. I get two.

Every time a train rolls in and passengers tip off, a good percentage are in uniform. All young lads and obviously conscripts. Like Andrew’s university friend Robin, who recently started his military service.

“You should be glad they dropped conscription in Holland.”

“They didn’t. It’s still on the books. I received my papers.”

“But you don’t actually have to do it.”

“Not at the moment. They could easily bring it back, if they wanted.”

“It would be good for you.”

“In exactly which way, Dad?”

“Get you out of the house.”

“Good for you, you mean.”

“Cynicism is so unattractive in the young,”

“Fuck off, Dad.”

I’ve been surreptitiously working my way through a bottle of soju. I nip to the shop to replace it.

Maybe I should say a word about soju packaging. The larger bottles look very much like bottled water. Clear liquid in a clear plastic bottle. Only in Korean. One prominent brand even has an image of a drop of water. It would be dead easy to mistake it for water. It must happen.

I'm glad we booked up our seats when we arrived in Pohang. The train is packed after a couple of stops, with people standing. It’s almost like being in the UK. Though obviously nothing like as stupidly overcrowded as that.

We're lucky with our timing when we arrive in Seoul. The next express train to the airport is in 5 minutes. They only run once every 40 minutes. More lounge time. Yippee!

Checking in is a breeze.

"How many bags can I check in?"

"Three."

Brilliant. Though we only have two that need checking. I wonder if I can save the extra one for a later flight?

Before going airside, I change the remnants of my wongs into yen. Always handy to turn up with local cash. And the wongs aren’t going to be any use in Holland.

There's a bit of a queue at security. Nothing too bad. We're through in 10 minutes. And go directly to the lounge.

It's pretty big. And rather good. They give me a decent slug of whiskey. And there's lots of hot food. It's even better than the Air France lounges. Though maybe not on the cheese front. Mikey still regales friends with tales of the Air France cheese counter.

I watch some Early Doors. Which is rather surreal. And continue stocking my belly with whiskey and scran.

“It’s your round, Andrew.” He doesn’t look very keen on going to the bar, the lazy git.

“What do you want, Dad?”

“Jim Beam, no ice. A Double.”

When he returns, he has that sheepish look again.

“They put ice in, didn’t they?”

“Sorry, Dad.”

We cut it a little fine with going to the gate. Everyone else has already boarded. A couple of staff hurry us towards the plane.

"Don't worry, we've checked in bags. They won't be leaving us behind."

Andrew just gives me a look. Faithless bastard.

“Have I ever let you down, Andrew?”

“Yes. Loads of times. It’s what you do.”

The ungrateful bastard. After all I’ve done for him. Right, well, I’ll not be wiping his arse again.

It’s a good two minutes, three even, perhaps, after we fasten or seat belts that the cabin crew close the doors.

“See, I told you we had plenty of time.”

“Just shut up, Dad. Really. Just don’t say anything.”

I'm not that hungry, but the food is pretty good: spicy pork stew. Lots of legroom, too. Even for lanky legs Andrew. Who is strangely uncommunicative.

I'm knackered when we land in Osaka. Immigration and bag collection go smoothly. And they have baggage trolleys. Free ones. Not like robbing US airports. The robbing bastards.

Customs insists we open our bags. Perhaps, because of our natural sweatiness. I'm tempted to say: "The drugs are in the other bag." But wisely keep my gob shut. Customs officials aren't noted for their sense of humour.

There’s a ticket counter for the express train. So up we traipse to it. We've just a couple of minutes until the next one. I’m not going to rush. We’ll get the one after.

There's a vending machine on the platform and Andrew gets us some drinks. I need a nice cold water. It was weirdly warm in the arrivals hall.

The train has airplane-like oval windows. Giving it rather the appearance of an airliner. If you don’t look too hard or worry about where the wings have gone.

It takes about 45 minutes to Namba. They whisk past in streaming lights and the occasional blinking tower. Impossible to get any impression of what it looks like in daylight.

At Namba Station, where the express terminates. we try for a while to find a taxi rank. It's not very well signposted. Not even on some of the maps. I can’t do with any unnecessary wandering around.

The first taxi driver can't read the name of our hotel. We have to get out again. Luckily, the next one can read Roman script.

It's not that far. But I'm too knacked to walk. It costs 740 yen. The minimum fare is 680 yen. That’s how short a journey it is. Yet one I really needed in my state of totally bollock knackered.

After checking in, Andrew goes down to get some beer from the hotel's vending machine.

“No proof of ID needed.” He says grinning gleefully on return.

“Japanese only channel” a notice says on the TV. Though on NHK they’re showing a programme teaching English. Hah, win for us.

I just drink some water. That’s how tired I am. Then collapse into bed. Over 12 hours travelling, in total. That takes it out of you. Especially an old git like me.

Who will be the first?

To buy my latest book. So far the sales number just one. The proof copy I bought.

Bit irritating after after paying Alexei 20 euros to perform his cover magic. That's the kids in a really cool bar in Kyoto. In those far-off days when intercontinental travel was normal.

It's the follow up to my other poor seller "Can we go home now?" Of which I've sold almost five copies.

Some of my finest writing, I'd say. "More of your pathetic made-up crap, Dad.", the kids told me.

Be the first to buy a copy.

There may be a prize for the first purchaser. https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/ronald-pattinson-and-alexei-pattinson/can-we-stay-longer/paperback/product-2rp4vy.html

New book proof

The proof copy of my latest book, "Can we stay longer?"

I must say that it's looking dead cool. And it's in colour. One of my best, I think. Though I doubt I'll seel many copies. Or any, based on past experience.


Buy your copy now.

New book

After a couple of hours struggling with fucking pdf files, I've finally managed to get my nrew book into Lulu. What a total pain in the arse the process was.

But it's finally up there. The follow up to "Can we go home now?" Me down the pub with the kids again. Except this time they're keener than me to be there. The USA, Canada, Japan and South Korea are our destinations.

Buy your copy now.

Going home

Check out time is an early 10 AM, but that's about when we need to leave, anyway. I've arranged with the kids to rendezvous at 9:30.

Another ancient taxi driver takes us to Ueno station. But we're dropped at the JR one, not the Keisei one, which is in a separate building. It takes us a little while to orientate ourselves and walk to it.

By which time we're hotter 200 hot sticks. We're all getting a bit impatient as we try to buy train tickets.

"Which terminal is it, Dad?"

"I think it was terminal 1." I'm not completely sure. But that's the last stop and I remember us getting on where the train started.

The bastard machine won't accept my credit card and we have to pay with cash. Except we're a little short on that. It's 7600 yen altogether. I have a 5000 yen note and some shrapnel.

"Do you have any money left, kids?"

“Dad. Why didn’t you hang onto enough money for the train tickets?”

“It’s my fault now, is it? I gave you some yen for exactly this reason.”

“I thought it was in case we got lost?”

“No, in case I made some terrible miscalculation. Or an understandable, small human error. Which is the case here.”

“Dad. This isn’t helping.”

Andrew has two 500 yen coins, which is handy. And Alexei has a couple of 100 yen coins. Adding up all the change we have, we scrape together just about enough. By the time we're done, Andrew looks close to collapse. I don't feel much better.

Luckily the platform has good air conditioning. We perk up a little as we wait for the train. At least we’re in no rush.

It's about an hour to the airport and the train is fast. Most of it is through Tokyo's densely-packed suburbs, where the houses are almost piled on top of one another. No-one has much in the way of a garden. Eventually we pop out into paddy fields.

Bags dumped, we head to our gate. There's a big queue at immigration. Just as well we're in plenty of time. Unlike at Seoul airport. That really was stressing me out.

We pool our last few yens and have enough to get a couple of drinks and a sandwich from a vending machine. Alexei gets to eat the sandwich. Neither me nor Andrew is feeling hungry. I’m a bit stressed up again. Had this with the last couple of flights. Pretty annoying.

I watch some Taskmaster as we wait to help me chill out.

The flight is long and uneventful, other than a slightly rocky landing.

There's a big queue for passport control, but only at the manned booths. The machine ones are quite quiet.

"Just think, kids, I won't be able to use the machines in a few months."

I hate the morons in the UK so much at the moment. Bunch of deranged lunatics. Especially the politicians.

We have a bit of a wait for our bags, but a quick taxi ride has us home by 7 PM. Dolores looks relieved to see us all back intact.



Postscript
The trip must have gone quite well. Despite the frustrations of the heat and some uncomfortable bits of travelling, we returned all still talking to each other. No-one got a black eye, no-one was spat on. And no-one was arrested or deported. Or caught some horrible disease.

The kids are already talking about another trip next summer. Can’t have been that unpleasant an experience this time around. Let’s see if my bank account can stretch as far as another holiday.

Don’t be deceived by the bickering. I enjoy travelling with the kids. Though they are occasionally irritating.

They spot stuff. They carry their own luggage. They don’t get lost. They don’t get crazy drunk. They’re entertaining. Good company, too. They learn some of the language. They don’t whinge too much. They don’t mind hanging around in pubs. (Quite the opposite in Andrew’s case.)

And they keep me in check. A little. Which isn’t such a bad thing. Not going to tell the kinds that, though.

Singapore and Australia have been mentioned for next year. If I have any money left. Sponsors are welcome.

Last full day

Our last full day. The plan is to visit the Mikasa. Which is about an hour away by commuter train.

We walk to the station, which leaves us melting again. Andrew's T shirt is soaked through.

We have to change trains after a couple of stops. But we can't get the train we expected to, because it isn't a JR service. There is a JR train going the same way, but it stops at a different station. We'd expected to go to one much closer to the Mikasa.  Though there is a dirty great aircraft carrier just over the road.

“Look Andrew, ‘a helicopter carrier’.” I do the inverted commas with my hands.

“I know, Dad.”

“It’s quite big, isn’t it?”

“Can we save this for later when we’re somewhere cool?”

“Those Japanese ‘training ships’ we saw in Amsterdam weren’t exactly small, either.”

“Stop with that fucking quotation mark shit and get moving. I’m about to die.”

We're not sure of the direction to the Mikasa. Andrew is getting impatient. But he has a point: it is boiling hot. Luckily there's a little ticket restaurant just over the road. We head there to regroup. And for refreshment.

They’re quite fun, these ticket places. And dead easy. Even without the English version, as they have pictures of the food on the machines. You can see exactly what you’re getting. Just bung in enough coins and notes to pay for it, then hand the ticket it spits out to the waiter. In this case waiter and chef. As he’s the only person working here. It is pretty tiny. There are just a few seats at the counter and three small tables.

We all get a beer. I get some fried dumplings and Alexei fried chicken. Both are pretty good. It's weird to see how the dumplings are cooked. First they're deep fried, then the cook poured the fat away and sort of grilled them to finish off. Never seen anything cooked that way before.

On the TV they have the bizarre programme with the enormous transvestite bloke. I’ve never managed to work out what the hell it’s about. It has “brunch” in the title so I suppose it’s something like Sunday Brunch on Channel 4. Just with dollops of added weirdness.

The food is pretty good. Just fills a hole nicely.

“That beer was just what I needed, boys.”

“Something alcoholic is always what you ‘need’, Dad” Andrew replies cynically, complete with air quotes. The bastard.

Cooled down, we make our plans. It's a bit far to walk.

“Taxi, kids?”

“Too right.”

We quickly grab a taxi that takes us directly to the museum. Luckily, cabs are neither rare nor expensive here.

I notice loads of places obviously geared to American servicemen. Like a gun shop, tattoo parlours and military tailors. There's a big US naval base here as well as a Japanese one.

The Mikasa is dead interesting. Though it's odd to think that, despite being one of the most powerful battleships in the world when built, it was obsolete just a couple of years later after the first dreadnought was launched.

The displays inside are excellent. Though some of the historical stuff is a bit dodgy. And a lot is only explained in Japanese. Odd that at the rear there's a little admiral's suite, as in wooden sailing warships.

They have quite a few interactive displays to recreate Tsushima and even virtual reality. It's mostly pretty well air-conditioned, too.

We get another taxi back to the station. Where I quickly nip into the shop to get myself a can of beer.

"Dad, do you really need that?"

"It's hot and I wouldn't want to get dehydrated."

"Not much chance of getting dehydrated the way you knock back beer."

"Better safe than sorry."

Considering it's the weekend, the train is pretty crowded. But the airco is good, making it pleasant enough.

Is that young woman over on the other side of the carriage looking my way? Surely not? She’s sitting right next to the door. The one I get off through. I throw her a smile as I depart. Which she returns. Nice people, the Japanese.

A little ramen place with Alexei - another ticket place. It seems to have a samurai theme. The door handles are samurai swords.

"Do you want a large or a small one?" the waiter asks. We both go for large. Which may have been a mistake. I feel totally stuffed. So much so, I can't even sip on my can of Highball for an hour.

We finish the evening in the kids’ room finishing off the booze and snacks.

It’s been a really fun holiday. Despite the heat. The kids definitely seem to have enjoyed themselves.

Back to Tokyo

The typhoon has spared us. A few kilometres to the right and we’d have been royally fucked.

The trains are running a normal service today. At least from Kyoto to Tokyo. We were pretty lucky with the typhoon. It was a bit windy, but I've seen much worse in Amsterdam.

The Japanese railways are reacting impressively well. Coping with pretty extreme weather conditions with only minimal interruption to services.

I’m sure Japan would ultimately drive me insane, but in the short term there are so many things I love about the country.

Or maybe I wouldn’t go crazy. Everyone is friendly, polite and well-ordered. When we saw some rubbish on the street in Kyoto, it shocked me. Reminding me that I’d seen no shit on the streets since, well, I’d been in Japan.

Joe to the station, as usual. We have another ancient taxi driver - are any under 60? It's still boiling hot so we go in search of an air-conditioned waiting room. We find one and soon get seats as other travellers leave.

I got dead jealous watching other passengers eat from bento boxes on our early journeys. I'm determined to share the experience.

“Bento box for me, dear boys.”

“What are you talking about, Dad.”

“The ace food I’m about to get.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“You know me, Andrew.”

“That’s why I said that, Dad. I know you.” The cheeky little bugger..

I leave the kids in the airco waiting room and head off in search of one. There are several places selling them. I select a random one and get a random box. Plus a couple of cans of Suntory Highball.

"What took you so long, Dad?"

"I've only been 10 minutes. What are you complaining about? You have seats and there's airco." They’re so panicky, sometimes. “We’ve ages until our train, anyway.”

As we have reserved seats, the train journey is a pleasure. One of alternating tightly-packed villages, even more tightly-packed cities and bright green rice fields. It's all very exotic. And I’ve a bento box. What could be more Japanese than this? Tucking into a bento box on a shinkansen.

My bento box contains sliced beer, rice and an omelette. It’s rather tasty. Before I’ve even lifted the first mouthful to my lips, Andrew is already pestering me.

“Be careful how you eat. Don’t make a mess.”

I’ve been putting up with this crap the whole trip. Don’t do this, don’t do that, do do this. Nag, nag, nag. It’s almost as if they think they’re the parents.

“Fuck off, Andrew.” At least I have a good comeback.

The trip continues with near non-stop nagging. I take solace in my Suntory Highball. Beer, but with an added something.

“It’s called alcohol, Dad.”

“Was I speaking out loud again?”

“Yes, Dad, you do it all the time. Mum’s right to suspect that you’re going senile.”

“Fuck off, Andrew.” I think. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Yes, Dad, and can you keep it down with the swearing. People can understand the F-word.”

“But not in all its subtleties: fucked, fucked off, fucked up, can’t be fucked, fuckwit, fucking, fucking, fuckity fuck.” I reply. “It’s such a versatile word.”

“And one that everyone understands. Keep your voice down.”

This isn’t how I imagined parenthood. Adoring kids, at my feet, saying: “Oh Dad, you’re so cool.” That’s what I expected. My kids, really annoyingly, seem to have their own minds and ideas. Who could have expected that? I blame their Mum.

Alexei points out the brail on the top of cans.

“I suppose that’s so you don’t accidentally drink a can of cola instead of beer by mistake.” I quip.

I’ve miscalculated with the Highball cans. I’ve just finished the last one and we’re still an hour away from Tokyo. Where’s the refreshment trolley when you need it?

At Tokyo station we get another taxi to our hotel. We’ve two nights here before we head back to Amsterdam. It’s still stiflingly hot.

Our hotel rooms are tiny. But that seems to be the way in Tokyo. The room isn’t much bigger than the bed. There's barely half a metre between the desk and bed. So close that even though there's a little chair, I sit on the bed to fiddle with my laptop.

There’s a little shop on the ground floor, which is handy. We stock up on drinks and snacks there. I get myself some more squid jerky. I’ve got quite a taste for the stuff. Inevitably, Andrew is drawn to the Strong Zero.

The kids have been dead helpful in finding places to go. They’ve noticed that there’s a brewpub within walking distance. So that’s where we head for the evening.

Ottotto Brewery is one of the largest place we’ve been in so far. Perhaps being in the basement helps them get more space. Along one wall is all the brewing kit behind a glass wall. It definitely looks like they really brew here. It’s looking good. But the proof of the pudding is in drinking five pints of it.

That’s good timing: it’s Happy Hour. Which means for 850 yen you get 435ml of beer plus a little snack.

“Look – more Japanese tapas, kids.”

“Can you hurry up and get us some beer.” They’re so impatient, sometimes.

I get myself a Red IPA. Which is both red and IPA-flavoured. SO it’s already one up on that dire brewpub in Hiroshima. The kids both go for the wheat beer.

“How’s your beer.”

“Fine, Dad.”

Some of the little bits of food are slightly odd, but edible enough. Most of the larger dishes are very American. But I suppose what this place is trying to be – and American-style brewpub. At least the beer is decent enough. Though, take away the customers and it could be just about anywhere in the world.

We don’t stay all that long. Just 90 minutes or so. I don’t want to burn through all my remaining yen quite yet.

On the walk back to the hotel, the lights sparkle and gleam. It does look very impressive at night, Tokyo.



Ottotto Brewery Hamamatsucho
105-0013 Tōkyō-to,
Minato City,
Hamamatsuchō,
2-chōme−1−5
https://ottotto-hamamatsucho.owst.jp/

Kyoto birthday

It's Andrew's birthday. Slightly odd having it fall while we’re in Japan.

The typhoon is a bit worrying as they're warning of train cancellations tomorrow, too. Though it mostly seems to be west of Kyoto. We're just outside the red area here so hopefully the trains will be running to Tokyo tomorrow. The TV news has been showing empty stations.

“That bottle of whisky looks emptier than when I went to bed last night.”

“I had some after you’d left.” Andrew replies.

“Who said you could drink my whisky?”

“You shouldn’t have left it here if you didn’t want any of it drunk.” I hate logic like that.

We try to visit an old mansion but it’s closed on account of the storm. It's a bit windy, but not too bad so far. Seems a bit over the top to be closed for a little breeze.

There are quite a lot of old wooden buildings on the way. Many of which look abandoned. Though that could be the style. A postman seems to be delivering letters to at least one. They have barred wooden windows, I guess a hangover from pre-glass days. Some newer posher buildings, too. With double car parking spaces in front. Plus one dead grand traditional looking house.

See one house that can't have been more than 2 metres wide. Even smaller than the stupidly narrow houses in Amsterdam.

“Dad, can you stop taking photos?”

“Can’t you see the interesting old house?”

“Stop it, Dad, and hurry up before the weather gets too bad.”

Brilliant. We’re in a really interesting bit of town and I’m not allowed to take photos. The kids can be real twats sometimes.

“What do you want to do, kids?”

“We could take a closer look at the tower.”

“I’m OK with that. It does have a pub, doesn’t it?”

“Can you shut up with that shit?”

“Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Don’t. It’s really annoying.”

The kids are so tolerant.

We trail down to Kyoto tower. The light rain is making walking more than 100 metres a possibility. We've walked almost the whole way to the station. It’s the longest walk we’ve had – other than in an airport – since arriving in Asia.

“Do you want to go up the tower, kids?”

“No, I don’t need to do that.”

“Do you want to go into the food court underneath it?”

“No.” The lads are very adventurous today.

This definitely seems to be downtown. Looks like the main shopping district. What with all the shops. And people.

Alexei has taken my last paracetamol. Spotting a chemist, I nip in to stock up. The shelves are helpfully labelled in English, so I can find where the pain-killers are easily enough. But all the packages are only in Japanese. I grab a random packet and ask at the till if it's paracetamol. A bloke in a white coat says no and walks over with me to show me which are.

Outside the wind is picking up and the kids are getting nervous about the weather. They’re keen on getting back to the hotel.

“Uncle David was in Jamaica when that was hit by a hurricane.”

“Yes. What’s your point?

“He said it was dead windy.”

“Now, there’s a surprise. You have some rubbish stories, Dad.”

Andrew's stomach is buggered. Me and Alexei go to eat in a little Japanese fast-food place a few doors down from the hotel. I noticed it the other day. The low prices grabbed my attention. For food and beer.

At the entrance they have machines where you order and pay for your food. It spits out a ticket, which you give to the waiter. Some foreigners must struggle with the concept, as there’s a sign on the door in English saying you have to get a ticket from the machine first.

It’s amazingly fast. Our meals are delivered just a couple of minutes after we sit down. A Japanese family come in and they’re gone in 10 minutes. Served and fully eaten up.

The food isn’t bad at all. I’ve not had a single duff meal in Japan. The quality of the food is very high. Even in fast food restaurants or convenience stores. Did I mention that I really love Japan?

It’s been raining a bit this evening and it’s quite windy, but nothing too crazy. We seem to have missed the worst of it.

Watching more baseball. The other incomprehensible stuff gets boring after a while. Baseball I can understand. But Japanese baseball does have some odd features. At a certain point in each game, the fans sing a song and wave sperm-shaped balloons, which they release at the end of the song. Then there are the 6-year-old cheer leaders who troop out at one gap between innings.

The typhoon is having some effect. When I go to the 7 11 with Alexei for more nosh, it’s absolutely pissing it down outside. We wait for the lights to change and sprint across the road.

Suntory Highball, sushi and squid jerky for me. Another sausage on a stick for Alexei. This time it is like a corn dog. Obviously, we get cans of Strong Zero for Andrew. Then a sprint back over the road.

We’re watching a Japanese programme where people are just fishing from a boat in the sea. Half are women. None of the throwing the fish back shit. Back on, land they're now cooking it.

Japanese and Korean TV has loads of graphics and other shit on the screen. It often looks very cluttered. Adding little bits of animation over live TV is weird.

The Japan Korea trade war is a big deal. There were loads of Boycott Japan signs in the Seoul metro - on every train door, in fact. Just saw video of people in Korea pouring away Asahi and Pocari Sweat. No problem with the Sweat, but that's a waste of beer.

When we watched the English-language Korean news in Korea, the first five items were about the problems with Japan.

Andrew was feeling a bit shit with his stomach earlier today, but he’s perked up this evening a bit. That’s probably due to the Strong Zero. That usually cheers him up.

Luckily, the trains look like they'll be OK tomorrow. The trains were running from here to Tokyo today, so I think we'll be fine tomorrow.

The hotel left a card (with notes on it) and sweets for Andrew in his room today. They must have noticed from his passport that it was his birthday today. They really are very nice here. I love Japan. Only seen two policemen so far, but no anarchy on the streets. Social control, obviously.

“What’s your favourite ELO song, Dad?” Alexei is going on about the Electric Light Orchestra again. It's so weird. And annoying. It makes me wish I’d dawdled more taking photographs earlier.

“Roll Over Beethoven.”

“Not Mr. Blue Sky?”

“No, not Mr. Effing Blue Sky.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s shit. I’ve told you that several times.”

I quick whisky or two and I’m off to bed. Another day of travel tomorrow.



Yayoiken Gojo Karasuma
600-8173 Kyoto,
Shimogyō-ku,
Matsuyachō.
Tel: +81 75-353-1805
https://www.yayoiken.com/