Photographs from a small group of islands
Whatever passions (or indeed perversions) a prospective patron may possess, Tokyo would appear to have a watering hole kindly pandering to his or her particular predilections — all the way from the naughty to the unnecessarily nasty.
And now, to add to the seemingly never-ending list, is a snug little spot that’s ideal for having a snack, listening to some soul and sighing audibly while slumped sadly in one’s seat.
(click image for mega-sized miserableness)
There is certainly no shortage of breast-enlarging concoctions on the Japanese market, with the considerably bold claims of these biscuits probably the best known.
However, for those who like to marry their mushrooming mammaries with onomatopoeias, then BoinBoin is without doubt the only boob booster worth bothering with.
(click images for bigger bounciness)
Just like their counterparts in other countries, Japanese supermarkets offer a dizzying variety of vegetables of both domestic and more distant derivation. Yet although foreign foodstuff is often far cheaper, my personal preference is the stuff picked in Iwate Prefecture, as I like mine both gullible and green.
Hailing from a land where the fart is fantastically funny, whether it be one that’s forced out at full throttle or cheekily chirped between the cheeks, it’s decidedly disappointing to find that the Japanese don’t seem to share such a fondness for flatulence, as, more often than not, it is sadly seen as simply wind rather than a work of wonder. And, although there are a few fart-related fetishes along with even a poll concerning a partner’s pumping, the laughter is largely lacking.
That said, the reverse is arguably true for other rear end releases, with rib-tickling turds turning up as summery snacks and well-polished pendants. A frankness about faeces that also means it is perfectly acceptable to almost playfully enquire if a passer-by poos prodigiously?
Or even extol the pleasures of never having pooed so much.
The animated fervour of the folks nearby suggesting that they may well be regular customers and were therefore feeling a little frisky having just evacuated a veritable vat full.
Or not as the case may be.
Well ok, maybe not wrath, but how about ruin?
Actually, poor pun and crumbling car aside, it still amazes me that in a little over an hour from Tokyo — or at least its western suburbs — a city dweller can be far from the clutter and commotion of the capital, and in this fairly fetching valley.
Plus, if that’s not enough, the area is positively packed to the gunwales with grapes.
Perhaps the only problem being that while a lot of the wine produced there may not exactly warrant a wine drinker’s wrath, repulsion is often far from a rare response.
