The Further Adventures of an Idiot Abroad (43 page)

I’ve never climbed a proper mountain. I’ve done long walks around the Lake District, sometimes longer than they should have been ’cos I got lost. I walk most places instead of
driving or getting the Tube. I can walk and walk and walk quite happily if it’s on flat ground. I could quite happily do the London Marathon if I could walk it, but climbing a mountain is
tougher than doing the London Marathon, as once you’re on that hill there’s no way out of it. If you’re doing the London Marathon and you get tired you can jump on a bus or use
the Underground, with Mount Fuji all I have is my legs. I didn’t train for it, as I didn’t think it would be necessary. It’s just walking, and I know how to do that. The main
thing I would need is little treats to cheer me up for when I felt down, so I took a few bags of bacon-flavoured Frazzles crisps and a big bar of Cadbury’s Whole Nut.

Before I even left Tokyo airport I felt vibrations under my feet and a low dull continuous rumble through the arrivals department as the structure shook. I asked a woman who was working at the
security point what it was: ‘No problem. Minor quake,’ she said. This was to be the first of many tremors I experienced while being in Japan. Apparently they get around 1,500 a year.
I’ve been living in Britain for 38 years and have only experienced a single tremor, and it wasn’t much of one. It was 1985. We were on holiday in Wales. We didn’t notice it at the
time, but the local news reported it. The only evidence we had of it happening was an ornament falling off the mantelpiece.

We went to get a coffee to try and help me with jet lag. We got to a cafe and were just putting on the obligatory slippers when the employee got quite animated with me about me leaving the door
open. ‘No, no, no,’ she said as she pushed the door shut. She then got me to wash my hands before being taken to the ordering area. The director told me that it was a cat cafe. There
are about 40 of these cafes in Tokyo. For around £15 you get half an hour to have a coffee and stroke some cats. The reason these places exist is because most people live in apartments where
landlords don’t allow pet cats or dogs.

As if ordering a coffee these days wasn’t complicated enough without adding more to the menu. ‘I’ll have a grande caffe latte with sugar-free vanilla and a big ginger moggy,
please.’ Luckily, the choice of cat wasn’t an option, they were already roaming around the room like lap dancers at some seedy bar. This is why she was keen on me to close the door on
the way in. She didn’t want the cats to get out.

It’s not a bad idea, but just like women in a lap dancing bar, the cats weren’t too keen on touching either and ran away whenever I got close. They were jumping high up on shelves or
running into various boxes and tunnels that they have to play in. I didn’t know at what point the half hour started. If it’s when your coffee turns up, or when you first stroke a cat. I
tried to get hold of a big fat ginger one. Ginger ones are always fatter. It’s as if they’re unhappy about being ginger and turn to food. I got a few strokes, but it didn’t hang
around for long. It’s not as if I’m not good with cats, as we had loads of them when I was younger. Me mam is a big fan. She doesn’t own any at the moment, but she has a few
regular wild ones. One is so cocky it steals food. Me dad got sick of it one day after it stole a full jam doughnut from his plate, so he shoved it in his car and drove about four miles, got it out
the car, left it and drove back home. Me mam went mental. He said, ‘I knew she would. She did the same when I tried the same with you.’ A few days later, it turned up back at the house.
He was that impressed with its navigation skills, he now lets it stay. He’s just more careful with his doughnuts.

I called Ricky to let him know I’d arrived.

I didn’t have the energy to argue, and I wasn’t that fussed about having to take part in sumo anyway. I’ve always thought of sumo as a sport for fat people, so
I wouldn’t have a problem keeping up with them. It’s good that they have something, as it’s too easy for fat people to say there’s no sport they can take part in.

I made my way over to where the sumo training took place. It was on the corner of a residential area. I found it just from the sound of thuds and grunts. I looked through the doorway to see two
huge men smashing into each other like rhinos as others stood round watching.

Maybe it wasn’t an earthquake I’d felt earlier, maybe it was one of these big fellas landing on their arse. They were big blokes with the traditional sumo hairstyle that they call
chonmage. I can’t think of any other sport that actually has its own hairdo.

They must be the most unhealthy sports stars. There was no sign of muscles. The only six-packs these fellas see are probably Mars bar family packs. After watching for a few moments the main man
pointed me to the changing room area. I explained that I didn’t mind taking part but I wouldn’t be wearing the nappy that the other fighter wore. He only spoke Japanese, but I could
tell he just repeated what he’d said the first time but sharper.

Two sumo wrestlers followed me into the changing room. I told the director I wasn’t happy about the loincloth they call a mawashi.

The thing is, no one looks good in a nappy. Even babies don’t look good in them. Clothing is designed to make you feel good and give you confidence. Whether it’s a suit for
businessmen or a uniform for policemen they’re designed to give you a feeling of power. A nappy doesn’t give you this feeling. That’s why there has never been a super hero that
flies about wearing a nappy.

I actually thought I’d get away with not wearing the nappy, as I didn’t think they would have one that fitted, but it’s kind of a one-size-fits-all design – one long
strip of material that is then wrapped around the waist and bollocks. I complained earlier about having to wear used warm slippers. Things had got a lot worse. I let them put it on me as long as I
could keep my undies on underneath. The young sumos kept saying no to this request, as their boss would not approve. I told the director there was no way I was going to wear one of these used rough
canvas nappies on me arse without protection. Thinking back it was an odd argument to be having. Eventually the boss man agreed to let me wear my undies underneath.

I headed out to the fighting ring where the floor is covered in a fine dark soil, which I presume is for grip on the bare feet. We did some stretching exercises. It was amazing how bendy the
sumos were. I can’t touch my toes, but these fellas had no problem. The closer I got to them, the bigger they looked. It was time to fight. The idea of the battle is to push your opponent out
of the ring or push them over so another part of their body hits the floor. I ran at my opponent and hit him hard. He didn’t budge. He just stood still as I tried tilting him. It was like
trying to shift a wardrobe without taking the clothes out first. He then slid me across the floor as my feet skimmed across the dirt. I was out of the ring. 1–0 to sumo.

For the next round I thought I would use my strengths to beat him. I can run faster and turn fast, so I danced about the ring with the idea of a surprise attack, but he just stood still. I
attacked again. This time it was like pushing a mattress up a narrow staircase. I almost suffocated, as my face was lost in his breasts. I now had sweat in my eyes, and what made it worse was it
wasn’t my sweat. It stung, and I could hardly keep my eyes open. It was at this point that he picked me up using the nappy as a handle and held me above his head. It looked like that classic
nature programme scene when a killer whale chucks a seal pup through the air. I was shattered. I know I’m not that fit. I never have been, really. I’ve never been into any sport. I even
played swing-ball sitting down.

I gave in. They were a lot fitter than they looked. While I sat by the side, they carried on pushing each other around like dung beetles. I still don’t know why they have to wear a nappy
though. What next, karate in a babygro?!

Afterwards, once everyone had stopped training, they invited me to lunch. A few junior sumos seemed to be in charge of cooking while the more senior ones relaxed. The bloke who had earlier held
me like a handbag showed me round the place. From what I could make out they all lived above the ring in a place the sumos called the stables. There was another wrestler sat getting his hair oiled
from the resident hairdresser (tokoyama) who specialises in the chonmage. Again, how many sports have a resident hairdresser? It must get boring for the hairdresser when everyone has the same
style.

We went downstairs where there was a massive spread laid on. There was everything on offer. It was as if the fridge freezer had broken and everything had to be eaten before it went off. This was
as much part of sumo as the training. This is the stuff that makes them as big as they are. They also beat me when it came to eating. After course number five I left them to finish.