Long Island Iced Tea

Though I've lived in Japan for a fair while, some of the more memorable things to happen to me occured during a short holiday some months after my initial stays.

There's a myriad of tales that lead up to today's blog, not least the one of my having my debit card details stolen leaving me with zero cash in the middle of Tokyo, but today's blog is about a rather unfortunate episode in Fukoka.

I'd arrived in Fukoka on what was probably the rainiest day I'd ever witnessed. As my travels were pretty short I only had the one night, which I decided to spend in the most expensive hotel in the city (despite my previously stated financial difficulty).

Regardless of the torrential downpour, I venture off up the Fukoka tower - a relatively small broadcast tower that isn't particularly interesting. The nice lady on the desk (who almost definitely fancied me) tried to disuade me from wasting my money, but I'd come to Fukoka, on my own, and I was going up that fucking tower.

When I got up there I couldn't see a fucking thing, so I decided to visit the bar. Looking at the menu I noticed they did Manhattans, which I had seen once in the Simpsons, so I ordered one of those. It was pretty vile, and I later learned quite potent. Disappointed with my trip to Fukoka tower I decided to treat myself to dinner at Hard Rock Cafe followed by a film, which would later turn out to be Zack Snyder's '300'.

At Hard Rock Cafe I was asked if I'd like a drink. I said yes. I looked at the menu and noticed they sold Long Island Iced Teas. I didn't know what this was, so I ordered it. When it came, I still couldn't tell what it was, so I drank it without reserve. I had my meal, paid and went for a walk around the shopping centre while I waited for my film to start.

By this point it turned out I'd become a fair bit tipsy - albeit withouth realising. Once more wandering a Japanese entertainment centre while intoxicated I had an ice cream (as you do) and nipped off to the loo before the film.

You should, at this point, be aware that I was in dire need of a number two. I made my way into the toilets, made myself comfortable in a cubicle and prepared for 'business'. Sat there with little to do but internally evaluate my current mental state, I heard the sound of what seemed to be high heels making its way into the gents toilets and setting up shop in the cubicle next door. I found this odd, and concerned that I may embarress the poor woman who has idiotically found her way into the men's.

Imagine my surprise when, having listened to silly woman finally exit the toilet, I emerged from my cubicle - a little bit lighter - only to find it was I who had made the mistake, and was now stood in the middle of the lady's lav, just a little bit pissed.

Horrorfied at this notion I swiftly made my way to the cinema before anyone arrested me. I fell asleep through 300 and made my way back to the hotel filled with vague memories of oily men.

And that's why I no longer drink. Or order stuff I've never heard of.