I'm a legal alien... I'm an Englishman in Japan

Clearly I'm English. You can check my passport. Having said that, my alien registration card is a little unclear, apparently my nationality is 'Wadhurst'.. I havent been keeping a close eye on current events, but as far as I am aware TN5 has not declared itself a separate state in my absence. A little over four months into my year abroad, and Japan's abnormal charms are, I hesitate to say, wearing a little thin. Gaming arcades, overpoliteness, casual racism and mechanised sushi restaurants are less a thing of wonder than a time filler between homework deadlines. Well, the racism is still quite entertaining.

Ten months, when put into perspective, is not a huge span of time to learn a language as complex as Japanese and soak up such a fitfully eccentric culture. So recently, gleefully ignoring it, I have been trying to be as english as possible. This is not so guilty a pleasure as it seems, because of course, when something is deemed 'english' in Japan, it is in fact the result of a few episodes of Jeeves and Wooster and the teachings of Japan's comedy Dalai Lama; Mr. Bean.

The Hub. A guady chain of 'British' pubs, almost as common as MacDonalds, has a wonderful approach to Englishness. On an increasingly regular basis, following the revelation of Happy Hour, five pm is Gin O'clock. Thats not to say that I've turned to hard liquor, but because the Japanese seem to think that the British still take a gin on the veranda in the early evening, they have made it the cheapest thing to purchase. On each table there are step by step instructions as to how to order a drink at the bar complete with pictures and a brief summary of the history of pubs. Apparently they were pretty multi functional places; according to Hub management, in the days of yore Joe England could attend a church service and send off his tax return all from the comfort of smokey village pub bar stool. In an attempt to emulate this, there are London street signs plastered around the bar saying 'Kensington', 'Picadilly' and worryingly 'Manshester United'. The latest American punk rock and hip hop soundtracks conversations between salarymen and their trendy girlfriends eating fish and chips with chopsticks and fat, tired looking western bankers drinking overpriced lager yearning for the real deal.

Following happy hour, it is usually appropriate to go for karaoke. Following the same train of thought, we have catagorically banned all Japanese music. Not because I want vengeance for all the subversive racism in public transport, but because, as I have mentioned before, it is shit. There is also something really pathetic about a group of western students sitting in a room trying to emulate the whiny high pitched awfulness of an anime soundtrack whilst stumbling over the Japanese characters they cant read. Much better to belt out Africa by Toto. The upshot of this J-Pop apartheid is usually not the alienation of the Japanese people who join us on these soirees, but the weird European and American people who signed up to study Japanese because they have watched all seven thousand episodes of some random Japanese cartoon about a basketball playing ninja with gender confusion. And frankly thats fine by me.

The six nations rugby is on, Endiburgh flats are filled with lads shouting at the TV debating over who will trek the hundred metres to winerack to buy more carlsberg, and I get stories about 'how fantastic the atmosphere at Twickenham was' from family and friends. Luckily, through some internet voodoo I dont understand, I can watch iPlayer in my room, which has further bolstered my yearning for englishness. My long suffering neighbour probably really hates me now, especially after last weeks Wales game. A fresh supply of Reggae Reggae sauce arrived from my brother a week ago, and it serves as perfect reflection of the last few weeks; I still love the Japanese staple chicken katsu, but I reckon it tastes better with a bit of help from Levi Roots.