The Tokyo Campaign: Shopping

With ammunition, fluffy uniforms and chocolate rations accounted for, Sgt M, Sir S and myself shinked into Tokyo Thursday last by express steamer, and were quick off the draw to fix bayonets, twiddle knobs and memorise coordinates for the big scrum-down in the finest shoppes of the capital.

Day One saw us invade the Oione mansion in Shinjuku and cover the top four floors in quick succession, blocking all means of escape as we foraged amid the dark sartorial selection. There we encountered curiously-named foes MaM, Sex Pot Revenge, Miho Matsuda, Milk, Black Peace Now and Sexy Dynamite London (nothing a grenade and a vindaloo ration can’t fix, right lads?).

There the company separated to undertake daring solo missions: I stalked the sock aisles in search of whimsical white socks embroidered with musical scores; Sir S took a turn in grey, wispy garments and contemplated the ethereal cave-like nook that indeed was one of the shoppes (complete with an intimidating door adorned with Labyrinth-style ring-of-iron-stuffed-in-a-trollish-mouth knockers, and wailing Dead Can Dance soundtrack), whilst Sgt M was on the prowl for a ring belt (big with the Ruskis back in ’04 when stocks of bottle-openers had been snaffled by the Germans in an overnight raid) and another twenty pairs of jeans. In the end I acquired an alluring pair of Lolita shoes, complete with bows and tiny love-heart detail, for 3500 yen (about $40 in the old currency).

Day Two, and the advance to Shibuya went unimpeded, despite hordes of locals swarming the famous pedestrian crossing with shopping bags in tow. I accompanied the chaps on an assignment to the palatial men’s shoppes of the city, and as we corkscrewed up the floors, I was bedazzled by the whirl of style, suits, ornate gadgets* and beautiful men. High of cheekbone, smooth of skin and pixie-ish of hair, there were fops and dandies a-plenty to entertain the ladies as both the Sir and the Sgt ploughed on in their quest for the perfect shirt/cufflink/Ruski ring belt. Along the way, Sgt M and I popped into a cigar shoppe and picked up a whizzbang of a cracker for the evening’s entertainment.

In the file piccies you can see a gaudy geisha who, with her sax player, advertised a local pachinko parlour (in homeland parlance, "the pokies") and a shot of Sir S and yours truly poised to strike the Shibuya precinct with our vast amounts of monies a-bulge in our pockets.

On Friday night, we holed up in a local cocktail salon and sprawled on the comfy sofas in our civvies. Sgt M guzzled down the martinis, Sir S drank gins like a fish and I slugged back a Singapore Sling then proceeded to get a little dizzy and slightly strange as I inexpertly puffed on my cigar, dragging in most of the smoke into my pink, squeaky-clean lungs. Cough, cough! Rather a turn up for the plus-fours, I admit, but after thorough tutelage from the Sgt, I was puffing away like the Kingston Flyer in full chug. Huzzah!

Holiday reading: “The Rik Mayall: Bigger Than Hitler, Better Than Christ” by The Rik Mayall.

• Cufflinks, snuff-boxes, pipes, fob watches, fans & c, oft wreathed with dragons or adorned with exotic insects.