Trashed elbow

Having a new flatmate has proved a pretty beneficial experience so far; I'm remembering some of my first impressions of Japan, which is definitely a good thing. That said, Jamie's induction, which involves the internecine treachery of the NOVA multimedia cattle market, has been radically different from my own. When he expressed a premature weariness with the usual gaijin drinking haunts I knew what to do.

Osaka is full of such bars: just a long room with the toilet at the end, bar seats only, over-priced, small glasses of beer. So what is it that makes Babylon different? The whips and chains hanging from the walls? The barman with more metal in his body than Wolverine? The various lethal animals kept in glass cases along the bar?

Edit: when I requested it, the barman produced a display case with vicious-looking but disappointingly static scorpion inside. He informed me ruefully that it had passed away recently.

The fact that it doubles as a body-piercing and tattoo studio?

All of the above?

Or is it just the same as the rest of the bars; a layer of individuality glossing over the same identikit template, an American Beauty for people who don't like listening to Kenny Rogers?

Regardless of the rhetorical questions, Jamie got in quite an involved chat with the barman about guitarists. I leafed through some of the photo albums of body modification that adorned the bar. I was fairly sure that the riveted schlong belonged to the same guy who was pouring us our over-priced beer.

When we left for a few more beers in Triangle Park, Jamie seemed to have been quite favourably impressed with the bar:

“This is some country, man- even the satanists are friendly.”