All language subtitles for James May Our Man in Japan S01E04 Hey Bim

So far on my north to south tour

as ambassador
for Anglo-Japanese relations...

Yes, we are completely naked.

I've been mocked by Misayo...

What are you doing?
It's terrible.

Gunned down by Maki...

I'm coming to shoot you.

Yeah!

And then there was Yujiro.

Welcome to the land
of the Rising Penis.

You can adjust to-to clean

- your ass or your...
- Yes.

Can I call you master?

- Master James?
- Well, it's a bit weird.

This time, this:

Ah! Yes, it is.

RoBoHon, tell me
something interesting.

No.

In a bid to escape
my Tokyo guide, Yujiro,

I've taken to the open road,
and I'm currently somewhere

in between the bright lights
of the capital

and Japan's
spiritual heartland, Kyoto.

And to complement my deeply
on-trend brown leather jacket,

I'm astride nearly
200 horsepower

of Kawasaki ZZR1400. Phwoar!

The significance
of the motorcycle

in the story of modern Japan
is fully explained

in my other documentary series,
James May's Cars of the People,

also available on Amazon Prime,
along with streaming music,

next-day delivery and more,

but, in short,
the Japanese motorcycle

is the story of Japan's
reindustrialization

in the '50s and '60s.

The Japanese motorcycle
became an ambassador

for the country's excellence
all around the world.

More to the point,
if you've got a bike,

you've also got some mates.

Here's my gang.

Harley-Davidson?

You don't want to ride
a Japanese bike?

I was thinking maybe we could go

and see Mount Fuji.

Okay. Let's saddle up.
That's it.

Whether you're
ripping up Route 66

or tearing down the A22
to Eastbourne,

the axioms of the modern
biker gang are universal.

We want to be free,
free to do what we want to do.

Free to burn
ethically-sourced rubber.

So long as we have
adequate lubrication,

regular comfort brakes,
and third-party fire and theft.

And that's what we're gonna do.

I hope the people of rural
Japan are suitably worried

because JM-usans Fugu-fish
mad bike gang is out

and soon we're gonna stop
and have some noodles.

Not that long ago,

a lot of motorcyclists in Japan
were effectively outlaws.

They had a terrible problem
with biker gangs

who just used
to terrorize the place,

but now it's become
a rather polite weekend hobby.

Sort of spoils it in a way.

It's not bad anymore.

I mean, we're actually
obeying the speed limit

and we're not crossing
the orange line.

I mean, what's happened to us?

Still, let's not worry
about that for the moment.

Let's relax and head towards
the sacred mountain.

Ah, there it is.

One of Japan's
most iconic emblems,

Mount Fuji is technically
an active stratovolcano

for the geologically-minded
among you.

Fuji-san,
as the Japanese call it,

has inspired countless artists
and poets over the centuries.

And I can see why.

This is actually a completely
Japanese experience, isn't it?

Ancient and modern.

Motorcycle underneath me,

Mount Fuji in the background.

And in another totally
Japanese experience,

because they're too polite
to tell me

I'm cramping their style,

the bikers quietly
and civilly bugger off.

Rubbish.

I don't know how many
photographs of Fuji

have ever been taken,
but it must be millions,

maybe hundreds of millions,
and in accordance with the rule

that says 97% of everything
is rubbish,

97% of them are rubbish.

There is my effort, you see.
Absolutely terrible.

In fact, the crew... they're
professionals, remember...

Have been doing this
all morning.

Here is a small gallery
of their efforts.

Okay, rubbish, rubbish.

Blurry cherry blossom.

Got power lines in it.
There, look.

Not even got
the whole mountain in.

That's got my face in.

Oh, that's something
completely different.

Yes, they're all rubbish,
and that's the problem, you see.

If you take
a photograph of Fuji,

you're taking a photograph...
A record, if you like,

of what it looks like, but
that's not actually the point.

The point of Fuji
to the Japanese

is not what it looks like...
It's basically a triangle...

It's what it means.

And to depict
what it actually means,

you don't want a photograph,

you want something
more "interpretative."

You need an artist.

I wonder if there
is one around here.

Christ, yes, there's one.

- This is Takayoshi Sakaria-san.
- Yes.

Uh, he is an artist.
He's been living here

and painting Fuji
for over 50 years

in search of... the truth,
I suppose.

And, in a scene
we shot earlier, here he is,

painting the truth as he
has done every single day

for the last 50 years.

That's quite an extensive,
albeit niche, back catalogue.

I think I'm about
to get a lesson

because I've noticed
there are two easels.

The slope... top of Fuji
is about there.

If nothing else,
it makes you look.

Can you tell me, Sakaria-san...

- Hai?
- what is the meaning
you're trying to find?

What is important
about the mountain?

Most people would say,
"Well, it's just a mountain."

Mine looks absolute rubbish.

Why does his
look better than mine?

It's annoying.

I think it's because he's, like,
an artist and I'm not.

I've now been painting
for about...

three quarters of an hour,

and if you thought
my photograph was bad,

wait till you see this.

It's pretty shocking,
but I have found, um, a haiku,

an Issa haiku, which is sort of
appropriate for the moment.

I'm gonna try it in Japanese
on my host and see.

Uh, Sakaria-san.

- Yes?
- Um...

Good?

Which could be interpreted
in all sorts of ways,

but especially with regards

to my painting, I have climbed
the mountain of trying

to depict the meaning of Fuji,
not the literal mountain,

it definitely doesn't do that.

Should we have a reveal?

I'll say it now,
sumimasen, there it is.

I would actually
give up everything

I imagine that I can do,
like playing the piano

or making things out of wood
or reassembling lawn mowers

or whatever,
just to be good at that.

Yours has life.

That is life
and that means that's truth,

and that's precious.

And if I could do that, I would
stop doing everything else

and just record
the rest of my life,

not even in words,
just in little images

that I'd then give away
to people,

and then die.

I'd be very happy with that.

What?

Well, buses are part of life,
but what we're doing here

is cutting through all that
and saying, "Here is Fuji,

the soul of Japan." We think
it's a mountain, it's not.

It's merely a manifestation
of what this country means,

and we're trying to get...
We will never do it,

but we may get close.

We can aim for it,
and aiming for it is a cleansing

and soul-satisfying experience,
except in my case.

There was still a bus
in the back of the shot, though.

Yeah, but I don't care
if there's a bus in the back.

A bus is a part of life, that's
what we're fighting against.

I'll put it you this way, if we
turn this around the other way,

and I was painting a picture
of the bus going past,

would you say,
"Oh, well, that's all right,

but there's a big mountain
in the back of shot?"

Well, put it this way,
we're creating our own work,

while you are creating
your own work at the same time.

Yes, but this is art,
that's photography...

No disrespect... but that's
a record of what's happening.

This is an interpretation of
what is being felt in our hearts

and what it all means.

Yes, but to me this film
doesn't mean a big Chinese bus.

It's you communing with nature

and trying to decipher
the mysteries of Japan.

I know, but art
would have no meaning

if it didn't exist
in the real world.

If the world
was only full of art,

it would merely be the world.

That's the world, the bus;
this is art.

It can only exist next to it.

Yes, but, in which case, why not
just paint a picture of a bus?

I'm having an artistic tantrum.

I've had enough of this.

You can take a photograph
of the bus.

It's a, it's a
manufactured artifact,

it's an elaborate photocopy
of an original,

that's what
mass-produced items are.

Yeah, ramen?

I appreciate that you,
the viewers,

don't particularly want to
watch me having a big argument

with the crew
about the meaning of art,

but it is a bit annoying
when something has to stop,

you know,
in the heat of the moment

because "there's a bus in shot."

Yes?

But what... I mean,

did you particularly want
the rocks in the film?

Nobody ever sits down and
watches a series on the telly

and says, "That was great,
there were no buses in it."

No. Leave it in.

Yes. I quit.

After a tense lunch
during which the word "art"

was mentioned nine more times,

and I was gently reminded
of my contractual obligation

to finish the series,

we called a truce long enough

to travel
to the next location...

which is Hamamatsu.

Hamamatsu is famously
the home of

Yamaha, who you will know
as manufacturers

of the Hari Kari 750 motorcycle,
but actually,

Yamaha began life
in the late 19th century

as a maker
of musical instruments.

It still is a maker
of musical instruments...

The world's biggest, in fact...
So today,

we are off to watch
pianos being made.

And it is odd to think
that a company

that makes motorcycles
actually originally

made musical instruments.

You can see why
the technologies are related.

There's a lot of
metalworking involved,

a lot of precision,
but, I mean, can you imagine

if British Leyland
had made a trombone?

It would have been awful,
wouldn't it?

Almost as awful as if Yamaha
branched out into menswear,

like the jacket
you're about to see.

This is actually the biggest
grand piano factory

- in the world, and produces
something like this...

every 15 minutes, which
I find quite incredible,

because I know where
all the cars go...

Cars are always being
thrown away...

But a piano is,
it's not for life.

It's usually for
several lifetimes.

But anyway, I'm going to meet
a Mr. Suzuki.

Confusingly,
he works for Yamaha,

and he drives a Honda.

- A Mazda? Oh...
- Mazda.

Sorry, that was wrong.

He... Mr. Suzuki drives a Mazda,
not a Honda.

Um, anyway, let's start
with a few basics.

This is the iron frame.

This is cast just over the road
in Yamaha's own foundry.

This is why pianos are so heavy.

I reckon that weighs,
at a guess,

about 129 kilograms.

The cases of the pianos are also
made in a separate factory.

What we're looking at here
is final assembly.

This is where all the bits
become an instrument

and gain a soul.

And the employees gain
vanilla shell suits.

Lucky them.

This is a classic example
of what the Japanese do best.

Perfectly formed, finely tuned

traditional
yet modern instruments.

Here are robots driving
the tuning pins

into the pin block.

That has to be done
very, very accurately,

and why not use a machine tool?

It's how Japan
reindustrialized itself.

But there are some jobs
too precious

to entrust to robots.

So this is stringing.
Could I try this?

- It's Elton John's piano?
- Yes.

Is it really?

I think that's Japanese for

"We have a piano
that doesn't really matter"

that I can have a go on.

Let's put some strings on.

Before I can have a bash myself,

I must be formally educated
by Yamaha's Sultan of String,

Mr. Ogi.

Doku Ogi-san.

I don't...

I don't want you
to poison Mr. Ogi. Ogi...

Okay.

While Mr. Suzuki goes
to find Mr. Ogi,

I feel a movement coming on.

I'm going to play Chopin's
"Revolutionary Etude".

That is... That is roughly the
"Revolutionary Etude" isn't it?

Following this well-received

but entirely imaginary
intermezzo,

Mr. Ogi appears,
alive and well.

But first, I need protection.

Three layers, in fact.

This is to stop me touching

the strings, et cetera,
with my filthy,

oily layman's fingers.

Moisture is the enemy
of these tempered,

high-carbon steel strings,
one of the many reasons

you shouldn't play the piano
in the bath.

And this is where the Japanese
obsession with detail

really comes into play.

The string is just appearing
on the other side of the peg.

And now we need shi
clockwise turns.

I am in hands-on heaven.

Every single one
of the 230 strings

must be hooked over hitch pins
at the thin end of the piano,

and then tightly
and immaculately coiled

around tuning pins
at the business end.

And it's this painstakingly
pedantic process

that will create pitch-perfect
tension and timbre.

That's what they should
look like,

but that's what mine look like.

I mean, they're tight,
but they're a bit messy.

What does Mr. Ogi think?

Something tells me my enjoyment
of the well-tempered clavier

might lead to
a bad-tempered crew.

Much as the director's
going to hate this,

I'm going to do it again.

Sorry, we just don't...
We don't have time.

Well, you've just been
buggering about

with the camera
for half an hour.

Yes, I'm afraid we've got
to move on to the next scene.

We can't do this again.

I will not be able to sleep
if I don't do it properly.

That's about a half.

- Okay.
- Yeah, okay.

Okay, that's better.

Ni.

Okay, hidari, migi.

I know what they're doing.

Migi hidari.

Yes?

You rotten bastards.

Just so you know,
that one's much better.

Having strung out the piano
stringing scene for so long,

the director only had
five minutes to shoot

the rest of the
piano creation process.

How exciting is that?

That's like the reverse
of a crematorium.

A piano is born.

It's a baby grand.

And, remarkably,

Yamaha has one piano that
Elton John hasn't reserved.

This is actually going
to make me very melancholy

because I was quite good
at this 30 years ago,

when I was young and optimistic,

and I thought it would make me
more interesting to girls.

And then I stopped playing
the piano,

and I put my piano into storage.

And then the next thing I knew,
I was a very old man,

and girls didn't
find me interesting.

But I have recently
started attempting

to relearn the piano.

Um... and I've been working
on a few things,

like this Beethoven sonata.

This is Number 32,
uh, the C minor.

It's one of
the most complicated.

I can't play it all
by any means,

but I have started to learn it,
so I'll play a bit for you

from the beginning.

By the end of the week,
I think I'll probably be

at the bottom of the first page.

First it was painting,
then it was music.

With artistic differences
still creating tension,

the crew attempt
to restore some harmony

by offering me an olive branch.

Japan update.
Subject: massage.

I have a bad back.

I've had it for
several days now.

But I've been told
it can be sorted out

with a proper Japanese massage.

Now, you do have
to be quite careful

with this sort of thing,
obviously,

but this is a pucker
Japanese massage...

I'm not gonna say "parlor."

Let's say "institution."

It's licensed, and I'm going to
have something called Ashiatsu,

a form of foot massage.

Presumably administered
by a waif-like geisha.

Face down, please.

- Face down?
- Face down.

I thought it was a foot massage.

Are you doing it?

Face down?

So hang on, what's he actually
gonna do to me?

Oh, Jesus, this is agony.

God, his hands are hard.

Oh, hang on, is that his foot?

Well, that's my leg.
It's meant to be fairly rigid.

Ow! Ow! Actually...

something went "clunk" then.

I think that was just
my hip dislocating.

Is this really supposed
to do me some good...

Aah!

He's actually kicking me
in the ass now.

I just want to make this
absolutely clear

for the viewers,

the director and the crew said,

"We know you've got a bad back,

"we've arranged
a foot massage for you

because it'll sort it out."

So I thought somebody,
like reflexology,

would press on the bit
of my foot

that corresponds with my back.

Oh, Jesus Christ almighty.

Could you tell him
I've got very delicate knees?

Oh, hang on, I've got
very delicate bollocks as well.

You know how a lot of people
go for massages regularly,

and somebody sort of rubs you
and puts a CD of whale music on

and puts some smelly oil
in a burner thing,

and it's really nice.
This is none of those things.

He hasn't even
dimmed the lights.

Oh, God.

Yeah, yes, it is! Ah!

Now just to be
absolutely clear, viewers,

that whole foot massage

debacle was an elaborate trick
by the film crew,

not something of my choosing.

Although, I have to say,
this is the next morning,

it has done me some good.

I'm about half an inch taller

because my spine is snapped.

Next, I'm taking
my extra half inch to Kyoto.

In contrast to other
major Japanese cities,

this former capital
was largely spared

from American bombing
during World War II.

As a result,
you can't walk five paces

without tripping over
ancient temples

and hallowed shrines.

So where better to experience
some high-class

Japanese entertainment?

I'm now off to spend
several very pleasant hours

being entertained by a geisha,

and before you
jump to conclusions,

that's not what you think.

There is a rather
bad misconception in the West

about geishas, which is that
they are some sort of

high-class call girl,

but nothing can be further
from the truth, to be honest.

The word "geisha"
comes from two kanji symbols

that mean "art" and "performer."

You go to see a geisha because
you wish to be entertained.

That's all there is to it.

I am going to

a music and dance event
with tea.

Sounds perfect.
I might take some biscuits.

Geishas like Tomitsuya here

have been Japan's
top entertainers

since the 17th century.

And I must say, she looks
pretty good for a 400-year-old.

And as I sit here
in considerable discomfort

during the traditional
tea ceremony,

I wonder if this longevity
is something to do

with how long it takes
to make a cuppa.

And bow.

- Oh, bow.
- Thank you.

And pick up your bowl
with right hand,

and please start drinking. Yes.

That's quite nice.

Are you going to drink it
as well?

- No.
- Why is that?

Because I am the host
of tea ceremony,

and you are the guest.

Um.

Perhaps now's not the time
for an Anglo-Japanese

teatime culture swap.

Get rid of those.

Next on the bill: dance.

Traditional Japanese dances

enact the meaning
of the lyrics in the song,

which are usually based
on the seasons.

This little number is called
"Spring Rain,"

during which the fan
is used to symbolize

many different things,
such as an umbrella, a mirror,

or the tail section of
a Boeing-Stearman crop duster.

Fantastic.

Next, apparently, it's music.
This is excellent, really.

It's like Wednesday afternoons
at school when I was a lad.

You did a bit of this,
a bit of that.

To become a geisha,
you must master

many different art forms,

including making polite
and witty conversation,

calligraphy
and underwater arc welding.

Did you like the song?

Thank you.

- That's a shamisen.
- It's like a cross between

a lute and a banjo,
but only has three strings.

- Made out of silk.
- Silk?

Silk. And skin is kitten.

Not seriously?

It is from cat.

I like cats.

Me, too.

- But you make musical
instruments out of them.
- Aww...

- It goes here...
- And this used to be a cat?

The shamisen has its origins
in China,

but rose to popularity in Japan
about 500 years ago,

coincidentally around the time
people's pets

started disappearing.

Is this rubbish?

You are much better
than when I started.

I'm very honest.

- I enjoyed that, thank you.
- Thank you.

Thank you very much.

It's been a very nice afternoon.

- Very cultural.
- Thank you.

It's exactly what
I came here for.

Arigato gozaimasu.

As a parting gift,
Tomitsuya gave me a CD

of her greatest hits
for the onward journey.

I may have made
the translation up.

I was actually thinking
for a moment

that maybe I should learn
to play the shamisen,

but I don't want to play
a musical instrument

made out of a cat,
because I like cats,

and Sean on camera says,

"Well, when your cat dies,
why not have it made into

something useful like
a musical instrument?"

But that's a bit like making a
sports bag out of your grandpa.

Now, viewers, I have here

Tomitsuya's business card,
if you like.

So anytime I'm in Kyoto
from now on,

I can phone up
and arrange for some

shamisen music and a spot
of dancing for relaxation.

And I will.

I'm a little bit in love
with her, if I'm honest.

Although that's not the point.

Bereft, I set about driving
the streets of Kyoto,

mourning the now-gaping hole

in my life
left behind by Tomitsuya.

So I decided to fill it
with a scene

about exquisite
Japanese joinery.

Sorry, I've become
slightly flushed.

Which the lawyers deemed
too explicit to show.

The wood would have to wait.

I decided that I'd like
to go on a tour of Kyoto's

historic shrines and temples.

And of course,
you can get a guided tour.

You can follow someone
with a sign on a stick,

along with some Americans
in funny trousers.

But instead,
I've decided to go for RoBoHon,

your digital, experimental,
futuristic tour guide.

RoBoHon, currently only
available in Japan,

is described by its makers
as the future of robotics.

They're packed
with cutting-edge tech:

smartphone, HD projector,

and, most relevant to us,

can give automatic
tour guide information

based on your location.

Welcome then, to the future.

So all I have to do now

is press him
on the top of the head,

and the action will begin.

Pardon? Oh.
Hang on a minute, RoBoHon.

I have to get my children's
TV presenter glasses out.

I'm just going to put you down.

Don't be alarmed.

What shall I call myself
for the purposes of this?

Nickname. Jim.

No, I've done that wrong.

You've written your name wrong?

Oh, no, I've written "Bim."

Oh, no, I'm...

There you are.

I'm Bim.

And so it begins.

Bim and RoBoHon's
excellent adventure.

The latter with his wealth of
GPS-activated local knowledge,

the former with his inability
to spell his own name.

What?

Wow.

Yes, it is.

That's not...:
Not really an amazing fact.

I've had a watch since
I was three, you idiot.

I'm starting
to have reservations

about RoBoHon's
tour guide credentials.

Where are we going?

Are you awake?

No.

If this actually makes it
into the program...

I'll know we were
really desperate.

After turning him off
and on again several times,

RoBoHon finally finds something
he wants to talk about.

What?

And what's that?

What?

You just said that, you digital.

As we approach our first stop,
RoBoHon has clearly taken

my constructive criticism
on board.

What?

Did you know, I knew that.

I've heard it somewhere before.

Clearly a buff on bridges...

There it is!

RoBoHon's less sure
on temples and shrines.

Disappointing,
considering there are

over 2,000 of them in Kyoto,

and they're kind of
the reason I came.

Okay. Back to the car.

We're going back
to the car, RoBoHon.

Yes, okay.

It's down the steps
through the red gate.

Okay.

I never thought I'd say it,

but I'm starting to miss Yujiro.

RoBoHon, tell me
something interesting.

But not the bit about the bridge

or I'll throw you
out the window.

Google would at least say
"Did you mean Jim?"

But not RoBoHon.

"Hey, Bim."

Ah, the suspense is killing me,

waiting for RoBoHon to tell me
something interesting.

Having seen the film
Lost in Translation,

I do know that this particular
Zen Buddhist temple

called Nanzen-ji,
is where Scarlett Johansson

once wafted around
in wistful solitude.

At least someone
had the right idea.

What?

Is it?

I think one of
the other tourists

dropped him on his head.

It's the...

I can see people thinking,
"Why has that grown man

"got a plastic doll

hanging round his neck?"

You've probably realized
by now that if you want

to learn about Kyoto,

you'll just have
to look it up yourself.

Unless of course, you'd like
to know that Shijo-Ohashi

is a bridge representative
of Kyoto that crosses

the Kamo River
over Shiju Street.

It's also called Gion Bashi.

Yes.

Tell me how was it?

Hello, viewers, Bim here.

Now, do not be alarmed.
I know it looks as though

James May's Land Cruiser
has been put through

a face swap app, but it hasn't.

I've actually swapped it
temporarily for a Daihatsu Move,

and a Daihatsu Move
is a keijidosha, a kei car.

This piece of Tupperware
on wheels is a by-product

of a postwar
government initiative,

encouraging the manufacture
of cars that are cheap,

can fit into tiny urban
parking slots

and most importantly,
look silly.

Although the kei car
is rooted in pragmatism

and economy and everything else

that characterized
postwar Japan,

it was inevitable that
eventually somebody would say,

"Well, what if we race them?"

Well, what if we do?
Let's find out.

Feel that go!

And through the magic
of editing,

I'm at Suzuka,

the home of Japanese F1 racing.

But don't expect to see

any of your Rosburgs
or Raikkonens today.

This is far more specialist.

Just remember that many greats
have raced here, admittedly

not in a car like this, but...

Hold onto your handbrakes...

it's the Honda Keijidosha

N-One single-make
owner's cup championship.

As the old beast
Land Cruiser struggles

to stay on the circuit.

Look at that.

It's fantastic.

Now if I could just slip
into my other TV job

for a moment,
I'm here to tell you

that, good though
Honda's NSX supercar is,

the N-One puts
the "K" in "okay."

There you go, you only need

660CC to campaign

one of the world's great
race circuits.

Hang on a minute, I think
I just spotted something

on the track back there

that besmirches Japan's
famed fastidiousness.

I think I might have a job.

Look.

Rubber.

This is one of the most
beautifully designed,

best equipped race circuits
in the world,

but you're expected
to sweep the whole thing

with something from
Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

It is just a load of twigs.

Hey, Bim, guess what?

There's another 3.2 miles to go.

Now, while I finish up here,
I should probably explain

about the race,

and it really doesn't get
more even than this.

Same Honda N-One.

Same maximum speed
of 97 miles an hour.

The only difference
is the skill of the drivers

and how much
they had for breakfast.

While the teams get their

pre-race Zen on,
I'm given another job,

relaying this electric
atmosphere to the wider world

as Suzuka's newest reporter.

This is something you simply
won't see outside of Japan

because the cars simply
don't exist outside of Japan.

Each one is raced by
an enthusiastic amateur owner.

The unmodified engine develops
a neck-snapping 63 horsepower.

Get ready for some proper
wheel-to-wheel racing action.

It's time for Suzuka's
newest reporter

to hit the grid to interview
all of today's

48 kei car competitors.

Oh, hello.

That's a rather nice

Yoshimura Suzuki
Motul GSX R1000.

I mean, I've watched
countless videos on YouTube,

I've even got a poster
in my garage,

but never in my wildest dreams
did I think I'd be able to...

Time to get back down
to the grid to interview

one of today's
kei car competitors.

Konnichiwa.

Do you speak any English?
A little. Excellent.

How do you rate
your chances today?

Yeah, uh, I...

- Okay.
- Sorry.

Well, very good luck,
I'll be looking out for you.

Don't forget to shut the window.

After that blistering insight
into the intricacies

of kei car race tactics,

we now cross over live
to Suzuka's newest commentator.

Over to you, Bim.

And they're off!

Our man, 390,

is in second place already,
where he started.

And there they go!

Our man's just taken the lead.

He's moved into first place.

It does look a little bit
like the traffic in Tokyo,

a line of kei cars
not going terribly quickly.

And our man
is still in the lead.

Anything could happen,

but I bet it doesn't.

I spoke too soon.
In a dramatic turn of events,

our man slips back
to seventh place

after doing
a full 180-degree spin.

That's a lie.
He's still in the lead.

As is the case

with most motor racing events,

bugger all happens.

Perhaps it's time for a haiku.

Kei car, oh, kei car,

why are you so damn slow, car?

God, I want that bike.

Here they come!

It's our man!

Our man wins!

These drivers come
from far and wide to compete

for arguably the most
sought-after prize

in the racing world.

What is the prize for winning

the N-One Championship?

And, a bottle of...?

- Bottle of apple juice.
- Yes.

Well, that's really,
really good.

- It was great to watch.
- Fantastic.

- Yeah.
- Really excellent race.

Best race I've seen for ages.

But there's no time to revel
in an orgy

of meat and, um, apple juice,
as I've somewhere else to be.

Namely, Japan's oldest purpose
built martial arts center,

the Kyoto Budo,

where people flock
from all across the globe

to learn aikido.

This is not just a load
of flouncing about

to kung fu film sound effects.

It's a lot more esoteric
than that.

In fact,
I have some information here

from the American Association
of Aikido,

and it says:

"Aikido is not only a means
of vanquishing a foe..."

"it's a means of promoting
the positive character

of the ideal warrior..."

"and ultimately of transcending

dualistic conflict."

"Aikido is a comprehensive
system of throwing,

joint-locking, striking,
and pinning techniques."

Sounds like I'm gonna get
my head kicked in.

But actually, I may be wrong

about that.

Aikido seems to be more

like a version
of Japanese line dancing

with some shouting,

and you do it wearing pajamas.

There's even
a scale model of a woman

to direct the choreography.

Wow. Well, I think the moral of
that is, if you're gonna attack

a small Japanese woman in a pub
with your mates,

make sure you know
how to fall properly.

It turns out this is
Sensei Kataowka-Aoi,

beater-upperer of hundreds
of Western gaijin,

especially if they pronounce
her name wrongly.

Sh-She'll be gentle to you.

Right. That's very reassuring.

She has to turn me into

a martial arts action hero in
a matter of on-screen minutes.

So if I come at you...

The Force, it seems,
is strong with this one.

Okay.

For the second time
this episode,

I'm floored by a girl.

That was all locked
all the way through there.

Is it... I-I hate to do that.

No, I got it wrong. Hang on.

It's that... that.

Well, I'm just staggered.

She only weighs
about four stone.

She's whoopin' my ass.

Now, it should be noted
that aikido

is a very Japanese martial art.

It is not kung fu,

which is a term covering a
number of Chinese martial arts.

Unfortunately, by the time
we told our edit team this,

they'd already
excitedly looked out

a load of chop-socky
'70s kung fu sound effects.

For what follows, sumimasen...
Or whatever they say in China.

Yeah!

Bim, guess what?

Waah!

Thank you.

Now, I know we were taking
the mick out of that a bit

with our '70s kung fu fantasy,
but in all seriousness,

if you did that
for 15 minutes every day,

you would be like the willow
of the Japanese proverb.

And while we're on Japanese
proverbs, another one says:

"It is better to bow
than to break."

That's lunch, director,

or I'll bust one of your arms.

If you've just tuned in,
which would be odd

given this is
a streaming service,

here's what you've missed.

I'm having an artistic tantrum.
I've had enough of this.

Jesus Christ almighty! Aah!

And this used to be a cat?

Bim, guess what?

Plus something you didn't,
because the lawyers

advised us to cut it out.

You're not meant
to eat the sweets on display.

You'll have to buy that one,
then.

Well, I will buy. It's only...

Holy shit.

Anyway, with three minutes
still left to fill,

and our haiku quota unmet,

the crew have shoved me
into a bamboo forest on my own

with the direction,

"Just get on with it."

Ah, hello, viewers.

You join me in the bamboo forest
just outside Kyoto.

And it's quite interesting,
this, because we've arrived

at the end
of program four out of six,

in which we're trying to divine
the meaning of Japan

and everything Japanese.

But actually, the answer,
just as it was 42

in The Hitchhiker's Guide
to the Galaxy, is... bamboo.

Because the Japanese can do

pretty much everything
with bamboo.

They can eat the shoots.

They can make the scaffolding
for buildings.

They can make buildings
themselves.

They can make furniture.

They can make shoes.

They can make a bamboo hat.

Everything
they can make out of bamboo.

Well, they can't make a CD
player out of bamboo,

obviously,
but you know what I mean.

The Japanese say that
if there's an earthquake,

you should run
into the bamboo forest,

because the roots make
the ground so stable

that it isn't going to split
apart and swallow you up.

In fact, they even have a word
for this effect,

the way the sun shines through
a bamboo forest specifically

and makes this dappled-light
effect on the ground.

That's called komorebi.

Anyway, I thought I'd celebrate
this rather marvelous moment

with a haiku of my own.

Oh, the old bamboo,

a song in Chitty Chitty

Bang Bang that was crap.

See you next time.

Peach blossoms are
so beautiful, aren't they, Bim?