You're cruising on a silent sea in a big warm boat when suddenly a tsunami hits and you're dumped in the ocean and you're chased by sharks to the nearest island where you encounter mustachioed cannibals with Spock haircuts waving Hinomaru flags who chase you through a snake-infested jungle and up a mountain, but when you get to the top you find it's a volcano and suddenly it erupts and blows you to heaven or hell; you're too knackered to tell, but you don't care, because your face is split by a grin as you're on a no-thrills-barred happy potion and maybe this is all a dream.

The adrenalin rush from surviving this is possibly on a par with bungee jumping from the space shuttle, or maybe even a Chelsea (written "cherushi" in katakana) gig.

The first Chelsea gig I saw was at Shinjuku's Club Wire, where my tongue was almost severed by my teeth when a girl's shoulder smashed my jaw in the mosh pit, and I later emerged to discover my keitai had been crushed to death in my pocket. Blood, sweat and tears, joyfully merged on my mashed face.