Japanese ambulances are the automotive equivalent of a sloth having an existential crisis. These rolling medical disasters move so fucking slowly that elderly Japanese people with walking frames are overtaking them on the sidewalk, probably wondering if they should offer to give the paramedics a goddamn lift.

Watching a Japanese ambulance approach a red light is like witnessing some elaborate tea ceremony bullshit – except instead of graceful precision, it's just painful fucking hesitation. They'll sit there for a solid 10 seconds, presumably having a group meditation session about whether it's socially acceptable to inconvenience the traffic. Meanwhile, in the UK, ambulances blast through red lights like they're being chased by the fucking Terminator on crystal meth. Is it reckless? Absolutely. But at least the patient isn't aging another goddamn decade during transport.

The real comedy gold happens once you're actually inside one of these medical torture chambers. You'll spend more time in that shitty ambulance than most people spend in actual hospital beds. The driver becomes a telemarketing champion, cold-calling every fucking hospital in a 50-kilometer radius: "Hello, do you have space for someone who's bleeding out their ass? No? Okay, what about someone who's just generally pissed off about life? Also fucking no? Right, I'll try the next 47 hospitals on my goddamn list."

By the time they find you a bed, you've either achieved enlightenment through suffering, died and been reincarnated twice, or discovered that your "life-threatening emergency" has somehow healed itself out of sheer fucking embarrassment.

Japan: where even medical emergencies come with a side of bureaucratic politeness and the urgency of a constipated turtle taking a shit.

Living in Japan long enough, you'll encounter a peculiar species of absolute fucking weasel that deserves its own nature documentary. I'm talking about the Japanese Cockblock Ninja – those slimy little turds who've mastered the ancient art of sabotage disguised as friendship.

Picture this: you're working your charm on some gorgeous J-babe, everything's going smoother than a lubed-up penguin on ice, when suddenly this grinning bastard materializes out of nowhere like some sort of rejection genie. He completely ignores the stunning woman you're talking to – because acknowledging her existence might accidentally help your cause – and laser-focuses on you with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who's just discovered tennis balls.

"Oh wow, you're so cool! Where are you from? Your Japanese is amazing!" This slimy fuck is laying it on thicker than peanut butter on a fat kid's sandwich. But don't be fooled by this Oscar-worthy performance of fake friendship – this dickhead has one mission: sabotage and foreigner nanpa destruction.

The moment you excuse yourself to piss out your 3 pints of lager, this backstabbing little shitweasel transforms faster than a fucking Transformer. Suddenly he's fluent in the ancient Japanese art of foreign-guy character assassination: "Oh, that guy? Yeah, he's just here for sex tourism. Foreign guys never commit. They'll fuck off back to their country and ghost you. By the way, I'm single and my mother thinks I'm very handsome when I wear these denim flares."

It's like watching a nature documentary where the cute-looking animal turns out to be venomous. These cunning little fucks have turned cockblocking into a goddamn art form.

So remember, gentlemen: in Japanese bars, the real enemy isn't the language barrier or cultural differences – it's Hiroshi from Accounting who's about to torpedo your evening faster than you can say "kampai."