This is an extract from When the Ship Hits the Fan by Captain Rob Anderson (Affirm Press), out now.

WARNING: If strong language offends you, read no further

I wasn’t keen on the idea, but there was no way out. I had three days to spare in Tokyo waiting for a ship to be delivered, and was being looked after by some Japanese friends. One  of them arranged a special treat for me at the traditional spa where she worked as a manager.

The 16th-century spa was picture perfect and blisteringly expensive, and if someone like me was just coming off the street, it would be practically impossible to get in the door. Upon entering the spa I came across a fork in the road: women to the left, men to the right. Unfortunately for me, children went with the men. Allocated a locker, I began to undress and realised I was the centre of attention for an audience of wide-eyed, wide-mouthed boys and girls staring in disbelief at my hairy chest, hairy arse and everything in between.

The small, square towel barely covered my cluster, much to the delight of the convoy of children. I made a dash for the pool only to be immediately, but politely, turned back – ‘Please, you have to wash first before you jump in the pond.’ I sat on a small, very uncomfortable wooden stool to wash and rinse myself, giving my audience a chance for a more detailed inspection.

It was a great relief to finally get my large, pink, hairy body and shrivelled-up little cock into the pool to escape further stares and snickering from the little bastards. That much so that I never noticed the near-boiling temperature of the natural spring water – hot, very hot, fucking unbelievably hot!

I then realised that there were several other blokes floating around in the pool: just heads and bright-red tomato faces sticking out of the water. I noticed that each had his little towel neatly folded on top of his head – so I did the same.

After a while, it dawned on me that I was cooking – I mean really, properly, fucking cooking, and I could feel some body systems starting to shut down. Just before I started slipping into unconsciousness, my friend hauled me out and we headed off towards an incredible igloo, constructed from huge blocks of ice and backlit to produce a beautiful cool blue–green glow. The idea was, like the European spa technique, to alternate between the hot spa and the cold igloo.

Upon entering the igloo, we found about six older Japanese blokes with their tits swinging free, sitting around on the ice benches. All gave a brief, polite nod, and didn’t seem to pay too much attention to my now bright-scarlet, hairy, fat body.


As I went to bring my arse to anchor on the ice bench, there was a sudden communal (Japanese) outburst from the group. Easy to interpret, it was something like, ‘No! Wait!  Aargh, too fucking late!’

As my arse hit the icy seat, I instantly understood their warning, but it was very definitely too fucking late, as my ball sack was now firmly welded to the ice bench. When I looked around at my companions’ grimacing faces, I realised that their small towels were no longer on their heads, as mine still was – they were more strategically placed. 

Not a lot was said, but there was much sucking of teeth and rolling of eyes.

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’m from Australia.’ There was much nodding and comment at this news that Australian balls were somewhat different to Japanese balls.

I tried to move a bit to see what the damage was. I managed to rock the arse cheeks free, but the sack was stuck hard and fast, without a millimetre of doubt. Any movement greater than 2 centimetres was going to be eye-wateringly painful, and result in permanent disfigurement.

The final humiliation was that each of my six new-found friends collectively, and individually, decided to carry out a close inspection of the problem, and all seemed to have a different solution – much waving of arms and theatrics. I sat as still and stoically as possible, lips clenched and eyes bulging.

Eventually, a rescue team arrived with a large metal kettle full of warm water, and with a lot of whooping and back-slapping the sack was liberated and my new, naked and baggy-balled friends coached me on the correct way to land your balls on a tiny towel, which is trickier than it sounds.

With the excitement over, and everyone congratulating themselves on a job well done, my friend came along and suggested I accompany him back to the pool for another run. I suggested he stick the spa up his arse, got dressed and fed a shitload of coins into the beer vending machine in the foyer. Never, ever again.

Buy the Book:

Affirm Press Book When the Ship Hits the Fan

Captain Rob Anderson
Captain Rob Anderson