When I went back to Australia recently for a much-needed two-week break, I dropped-in on my dad's Aunty Florence, a widowed octogenarian with strong views stemming from her insular experience of World War II, when "our boys were doin' their bit for the country."

I assume she means Australia.

"How's Japan? You haven't got yerself one of those Japanese tarts have ya?"

As opposed to an Aussie one?

"You know what those bastards did to our boys in the war? They'd string 'em up and slice off their ears, y'know. Ya can't trust 'em."

Aunty Florence, that was 60 years ago.

I went back to Japan for a much-needed break only to hear the same rhetoric from Oriental octogenarians. Despite the grievances between the elderly of once bitter enemies, they have uncannily similar frames of mind.

Finding a place to live has introduced me to the blatant racism by landlords, of whom most are getting-on in years, and the scum of the real estate agencies.

Currently, my British friend, Paul, and I are looking for an apartment together. It's hard enough back home. From my experience, most real estate agents in Australia are nothing but a flock of vultures ready to tear as much flesh from vendors, landlords and tenants as they can. Their Japanese counterparts, though, remove more than just flesh. I think a law was created in the Japanese Diet to create an environment of confusion, frustration and sheer deception to dissuade foreigners from ever occupying a decent place to live at a reasonable price.

For most Japanese who are looking to move, the set-up cost is ridiculous. First, most would-be tenants have to pay, not one, but two months' deposit. This is, of course, on top of the one-month rent in advance. But, wait, there's more! The landlord also requires one month (sometimes two months!) of key money. This is simply a puruzento (present), which the tenant doesn't get back.

Now, Paul and I are looking for a 2-bedroom apartment and are willing to pay 90,000 yen a month, which is about $1,300 between us. That means, we have to pay $5,200 before we even lay the "irrashaimase" mat by the front door.

Fortunately, I'm not totally retarded in Japan, because I have a Japanese girlfriend, Hiromi, who is my communication device for all matters technical. Not meaning to belittle her as a human (after all, I do love her deeply), but Paul and I have utilised Hiromi's knowledge of the Japanese language in an attempt to help us win this real estate war.

Though, the first battle left us pretty shaken and demoralised. As we entered the agency, Hiromi took the scout's position, while we tentatively followed. An older woman slowly rose to the front desk, keeping her eyes on Hiromi the entire confrontation (much like when I first met Hiromi). Not once did the agent glance at the two foreigners towering beside Hiromi. And not once did we look away from the three grains of rice stuck on the hair sprouting beside her top lip. Hiromi had a hard time keeping herself from laughing. Unfortunately, Hiromi translated, nothing at all was available. Despite the dozens of fucking advertisements plastered on the window outside the agency!

More sympathetic agents told us that many landlords, most of whom are closing in on the octogenarian age bracket, simply refuse having foreigners living in their apartments. So, from the 20 apartments available, only 2 or 3 landlords are willing to accommodate us.

With our tails between our legs, we persevered to another agency closer to home. This next battle will go down in history!

Once again with Hiromi's help, we were shown the floor plans to about 6 available apartments for Paul and I to inspect two days hence. We took fancy to a seventh-floor flat, close to the station and other conveniences.

So, two days later, minus Hiromi (which didn't matter because one agent spoke good English), we asked about and were guided to apartment Number 701. It was great. Just what we were looking for. Reasonably spacious, with beautifully polished floorboards and, despite suburban Tokyo, a respectable view.

We headed back to the office, whereupon we were told the flat had been taken. But, that's okay, they said, because Number 601 - directly below 701 - was vacant. It's exactly the same, they said, but just a floor below. Sounded fine, we said. Can we have a look?

Huh? But you've just seen it.

No, we saw 701, not 601.

But it's exactly the same.

Well, we'd still like to see it, if you don't mind.

Reluctantly the young agent trudged us back to the building with two sets of keys in hand, and ushered us up the lift to the sixth floor. She edged open the door a couple of inches, and immediately shut it again, saying in horror, "Sundeiru!": it's occupied!

Huh? She was flustered and apologetic, but asked whether we wouldn't mind having a look at 503, which was also vacant in the same building. Okay, we thought.

The fifth floor apartment was disgusting. Filth and grime were smeared along the walls and ceiling, windows were cracked, traditional Japanese sliding doors were broken. Paul opened a balcony door, took a peep, and slammed it shut: pigeon shit was piled behind the door.

Not for us, sorry.

Meanwhile the agent finished talking on her mobile phone and asked if we'd like to see 601. Nobody is living there; she'd made a mistake. Hmm.

We made an about-turn and headed to the lift again. This time, Paul and I didn't bother to remove our shoes. We just stood at the entrance of 601, bending down to pick our jaws up from the floor. She's right: 601 is exactly the same as 701. Except for the hole in the wall, the ripped wallpaper, the filth, the grimy vinyl flooring, and the smell.

We told her that we'd think about it over a coffee and come straight back. We didn't return, but made elaborate plans to egg and flour the vultures the next day.

I know I shouldn't compare our situation with the centuries-old persecution of our black brethren, or the inherent racism dished out to other minorities around the world. But, who'd have thought that being a blue-eyed, blonde-haired male would work against you?

In this country, as in my own, ignorance plays the biggest part in the prejudice game.

Before last year's Soccer World Cup hosted jointly by South Korea and Japan, a well-publicised comment from a politician sums up some attitudes of intolerance. In Japan's rural northeastern prefecture of Miyagi - where three World Cup matches were played - local ruling-LDP member Takayoshi Konno warned locals to "brace against unwanted babies being conceived by foreigners who rape our women."

Leading up to the World Cup, the media and government bounced off each other, by concocting pathetic images of barbarian soccer fans invading the defenseless natives.

The media reported how schools would threaten to close, parents would keep their children indoors, and barber shops would stay shut in case hooligans would rush in and use their scissors as weapons. The paranoia was milked by the media. The media reported on the paranoid beliefs of locals, which added further fuel to the climate of uncertainty.

The Japanese government, which is famous for its reactionary policies, was also sucked in by the hoopla. A whopping $70 million was spent on a special national hooligan budget, which gave the media even more justification to report on the inherent foreign threat.

I remember almost daily, news reports on how the special World Cup task force would use high tech weaponry, including spiderman net guns, water canons and even mobile electronic boards displaying "Quiet down!" and "Disperse immediately!" in English.

In fact, the only violent behaviour in Japan stemming from the Cup came from a young Japanese guy who was pissed-off for not getting a ticket to Japan's opening match. He smashed the organising committee's office window.

In hindsight, the Japanese electorate should be pissed off with the government squandering $70 million in this anti-hooligan debauchery. But, the media simply fuels anti-foreign sentiment and solidifies the already skewed image of foreigners here.

My own company, NOVA, which is Japan's largest private English language school, has gutlessly played the game of fueling anti-foreign sentiment. NOVA's students represent the whole gamut of Japanese society, from business people to housewives, buddhist monks to fiction writers, retirees to sports people. It's a wonderful environment to develop cross-cultural friendships inside and outside the classroom. But, NOVA installed a no-socialisation policy as a reaction to the saturated media coverage of teachers socialising with schoolgirls, when a private party went too far. Two schoolgirls stayed the night, and the next day the parents were justifiably furious. There was no sex, but the media had grabbed hold of the news and it spread throughout the nation.

Because business always comes first before ethics, NOVA immediately imposed this no-socialisation policy which still remains. Instead of highlighting the fact that it was an isolated incident, and that the vast majority of foreign teachers are responsible and ethical, the company more-or-less agreed with the public that foreigners cannot be trusted at all, and so any interaction whatsoever is the only course of action.

Considering the numbers of murders and rapes and other indecencies committed by Japanese to their own people, the no-socialisation policy is another over-reaction which simply fuels the attitude of ignorance toward foreigners.

According to Ryogo Mabuchi, a sociologist at Nara University, the crime rate among foreigners living in Japan is much lower than among Japanese. He reckons Japanese, particularly older, more conservative people, tend to blame problems on outsiders. Sound familiar?

So, if an apartment is left in a state of decrepid, grimy, cesspit of pigeon shit, with holes in the walls and cracked windows, just show it to a foreigner. We simply won't notice because that's presumably the way we live.

And if you're a Japanese in Australia looking to crash at my Aunty Florence's house for a night, just don't mention the war!