Dancing the Polka with Miss El Cajon

Resolute

2012-01-27T10:40:00.000Z

My resolutions for 2011 were to read 20 books, write one book, get a full-time job and visit Scotland. I accomplished none of these things. In a majority of categories, 2011 was a failure for me. Thankfully, the categories of life of not weighted equally, so the areas in which I succeeded -- relationships, primarily -- easily covered for the deficiencies of others. I don't tend to remember specific years, nor to measure my life by them, but I suppose that if I did 2011 would be the year in which I fell in love and not much else.

There aren't so many days left in January, so I feel it may be a bit late to be talking about my resolutions for 2012, but, hey, each moment is new. So, I don't really need to hit a specific day to set myself toward a goal. Besides, maybe I'm going by the Chinese calendar, in which case these resolutions are timely; Chinese New Year was Monday and, traditionally, celebrations for the event last eight days.

Apparently, this is a year of the dragon. I was born in the year of the dragon that was 1976, so am hoping this will bode well for my 2012. This is my year, bitches. And in it I am hoping to read 12 books, write one book, get a full-time job and visit Scotland.

Twelve books:
My failure to meet even 1/5 of my target last year resulted in my lowering my literature expectations for 2012. I honestly don't know what went wrong with me. Off the top of my head I can only remember reading three books -- Pigs in Heaven, by Barbara Kingsolver; A Hole in Texas, by Herman Wouk; and The Rembrandt Bomb, by James Moore -- but I'm pretty sure there was a fourth. I think perhaps I can blame my lack of external input on the shifts occurring internally. Slowly, and in such a way I can't really identify yet beyond simple awareness of its having occurred, I underwent a kind of foundational shift in 2011. The most obvious example I can give is the way in which I effectively divorced myself from the Welsh-language world. Two days after my birthday, I made a conscious decision: "I don't really care about this stuff anymore."
I don't know. This idea of flux causing me not to read may be bullshit. I am the one positing the theory and I struggle to make it connect.
Regardless of why it happened, I read very little in 2011 and in looking at 2012, I decided I should try not to set myself up for disappointment and therefore lowered the bar. Already this year, however, I am en route to achieving my goal. Whereas four books were read in the whole of last year, I am now reading my fifth book of 2012. Long train journeys to work, and a Kindle from Mom and Dad, have served as catalyst.
By the way, did you also get a Kindle for Christmas? You did? Then, why not get my novel: The Way Forward.

One book:
I can't remember when I started to seriously formulate Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama, the book I am working on presently. A year ago, I was intending to complete Sgidiau Caerdydd, a Welsh-language novel about an Iraq War veteran who sells his car to God. I had already written roughly 30,000 words of the novel for my masters degree. But whereas the Cardiff University School of Welsh referred to it as fresh, well-structured and wholly new, Welsh-language publishers Y Lolfa referred to it as too edgy to sell. Welsh-language publishers Gwasg Gomer, who had published my book Cwrw am Ddim, simply refused to respond to my correspondence.
The thing is, I am not an edgy writer. I'd like to think that I am able to approach themes in a fresh way, but by and large I don't think I have ever written something that could honestly be described as edgy, let alone too edgy. The Welsh-language world is lost, so badly killing itself with refusal to glance forward that a guy who draws most of his inspiration from Dave Barry is deemed too edgy. It is comically sad.
And, yes, I am bitter.
But, any hoosiers, the project was dropped. I've had a handful of people suggest to me that the reasons for rejection are exactly why I should push forward with the novel -- fighting to get the book published so that something new exists in a field full of literature that repels all but the most nationalist of Welsh speakers with its torpidity. But, honestly, why?
I am not a Welsh nationalist; Welsh is not my language; Wales is not my country; the Welsh are not my people. Why should I expend so much energy on such a project? If I am going to burn myself up in trying, it is wiser and more profitable (emotionally and financially) to do so attempting to find foothold in the saturated English world.
I managed to draw up a rough outline of Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama, and a few thousand words, by October, but for the most part whatever it was that kept me from reading was also keeping me from writing. I languished until late December, when my agent on The Way Forward got in touch and asked if I was up to anything new. That and my first Christmas home since 2005 have served as a push and I am now, slowly, getting up to speed with Tales. I am hoping to have a solid first draft completed by May, though I have no idea whether this is a realistic timeline, nor why I would choose May as a due date.

A full-time job:
Part of my problem is that for a certain portion of 2011 I was limiting my job search to those where I could make daily use of the Welsh language. In Welsh-language teaching we always claim that Welsh will help you get a job, but I have found this to be bullshit. Unless the job you want is that of a ragged, underpaid, drowned-in-idiot-paperwork Welsh tutor. Even after mentally divorcing myself from the Welsh language I was still trying to play friends with privileges with her, so it was not until the later stages of 2011 that I started to really expand my search beyond Welsh-language opportunities.
Now, I have expanded my search beyond Wales -- to Bristol, Bath, etc. -- and set a rule for myself that, bare minimum, I must apply for one job a week. If I find myself a year from now still without full employment I will at least be able to comfort myself in a blanket of 52 rejections.

Visit Scotland:
How long have I lived in Britain? It is sad and ridiculous that I have never been to Scotland. It is right and logical that I've never been to Scunthorpe, but Scotland? What's wrong with me? Partially, I'm going to lay the blame on the above employment situation. I ain't gots no money, bitches, and that makes travel particularly tricky. On top of this, homesickness seems to consume me at an alarming rate, so any time there is money at hand it is spent on trips to the United States.
I am forced to concede that this resolution is this year again dependent upon the fulfilment of another; I have not yet taken any steps toward planning a Scottish venture. I am hopeful that this dragon year will be my year, that work and money will be found, and that this and all the other resolutions will be met. The next 11 months will tell the story.

-----
(I can't help but be aware of a grumpiness running through this post. As I was writing it I heard a builder working on the café across the street scream, "Oh! Fuck!" and the sound of power tools suddenly stop. I looked out the window to see him, gripping his arm, run to a van with a co-worker and be sped off, their tools still lying in the road. Whatever my laments, I can probably be thankful I am not that guy.)

Eight things I loved about December

2012-01-20T12:02:00.000Z

I can't remember whether I did an eight things post for November. Let me check... Nope. No, I did not. That's a shame because November had some good bits in it. Thanksgiving, for example; Jenn and I travelled out to London to see my old friends Jen and Dave, and we had a great time.

But I suppose it's not surprising that I didn't manage an eight things post for that month because at roughly the same time my writer's block was reaching its peak and a depression that would hold me until Christmas was starting to settle in.

I have been struggling with words a lot lately. Sometimes I think the vlog is to blame, allowing me an opportunity to more immediately express my thoughts rather than leaving me to ruminate on things. Stories and the desire to tell them are built of sitting and thinking and thinking; it's possible the vlog steps on that somewhat. That said, I like doing the vlog -- for the most part -- so, I'm unwilling to stop. I would rather train myself to do both things.

Each new year I, like almost everyone else, start out with a head full of steam as to what I hope to accomplish in the coming months. And as with years previous, one of my goals is to push myself to write more. I can't help but approach this goal with a certain amount of cynicism because I have lost count of the number of "I'm back"-type posts I've written.

But carrying around cynicism toward my own ideas hasn't gotten me very far; it has produced no books. So, I will take whatever optimism this new year gives me and see what I can make of it. Optimism is the point of an eight things post, to identify at least eight good things that happened to me during the past month. December, admittedly, was an easy one:

~ 8 ~ Getting engaged: As mentioned before, Jenn and I got engaged over the Christmas break. If I were to tell you that I don't now feel just a twinge of nervousness, I would be lying. What if I mess things up? But as Shawn Michaels once advised Chris Jericho about doing a backflip off the top rope: "You just have to go up there and do it, brother."

OK, perhaps it's best not to ween marital advice from professional wrestlers. And perhaps it's additionally unproductive to worry too much about what might happen well beyond my current scope. Right now I know that I love Jenn and am excited about the idea of being able to call myself her husband, and there's no reason to sit and try to force myself to second-guess that.

At the moment, we are thinking the wedding will take place in spring 2013. We've not gotten so far as to nail down any real timeframe other than the fact it would be less of a hassle if the wedding occurs sometime before May 2013, when my visa expires. Ah, such fun. Other couples lament over how many guests to invite and what colour the napkins should be, we have the additional worry of not having one of the wedding participants be tossed from the country.

~ 8 ~ Christmas with my family: I proposed to Jenn in Minnesota. It was her first time to visit my adopted home state and my first time home at Christmas since 2005. I had spent five Christmases away from family, yo. No wonder I was beginning to dislike the Yuletide.
In my absence, my family had forgotten all the traditions that it had always been my responsibility to uphold: "No, we do things such and such way, remember?"
They don't remember because in addition to being the one to keep holiday traditions I am generally the one to have created them. I have always been thankful for the fact I come from a family that doesn't stick to traditions. And having lived in Wales has taught me that traditions are a load of nonsense that can restrict you intellectually and creatively. But all this time living away from family has shown me their value, as well. They are reliable ways to connect.
But, of course, the best moments are those that simply can't be set up. I ensured that we delivered presents in a certain order, and had our big breakfast and so on, but the very best moments came at the end of our trip when my family went to dinner and afterward found ourselves just sitting around talking and telling stories. I think my father and I are the most prolific storytellers, but my brother, Jon, the best.

~ 8 ~ Visiting Minnesota: I can't adequately express how terribly I miss Minnesota at times; I will feel physically sick. Recently I wrote an article for Barn that simply referenced visiting Eric and Kristin's cabin and found myself weeping as I wrote. I miss the extreme seasons most: summer and winter. There are no such things here on the Island of Rain. It gets cold enough to make you miserable in this country but never enough to make you happy. There is no skiing (cross-country or downhill) or skating on frozen lakes. And only rarely does it get warm enough to wear a short-sleeve shirt in the evening; the last time it was hot enough for me to actually want to go swimming was 2006.
Britain is the climate version of being on medication for depression: no extreme lows and no extreme highs. And perhaps that's OK for some but it leaves me feeling that I am missing out. The climate is too mild for autumn to force an explosion of colour, for winter to bury you in snow, for summer to push you into rivers or the sea.
Frustratingly, all that said, Minnesota was not nearly as cold as I had expected/hoped. There was no snow on the ground but for our last few days and at one point it was too warm for us to skating at Centennial Lakes.
Still, I was happy to see it -- happy to be able to wander down into forest, happy to squint my eyes against blinding winter sunshine, to see eagles nesting in the trees and hear coyotes yipping in the night.

~ 8 ~ Seeing my friends: I will admit there may be places more naturally beautiful than Minnesota. The reason I love it so dearly, of course, is the people there. I have no close friends within a 50-mile radius and the majority live even further away, most in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. As I get older and realise more the importance of good friendships I find it ever harder to be so far away from them. Getting back to Minnesota is like finally reaching the water's surface and being able to breathe again after diving too deep. I wonder if my friends realise how much it means to me to just be able to sit around at their houses, drinking beer and talking about nothing. At Eric and Kristin's we ordered Mexican food and sat on the sofa; at Dan and Johanna's we ate Sloppy Joes and sat around outside. Who the hell travels 5,000 miles just for that?
I do.

~ 8 ~ Hearing from my agent: Did you get a Kindle for Christmas? If you did, remember that you can get my novel, The Way Forward. You might already know that before being effectively self-published that book was shopped around to a few big editors in New York. The person doing that groundwork was a super-nice lady named Rebecca. Not too long ago she contacted me and asked if I was up to anything. To be honest, I was spinning my wheels at that point because I had lost a lot of faith in myself as a writer. I still haven't really recovered from that but the fact that she saw enough potential in me to ask what I was up to despite a previous lack of success has lit a fire under me recently.
Unless she suggests altering my course, I have begun working on a book tentatively called: Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama: How the Tiny Nation of Wales Crushed My Dreams and Robbed Me of My Will to Live. It is effectively an updated English-language version of Cwrw am Ddim, with the focus switched so that it (hopefully) appeals to a wider audience than just those who are Welsh-speaking or particularly keen on Wales. I'll keep you posted on its progress.

~ 8 ~ The final Mince Pie Monday: One of the highlights of autumn was Jenn and I coming up with the whole Mince Pie Monday nonsense for the sake of our daily vlog. It was an amusing (to us, at least) little feature that involved us forcing ourselves to eat mince pies late at night. I had a lot of fun doing it and am now just a bit sad that we've not thought of anything to replace it. For the last Mince Pie Monday (in which we taste-tested Duchy Originals mince pies) we even got dressed up. This sort of thing is at the heart of why I love Jenn: she is ridiculous. Just like me.

~ 8 ~ Visiting Devon: In addition to visiting my (adopted) home territory in December we visited Jenn's homeland as well. Ostensibly the purpose of the visit was to celebrate Jenn's grandparents' 60th anniversary (they received a card from the Queen!) but it was also a chance to deliver Christmas gifts and visit with the family that Jenn sees about as often as she sees mine. Time and travel challenges make a visit across the Bristol Channel almost as tricky as a visit across the Atlantic Ocean.
I was insufferably grumpy on my first day there because my moneytrap of a car developed a new issue: the electric window would not roll back up, thus allowing in the rain and misery for which this island is famed. But the problem created a kind of opportunity for me to bond with my future father-in-law as the two of us hovered over the door, mumbling and pointing for several hours. Eventually we disconnected the window from its lifting apparatus and wired it shut.
I knew already at that time that I was going to propose to Jenn, so throughout the visit I found myself thinking: "These people are going to be my family." And I am quite happy with that.

~ 8 ~ Waterfalls: The aforementioned moneytrap car has since been sold for scrap. But one of our last adventures in the Honda was a day trip to the Neath valley, where there are a number of waterfalls. You will no doubt pick up in the tone of this blog post a certain greyness-induced cynicism toward Wales -- it is something I have been struggling with a lot -- but getting a chance to see its natural beauty helps to alleviate that condition. It was dark and rainy the day we went out but I had a good time; I am happiest when my feet are moving, there is a pretty girl beside me and there is no concrete to be seen.

A letter home: 11 January 2012

2012-01-11T11:10:00.001Z

My dearest Emma,

Happy New Year! It's been a while since I last wrote but I suppose that's alright considering I saw you a few times while Jenn and I were in Minnesota. A figment of my imagination, you are so often where my heart wants to be. So, you were there at the bonfire at Dan and Johanna's house, at the lake when Jenn and I went ice skating, at Eric's gig on New Year's Eve, and a few other places during the fortnight.

The rest of the trip went well, too. This was my first Christmas home, first Christmas with family, since 2005. I have never been one who could be described as a family type, Emma. Those narratives about the strength of blood ties have never really made sense to me. Surely, for free-willed creatures the bonds we create with a person can be stronger than those inherited because the person is chosen rather than simply the daughter of the son of the woman whose mother is the same as your father's. The whole "blood is thicker than water" theme is silly.

But I do enjoy seeing my family. And as I get older and more reflective I feel I can understand them more. Or, at least, I feel more willing to try to understand them, and I enjoy their company more. My father and I are skilled at talking a lot of nonsense, and when I get the chance to sit and chat with him I am reminded of how much I miss doing so. I miss, also, my mother's increasing eccentricity. And my brother's way of telling a story. He will deliver a punchline with a kind of subtlety that resonates. So, you do the little preliminary laugh that is almost instinctive for any punchline but then the idea expands in your head, the way he has laid it out plays in your imagination, and you find yourself laughing louder and fuller.

I think one of my favourite moments from the whole of the trip came on our final day, when everyone went out to eat and we found ourselves at the end of the meal telling stories of various mundane jobs we had all held. Jon had me laughing so hard my lungs hurt.

Obviously, Emma, that was not the best moment of the trip. As you know, I proposed to Jenn while we were in Minnesota.

I had bought the best ring I could afford on a Welsh teacher's salary and brought it with me on the trip, unsure of exactly how or when I would propose. Past experience has built a deep cynicism in me, Emma, and I do not like the idea of highly orchestrated proposals. I understand the sentiment behind getting down on one knee and shouting "I love this woman" in Trafalgar Square (remember that old jewellery advert that used to run in the 90s?) or getting a group of friends to spell out "Will you marry me?" with towels on the beach or some other ridiculous thing, but I have come to see love as a deeply, deeply personal thing. I am quite happy to tell you that I love Jenn, but I'm not sure I need to put on a fireworks display to prove it.

Also, perhaps my thinking comes from the fact I have so many years experience writing and broadcasting. I know how to put a shine on things. And I know that you can make some things shine quite brightly without really caring about them. I wanted my proposal to be purely heart-driven, unprepared, honest. So, I carried the ring around in my pocket for several days, concealed in a box of mints, waiting for that moment when I knew and felt the time to be right.

On 23 December we went for a walk along Nine Mile Creek, that insignificant stretch of water that means so much to me. As we walked, I got lost in telling Jenn about the various memories that sprung up: over here is where I liked to swim, over that way is where I fell through the ice, this bend is where Eric and I turned over in our canoe, and on and on. Just a few hundred yards from the hill that Corbett and I used to terrify ourselves speeding down on our bikes, I replicated such adrenalin and nervousness by reaching into my pocket.

"Each time I'm down here I think about everything I've been, everything I am and everything I want to be," I said. "And when I think about what I want to be, what I want for the future, I know I want you to be part of it."

Or something along those lines, Emma. I'm sure what I actually said was slightly less poetic and littered with pauses. But it is what I meant, what I felt, and she said yes.

The triumph of hope over experience, Emma. But there is that past experience and I'll admit that because of it I get fearful when thinking of my life with Jenn. I fear making mistakes, screwing up. That past experience hurt so very much. It wasn't just the pain shared by two people but the crushing sense of defeat and failure from seeing the breakdown of a thing that philosophically was not supposed to have done so, and then the years of deconstruction and reconstruction. I trust Jenn, love her madly, but still can't help but feel timid of the pain that could come.

But probably the very best way to ensure you will never be happy is to fail act for fear of a wonderful thing changing beyond your present scope. To a certain extent, it's the same as refusing to step outside on a sunny day for fear of how the weather may be in 2036. I'm speaking to myself here, Emma, so perhaps this doesn't make sense. Besides, the overall thing to draw from this is that Jenn and I will be getting married and I am incredibly happy.

Our aim is to be married in early 2013. This allows us time to plan and, more importantly, try to save some money for the wedding. Them things is expensive, Emma. We live in a world where we encourage people to begin stages of their lives carrying a heavy debt burden. Start your career with a mountain of student debt; start your life with someone shouldering a financial weight. Hopefully, though, a bit of time will give us the chance to avoid starting out in the red.

Though, it is hard, Emma. I still cannot seem to find a full-time job. Last week I decided to scrap my car to save the cost of petrol, insurance, tax, maintenance, etcetera. It saves money but adds a tremendous amount of time to my commute; travelling the roughly 35 miles to Ebbw Vale and back now takes six hours and involves 4 miles of walking. Meanwhile Jenn works two jobs. On Sundays, if we are lucky, she is able to take home unused food from the restaurant where she waits tables. If we ever succeed, these will make good stories.

And when we tell these stories, I suppose the emphasis will be on the fact that through it all we had each other. I am the poorest I have ever been, and the least financially optimistic I have ever been, yet cannot remember enjoying life quite so much.

It is tempered by experience, Emma, but I am starting the new year with hope. I tread gently forward.

Please say hello to everyone back home. Send nude photos; Jenn would like to see them.

I remain your faithful friend,
~ Chris ~

Random 4 a.m. thoughts on Welsh literature

2012-01-07T04:42:00.000Z

Welsh-language literature seems to be an old man in a care home. Occasionally there are flashes of lucidity (Owen Martell), but for the most part it just sits there: drooling on itself, repeating the same wearied themes, rambling incoherently about a past so mis-remembered that it never was, coughing up phlegm and ruminating it like a cow chewing cud.

The nurses dress him in loud shirts from time to time and celebrate him annually with mylar and plastic and simplistically structured songs but if you sit and look at the old man you see he's hardly there, despite lively attempts to make it appear otherwise. And if you look at him honestly you start to feel deeply sad and wonder whether perhaps the least-embarrassing thing to do would be to simply shut off the machines. Stop pouring so many resources into this thing that isn't and will never be.

That's a hard decision to make. To think it seems cruel, feels like betrayal. But is it right to keep a man alive simply because you don't want to put his nurses out of work?

Mince Pie Monday

2011-12-19T09:55:00.001Z

Mince pies are intrinsic to the British Christmas experience. Without them, the Yuletide is just another cold day in December. They exist within the family traditions of some Americans -- especially, I find, Americans raised in the East Coast -- but, for the most part, the fruit-filled pastries are an unknown stateside. Which is kind of strange considering how long they've been around.

According to the all-knowing Wikipedia, the pies date back some 800 years to the days of the Crusades, when returning soldiers would have brought home the various spices that are now standard in almost any mince pie: cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, etc. In those awkward days when the slaughtering of Muslims seemed a good idea and bloodletting was a cure for the common cold, mince pies contained actual meat, thus giving them their name. The modern mince pie is far less unappetising. In fact, I've developed quite a fondness for them.

Last year, I spent several weeks sampling mince pies in search of the perfect one and eventually published my findings on my blog a few days before Christmas. But almost immediately after doing so I found myself inundated with suggestions of other brands I should have tried. So, this year I decided to put more effort into it.

Since mid-September, every Monday night, Jenn and I have been sampling various mince pies and scoring them as part of our daily vlog, in a feature called Mince Pie Monday. Ridiculously, this has become the thing people like most about the vlog. And, to be honest, it has become one of our favourite things, too. Now, with Christmas just around the corner, Jenn and I have consumed our final mince pies and I've decided to put all the results up here.

The pies were judged in three categories: pastry, filling and overall experience. And in homage to the glory days of figure skating (Michelle Kwan, I will never stop loving you) the highest score possible in each category is 7. So, that means a perfect score from a single judge would be 21. In this case, of course, there are two judges, so the best possible cumulative score is 42. Only one mince pie acheived that glory: those made by Walkers Shortbread.

Here are the scores for all the mince pies, from worst to best. With each one, I have linked to the video of us judging that particular pie and supplied a random quote from said video.

Starbucks: 10

"Release the mongoose."

Costa Coffee: 16

"I'm slowly losing my sense of taste."

Morrisons: 18.5

"It was bad in a different way."

Mr. Kipling: 20.5

"They seem to make a big thing on the packet about the pastry being fluted."

The Co-Operative: 21

"Fois gras Thursday?"

Sainsburys: 26

"I hope there are no Scottish people watching."

Greggs: 27

"This just in: wine is nice."

Asda: 31.5

"I was rocking out with the kids."

Tesco: 32

"It's got booze in it."

Marks & Spencer: 36.5

"Oh, dude. I can taste the booze."

Waitrose: 37.5

"I like that your fingers get buttery."

Duchy Originals: 41.5
"You're going to ruin Christmas, because you're going to break my face."

Walkers: 42

"Who do you reckon will last longer: David Attenborough, or the Queen?"

Strictly 11: Poppin' dem 40s

2011-12-12T13:07:00.000Z

Harry displays one of he new-found facial expressions.

Craig Revel Horwood finally dusted off the 10 paddle this week, which means it must be time for the final. I suspect the CRH may have a personal rule that he will not even consider throwing a 10 until at least eight weeks into the Strictly trek. As such, he always gets a good pop when that moment finally comes. Especially because it almost always means a perfect score is to follow.

I personally feel that flashing the 10 at J-Train was unwarranted, but I always feel that. Way back on the very first week I cottoned to the judges' fondness toward the J-Train and predicted he was on a fast-track to the final. The fact he will be there in Blackpool feels inevitable and exhausting. It's like spending a long time driving to a family Christmas dinner, begrudgingly knowing the whole way that Uncle Kyle will be there and he will shove his damned iPad in your face and insist on showing you pictures of his recent trip to Bangkok. Endless badly framed shots of flowers that some part of you knows were decorating a whorehouse. Uncle Kyle may spend the whole of the Christmas dinner espousing whatever batshit-crazy right-wing views he heard on the radio whilst driving there but in your heart you know those pictures comprise a photo essay that could be titled: "Bangkok, as viewed from the doorways of its brothels."

Still a few hours away from arriving at your sister's house, drinking Starbucks coffee in one of those mega-stops that also feature a Wendy's, a Dairy Queen, an arcade, showers and a convenience store that stocks cowboy hats, all under the same roof, you start to tell yourself that maybe Uncle Kyle won't be there.

"What's my basis for thinking that?" you quietly ask yourself. "Why wouldn't Uncle Kyle be there?"

In truth, the only answer is that you simply wish for him to not be there. So strong is your wish that as you near the state line, you have partially convinced yourself this will be a family get-together that is blissfully sans Uncle Kyle. That will be nice, won't it? You can just position yourself next to Grampa, get him started talking about Korea again, and zone out until it's reasonably acceptable for you to retreat to your room back at the La Quinta.

But then, suddenly, a car comes screaming up close behind you and flashes its obnoxious xenon headlights that are blinding even in daytime. It's fucking Uncle Kyle. Driving that fucking BMW, the car that says: "I"m a douche but can't yet afford a Porsche."

He pulls alongside you, waves frantically, needing to make sure you know it's him, your Uncle Kyle, in his BMW. Ha, ha. Wasn't that a funny joke, coming up on you at an unsafe speed and driving erratically. Ha, ha. Good times. Uncle Kyle always brings the party.

For a moment you don't look over at him. Despite the fact your window is up and your stereo blaring Antje Duvekot (definitely never mention that to Uncle Kyle) and the both of you travelling at 75 mph, you can somehow hear him shouting: "Hey, big dog. Got some amazing Scotch I want ya to try with me. Cost me $250 a bottle."

Who the fuck goes to Bangkok and comes back with expensive Scotch? Uncle Kyle, that's who. Eventually you give in and look over at him, give him a goofy "Oh, hey, didn't see you there," face and smile. He makes a gun out of his forefinger and thumb, shoots you twice and then roars off ahead of you, compensating for whatever inadequacies were discovered in Bangkok with the power of German engineering, and leaving you with only 45 minutes to decide whether you want to steer your car into a ditch or suffer five hours of Uncle Kyle.

So, the J-Train will be there at Saturday's final, flashing his creepy grin and saying lots of ridiculous things that he hopes will make him appear humble. And with him will be Harry Judd (as I also predicted in week 1) and the unintelligible Hamburglar lovechild, Chelsee Healey. But first, here's a look at how the semi-final went, starting with the two existing couples:

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Waltz / Salsa ~ 65:

There is something about Welsh people and Latin rhythm: the two are woefully incompatible. It's like when you were a kid, holding opposite ends of a magnet up against each other. Some invisible, seemingly magical, force ensures the two shall never fit together. They can be forced into proximity but as soon as there is opportunity they will repel from each other.
My point is this: it would have required the Lord God Almighty to alter the very rules which govern our universe for Alex to perform well in that dance. He didn't, and the whole thing looked awkward. There is a reason the Welsh language has no word for "sexy" (a).
Not that James was helping much. According to the great holder of truth that is Wikipedia, James used to teach Latin dance. But this routine was thoroughly uninteresting. The whole thing felt like a comedy routine performed for Ruth Jones' Christmas Cracker.
Their waltz I don't really remember.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Argentine Tango / Charleston ~ 70:

That Charleston should have been good. It wasn't, but you could totally tell it should have been. If, say, Kara Tointon had been dancing with Artem it would have been ass-kickery. But she wasn't. Holly was. And Holly looked sleepy. Whatever gains she had made the week previous were lost in that minute and a half. Last week, I envisioned Holly as the cool older sister of a friend. Holding to that idea, I suppose this week was one in which the coolest kid in Burnsville, MN, pairs up with the coolest kid from Brooklyn and finds herself totally outmatched. Artem had come up with a brilliant routine that Holly simply wasn't brilliant enough to perform.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Samba / Argentine Tango ~ 74:
That Argentine tango was all Kristina. Watching it, I was reminded of the Kirby Puckett "climb on my back" speech, when he effectively won game 6 of the World Series singlehandedly. Kristina stormed through that routine, had naughty-glorious sex with every single one of us watching, and Jason was just sort of there. With her legs that could initiate, fight and win wars, she launched herself around the dance floor, occasionally capturing Jason and dragging him along to a perfect score.
Had it not been for that dance, I'm pretty sure J-Train would have switched places with Holly because their samba -- despite Kristina's decision to wear only a child's bathing suit and a bit of chiffon -- was about as exciting as marzipan.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ American Smooth / Paso Doble ~ 76:
Chelsee has the ability to dance effortlessly, like she's not even thinking about it. Actually, she probably isn't thinking about it. Her vacuousness remains my greatest complaint about her. I enjoy the way she dances and think perhaps I cheer for her because Pasha seems a nice enough chap. He seems to be generally enjoying the experience and always has a grin of the like I might have if medical science were to discover that, due to a unique quirk in my physiology, it would be extremely nutritious and physically beneficial for me to eat a lot of fudge.
The paso scored highest amongst their two dances but I actually think the American smooth was the stronger dance. Both were good, however, which bodes well for the show dance next week. I'm always hoping for some Derek Hough-style madness but perhaps that's wanting too much. Still, I think Chelsee and Pasha will manage something pretty good.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Charleston / Viennese Waltz ~ 78:
I am additionally looking forward to Harry's show dance. Aliona has a fondness for working wrestling-style spots into her routines, so expect her to perform at least one trick that would kill a person if done wrong. That's what it's all about, bitches. You want the glitter-ball trophy, you gotta be willing to die for it.
Harry and Aliona's (under-marked) Charleston was their best dance of the night, if not the best of all that evening's dances. Aliona's outfit, consisting of just enough fabric to make a sock, was also a highlight. I'm reminded of the Zac Brown line: "She'll make a train take a dirt road." Jenn was even perving on her. I'm pretty sure the only reason the Charleston wasn't given a perfect score is that it had the misfortune of being the first dance of the evening.
Boding well for Harry's chances in the final is the fact this week he seemed to discover two more facial expressions. He has spent the whole season generally looking stern but this week managed to gives us "zany" and "cheerful." He's got to win it now!

Elsewhere:

I find it interesting that all three professional dancers in the final are Russian. Indeed, when the final is broadcast next week from Blackpool, the self-proclaimed home of ballroom dancing, it might be interesting to reflect on how few Britain-born dancers are in the show: Anton Du Beke (Kent), James Jordan (Kent) and Robin Windsor (Suffolk).
This really should be Brendan's final year on Strictly, methinks. Dancing with Natalie on the results show he just looked sort of sad. I would have far preferred to see Natalie just twirling around Aloe Blacc rather than watch Brendan try and fail to look cool in an ill-fitting shirt and hat at a jaunty angle.

Predictions:
Harry will win. He has both the actual ability and the ridiculously faithful fan base to do so. I suspect Chelsee will be runner-up.

-----
(a) Using "rhywiol" does not count; there is a difference between sexy and sexual. Also, use of "secsi" is just embarrassing for the person using it.

Strictly week 10: Holly's weekend

2011-12-09T11:56:00.001Z

Holly's like a friend's cool older sister. You know, the kind of girl who comes home from college on the Christmas break and only half-remembers your name even though you and her little brother have been hanging out playing Dungeons and Dragons in the basement for years. Her prettiness and coolness are beyond your realm of understanding; you cannot imagine what it is like to be her, or to fit into her world.

Running around the house, getting ready to go out to see her friends from high school who have all, like Holly, returned from top-level universities in exotic places, she bumps into you in the kitchen and offers a laid-back hello. Leaning against a counter and quickly consuming a breakfast bar and some orange juice she asks you about the one piece of information she has retained about you, usually information that is incorrect.

"You still working at Smoothie King?" she asks.

"No. It was Jamba Juice. But I got fired because I made a Darth Vader costume out of the cups."

"Cool beans."

Then, she pats you on the shoulder, says goodbye in some weird slang way she picked up from her group of friends at Cornell, and flies out the door amid a flurry of coat and scarf and jangling keys.

Walking back from the kitchen with a bag of Cheetos and a two-litre bottle of Mountain Dew you pass by her room, see the door slightly ajar and see her clothes strewn out across her bed -- she has simply dumped the contents of her luggage for the sake of quickly finding an outfit. You see her clothes, her things, her underwear, her bras, and for a moment some part of you starts to ponder these things: their feel, what they must smell like, their fit on Holly's body and the smoothness of the parts of her they conceal. Then your head snaps away, almost causing whiplash, and the thought is pushed from your mind. In part because you are naturally prudent to an almost comical level, but more so because some part of you is afraid Holly is so cool she can read your mind.

Back in Strictly world, I think it's been difficult for the audience to connect with Holly and that's why she's found herself in the bottom two in previous weeks. They don't feel they can relate to her, so they don't vote for her.

Week 10, then, was Holly's. In the video package before the dance we saw her getting teary-eyed, then she came out and performed amazingly. Chelsee Healey finished at the top of the leader board, Robbie Savage was eliminated and the J-Train's journey came close to being cancelled but the weekend belonged to Holly.

Here, though, is a look at the rest of the show:

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Quickstep ~ 30:

It was a rough week for Robbie. Correctly, I feel, there was no mention of Gary Speed's suicide on Strictly. People who kill themselves should not be lifted as heroes. In the week after Speed's death, however, it felt too few media bodies were recognising that fact. Strictly simply chose not to mention it. But just because an action is selfish and wrong that doesn't mean it's not tragic, it doesn't mean that Speed's friend, Robbie, shouldn't be affected. He was; that showed in his face on the show. Glittery ridiculous celebrity dance shows mean nothing in the face of actual tragedy, so how Robbie performed is irrelevant.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ American Smooth ~ 34:

Next Friday I'll be part of a television programme set to air 30 December on Welsh-language channel S4C, which will look back on the events of 2011. The programme will be hosted by Huw Edwards, BBC presenter, Welsh-speaking icon and the man behind the voice that was broadcast, God-like, across Hyde Park and the whole of Britain during the royal wedding.

On that day, the BBC rolled out just about every one of its presenters to report on every tiny aspect of the wedding and from every tiny corner of Her Majesty's United Kingdom. Amongst them was Alex Jones, also a Welsh speaker, who will be a guest of Huw's on the end-of-year programme. This, of course, allows for a tenuous link to "Strictly Come Dancing" and somewhere in the middle is where I come in. As one of the few Welsh speakers willing to admit a fondness for the royal family (anti-royalism is the fashion in Welsh-language society, as is conforming to what other Welsh speakers espouse), and a ridiculous fan of Strictly Come Dancing, I will be there to express an opinion on both.

The programme is being filmed on Friday evening in Cardiff. The very next day, Alex will be in Blackpool as part of the Strictly final, regardless of whether she is competing because all the eliminated celebrities are brought back for the final show. As such, I am guessing her contribution to Huw Edwards' programme will be taped at a different time and she won't actually be there in the same studio as me.

But I don't know for sure.

And in light of that uncertainty, I now find my usual catty-pervy attitude toward Alex crumbling under the fear of possibly having to speak to her face to face and her knowing that I totally want to put my face between her boobs and recite Tynged yr Iaith. Not because it necessarily means anything to me but just that the lecture would take a long time recite.

So, here's what I have to say about her quickstep: lovely. She didn't look wobbly and confused through much of the dance. Not at all. Not even a little.

OK, maybe just a little.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Rumba ~ 36:

The rumba is never an easy dance for the fellas. Sometimes I think it's part of the Strictly repertoire solely for the purpose of making guys look like fools. Usually, the very best one can hope for is a rumba that isn't painful to watch. With that in mind, I think Harry did quite well. It wasn't sweet, sweet white chocolate lovin' on the dance floor but I'm pretty sure it was the best male celebrity rumba since the days of Ricky Whittle. Yes, you're right: being the best anything since Ricky Whittle is hardly an accomplishment. I personally feel the dance would have been much better had Aliona not been wearing so many clothes.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ American smooth ~ 37:
"Jason Donovan loves Jason Donovan," quipped Jenn's aunt when we were down in Devon last week.
There's something about the fella that puts me off oh-so-slightly and I am happy to learn I'm not the only one. I wonder if perhaps it's that J-Train has not properly made the transition from stage to small screen, in the sense that his facial expressions are frustratingly overdone. This would work if the audience is sitting 20 to 100 feet away, but when it can get in close via the camera lens it just makes him look kind of creepy.
Additionally weird this week was the lift in which J-Train picked up Kristina and then appeared to be displaying her foot for all to see. This is the sort of thing we would expect from creepy Jason: a foot fetish.
The routine ended with J-Train opening an umbrella, which we all know is bad luck indoors. That is why he ended up in the bottom two.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Paso doble ~ 38:
The only drawback to this whole routine was the fact that Artem, wearing what was supposed to have been a bespangled Zorro mask, looked just a little too much like Super Grover. That said, he was kicking around and throwing shapes to such an extent that the first time I watched the performance I was watching him more than Holly. On consecutive viewings I saw that Holly was awesome, as well, and perhaps this was part of why I had first been paying attention to Artem. She was performing so well that you stopped looking at her and could take in the performance as a whole.
This all said, I'm not sure it will be enough to reverse her path toward being eliminated before the final. She will have to be amazing in the semi-final to be able to get through.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Jive ~ 39:
Boobs.

Elsewhere:

I had hoped to work in an obscure reference to Mantaur this week, but never really found a way to do so.
Who the hell was that opera guy in the results show? He looked like Al Borland. His standing there, flanked by frightening female dancers doing that predatory sexy thing whilst he belted out a medley of James Bond theme songs in operatic style was easily one of the most surreal televisions experiences I've had in a while.

Predictions:

Two are set to go this week, so I predict it will be Holly and Alex, leaving the final to be fought out between Harry, Chelsee and the J-Train. Though I would prefer the J-Train and Holly switch places, I think it is unlikely.
I am still predicting Harry to win. I hope he does; I've put a £5 bet on him; Papa needs a new pair of socks.

Strictly week 9: Not on the good foot

2011-11-29T13:10:00.001Z

Photo from BBC

The pun in this post's headline doesn't really work, does it? I was trying to make reference to Robin's being out of the show this week due to foot injury but incongruously linking it to a James Brown song. It doesn't make sense. I suppose that's acceptable, however, considering so very little about "Strictly Come Dancing" actually makes any sort of sense. It's just a series of pictures and actions strung together by music and the ramblings of a British national treasure. Speaking of incongruence and Bruce Forsyth, have you ever seen the video of Brucie singing "Let There Be Love" with Miss Piggy? It's worth it just for the line: "Let there be love between Bruce and a pig." That sort of thing is what make the internets so wonderful.

But I'm digressing. This week saw the Strictly pack whittled down to six, with Anita booted from the show and not even her usual partner's shoulder to cry on. Her departure had felt nigh for a while but it still seems a bit cruel for that to have happened on the week Robin was out with injury. But, as I said in my unfinished post last week, the Strictly machine is bigger than all of us. A bit like the actions of the Lord and Google, ours is not to question. We must only accept that what happens on Strictly is for the greater good.

So, here's a look at all the good (and not so good) from this past weekend. You'll note that I've only recorded the scores for the couples' actual dances rather than factoring in their leader board standing after the swing competition.

Anita Dobson and ~~Robin Windsor~~ Brendan Cole ~ Cha Cha Cha ~ 30

Bringing in Brendan to cover for an injured dancer doesn't appear to be a winning strategy. Both the celebrities to have been saddled with the annoying Kiwi found themselves in the bottom two this week. And I'm placing blame for Anita's exit squarely on his shoulders. In the dance, Brendan did his usual jackass thing of out-performing his partner. With one exception, Robin had been very good about not showing up Anita. But Brendan can't stand that sort of thing. He can't suffer the idea the audience wouldn't know for just one moment that he's an awesome dancer.

You ruined it, Brendan Cole. It is all your fault. It has nothing to do with the fact the overall Strictly skill level surpassed Anita a week or two ago, it has nothing to do with her gangly stance, it has nothing to do with her awkward smile, it has nothing to do with the fact she and Robin never really developed a repartee the audience could see and warm to. Nope, it is all your fault, Brendan Cole. Other things that are your fault: the current economic crisis, and Dappy from N-Dubs. I'm not sure how you're to blame, but you are.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Samba ~ 25

Robbie is at risk of becoming the worst dancer on the show now. That's not because he's dancing poorly but simply that he's not really better than the others. He pretty much hit everything right on Saturday night; the steps were right, but the feeling wasn't. His yanking off his trousers was an iconic moment, however. I suppose if you can't make it into the final, you should focus on working yourself into Strictly lore.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Charleston ~ 29

James Jordan needs to shut his whining cake hole. I have grown weary of his getting touchy over the judges' comments. This week, he was the height of ridiculousness -- lambasting Craig's scoring whilst angrily waving about a sparkly top hat. No one takes you seriously when you brandish a sparkly top hat, yo. It removes every ounce of gravitas. This is why no one has ever declared war whilst holding a sparkly top hat, or, if someone has done that, why no one took them seriously. James might as well dress as a cupcake for his bitching sessions.

Tediously, he doesn't stop once the camera goes off. I stopped following him on Twitter today because he was again crying woe to the sky over his and Alex's treatment at the hands of Craig.

Because of James Jordan, I want to see Alex out of the show. Because of James Jordan, I don't know whether this weekend's was a good performance. Though, I suspect it wasn't because James spent a fair amount of time carrying Alex around the floor. When you're not on your feet, you're not dancing.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Foxtrot ~ 34

I fear Holly is on the irreversible downward slide. The Strictly audience rarely seems to judge according to individual performance. A person will do well and still go out because their previous weeks were poor and the viewers don't feel that intangible connection that compels them to vote. Holly has been in the bottom two twice now, and that's pretty much a situation from which there is no return. In order to survive next week, Holly would have to do something crazy amazing. Remember when Matt Baker did a muthahuggin back flip off the judges' table? I'm pretty sure Holly would need to do something on that level.
She'd need to do something equally as fantastic the next week, as well. And she'd have to cry. And hook us with a deeply personal story. And possibly fight through a visible injury.

So, what we're looking for is to have Holly awkwardly dislocate her knee after doing a flip over Artem from the stairs. The music has to stop but she refuses to be carried away. Strapping up her knee with a glittery sash, she begs to be allowed to finish the dance because her boyfriend has only a few weeks to live and seeing Holly dance brings him so much joy. So, they crank up the music again, and again she flips over Artem from the stairs, she lands the move and dances perfectly, tears streaming down her face from emotion and wild pain. On the final note, she simply collapses. Artem's crying. The judges are in an inconsolable state of woe, only just barely able to contain themselves enough to hold up four paddles, each displaying a 10.

If that happens, Holly will carry on.

On a side note, I really liked the music for this past weekend's dance. I had not heard that particular Jessie J song before. The singer on Strictly absolutely killed it. Having now listened to the Jessie J track, I think the Strictly singer performed it just a tiny little bit better, supporting my belief that Jessie J writes better songs than she sings.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Argentine Tango ~ 35

Let me just stress that I still only understand about 60 percent of what Chelsee says and I feel that is 60 percent too much. I dislike her in so many ways. But she was undermarked in this dance. Though, I suppose I do agree with the general judges' feeling that the routine lacked a certain kind of passion. Because it's Chelsee, one could easily believe that she would have sex with Pasha (or just about anyone else) but you didn't really feel she wanted to. The element of desire wasn't there; passion may be too high a brain function for her.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Charleston ~ 36

I like trains, but there always comes that point in a journey when I just want to get off the thing. I've walked up and down the cars, I've seen the buffet car still has nothing I want, I've grown weary of the blurry views of countryside, and all I can think is: "When does this stop?"

So I feel toward the J-Train. Something about him bores me just a little bit. Which is, admittedly, unfair. His Charleston kicked the living hell out of the one performed by Alex Jones and I think there's room to argue he was undermarked by a point or two. I think he's still on track to be in the final but just don't find myself looking forward to his performances.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Quickstep ~ 39

Should that have been given a perfect score? It was brilliant, perfectly in time and with absolutely no faffing about. It's the Strictly way to sit around on swings or twirling on poles or hovering on wires rather than actually dancing but in this performance there may be just 2 seconds in which Harry and Aliona could be said to not be dancing. I thoroughly dislike Harry for making me feel inadequate about my physique but there's no denying he and Aliona are kicking booty. Begrudgingly, he is my favourite.

Predictions

I'm guessing Holly Valance and Alex Jones will be in the bottom two next week. Surely I'm not the only one tired of James Jordan's pissing and moaning. But that won't be good enough to spare Holly; I'm predicting she'll be the one to go.
It still looks to be a final starring J-Train, Harry and Chelsee. Just to give myself extra incentive to watch, I have put a £5 bet on Harry to win.

Strictly week 8: Farewell, Mama Rose

2011-11-22T10:08:00.001Z

This is my blog post from last week, which I never got a chance to complete and put online because I was so busy. Considering the fact it is now out of date I have decided to leave it incomplete. I had thought of simply skipping over this post but I like the idea of having a string of posts from every single week. And I had managed to write quite a bit, so some part of me laments the idea of simply abandoning all that "work" (if one can refer to writing blog posts about Strictly as "work").

That really came out of nowhere, didn't it? I mean, there's Mama Rose bespangled to the hilt and lifted into the sky. Then, suddenly, he's saying adios, mofo.

Always leave 'em wanting more, darling. That's what Mama Rose used to say when strutting off stage. In Paris, London, New York, San Francisco, Rio, and on and on. All the queens and dykes and hags and stags would be falling over themselves, in a state of rapturous ecstasy over Mama Rose's performance. They would be screaming, tearing at themselves in yearning, desperate, frantic need for more.

"Just one more number, Mama Rose. Please," the house manager would scream. "It's inhumane to leave them out there like that without an encore. They'll riot."

"Damn right they will," Mama Rose would say, martini already at hand -- a silver-thonged cabana boy rubbing oil into his feet.

So, perhaps Mama Rose knew all along this was coming. Perhaps he orchestrated this farewell. It's not hard to imagine. We've heard the rumours about the time Mama Rose "turned" King Abdullah. That, they say, is the true reason Saudi Arabia maintains such cozy relations with the West. It is not American money that keeps them sweet but knowledge that with a single click on Mama Rose's iPhone, a series of photographs could be released to the press that would completely destroy the Saudi royal family. And if those rumours are true, what hope has a lowly BBC production assistant against such charm? It is entirely plausible that Mama Rose knew the show's outcome before the first note was struck because he had planned, entirely plausible that Mama Rose wrote the leader board on a cocktail napkin, handed it to a production assistant and promised him "more" after the results show.

But Mama Rose will never give you more; he will always leave you wanting. This, poor Flavia didn't take into account. The glitter-ball trophy was nearing. The glitter-ball trophy. After all these years. Those awkward moments with Matt Di Angelo and Jimi Mistry, smiling stupidly whilst Jimmy Tarbuck relived his non-existant glory days. And Craig Kelly, for fuck's sake. All those years of being saddled with morons who just got lost in her looks and turned to mush on the dance floor. Now, with Unce Russell, with Mama Rose, she had a chance. The glitter ball trophy! Each week it got closer. Each week she could more feel it in her hands -- its texture, its weight. Each week the vision of her lifting it into the air felt more real.

But Mama Rose doesn't need a glitter ball. Not another one, at least. And though Mama Rose knows he doesn't need good scores from the judges, knows that big queen Craig is just judging harshly because he's still being bitchy about what happened in Milan in 1987, he didn't like the low scores. He didn't like always being at the bottom of the leader board. Because, honey, if there's one thing everyone knows about Mama Rose it's that he likes it on top. So he crawled into that cannon, just for one moment looked wistfully at Flavia -- dancing there, not knowing it was the end -- and fired himself into "Strictly Come Dancing" history.

But the Strictly machine is bigger than all of us. There are still seven in the game. Here's a look at this past weekend's action, starting with the exiting couple.

Russell Grant and Flavia Cacace ~ Jive ~ 24

The routine is 1 minute 35 seconds long. Russell spends 42 seconds hooked up to wires. Flavia looked gorgeous but, really, the most impressive part of the routine is the stage hand at 00:50 doing a brilliant bit of rugby grubbing for the helmet, which Jenn likes to believe was flung by Mama Rose like an empty martini glass.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Salsa ~ 26

That salsa had all the latin flavour of a bratwurst. I realise Robbie and Ola were hampered slightly by the theme of British pop anthems, Her Majesty's United Kingdom not really being renown for its salsa scene, but not hearing the announcement at the start I spent the whole dance baffled as to what, exactly, they were supposed to be doing. It was a high-energy performance, though. Well, apart from the first 23 seconds of it, which Robbie spent unsteadily jerking about on a pillar. Then he comes down, meets up with Ola -- who had apparently lost her dress in the bus ride to Wembley and chosen simply to wear a bit of spray paint -- and she pulls off a hurricanrana. Impressive, but not very salsa-like.

Going back to Ola's outfit, though: Thank you, God, for giving me eyes.

Anita Dobson and Robin Windsor ~ Samba ~ 27

Robin accidentally laid the smack down on Saturday. Usually he is very good about toning down his style to suit his partner, not doing the Brendan Cole thing of making them both look bad by performing too well. But I think the excitement of the occasion caused him to be "overblown," to use a Chelsee Healey expression, and he mistakenly was awesome. The result, then, was that Anita looked at times as if she wanted more to watch him dance rather than dance with him.

But, oh, how can you not love Anita? Her sadness at being in the bottom two last week caused Jenn to produce actual tears. What cruel, foul-hearted cad would ever want to make Anita upset ever again? Someone will have to eventually. She is not good enough to stay. But this week I was happy to not see her go.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Quickstep ~ 31

Artem was clearly on some quality Russian side-street medication for his back problems. There was that slide he did at the end of the show but also did you notice how happy he was. Artem? Happy? This is not the miserable Russian we've come to know and love. Besides, happy Artem doesn't seem to result in good-dancing Holly. She looked like she was surprised to see him out there.

And, to a certain extent, I suppose she was. Artem's back has been acting up almost a fortnight now and through the week Holly was practicing with both Artem and Brendan. According to Alesha's comments, it was uncertain until Saturday morning whether Artem would dance that evening. That can throw a person off. But now that Artem appears to be back, I would like to see the experience of being in the bottom two shock Holly into no longer being not as good as she could be.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Jive ~ 34

Kristina looked like an 80s home video fitness instructor who had been thrown from a moving van. And Jason looked like a TV movie child predator. Not a real child predator, but a bad actor who is portraying one. Like when Dean Cain plays a bad guy; he might as well wear a shirt emblazoned with: "I'm the bad guy."

The J-Train looked a bit like that. But, regardless, he was en route to a kick-ass score when he completely goofed one of the sequences of the dance, reduced to sort of hopping and grinning whilst trying to figure out how to catch up with Kristina. There seems to be some tiny little something missing from the J-Train's performances and as my predicted bottom two found themselves safe in the results show I started finding it more and more believable that J-Train might not make it to the final.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Salsa ~ 34

One of the reasons I simultaneously lust after and fear Aliona Vilani is her penchant for pro-wrestling-style spot moves. That crazy thing of being flipped over Harry's back and then swinging over to do the splits beneath him was amazing. And when she just falls back and Harry catches her with his thigh, that was impressive, too. Plus there were fireworks. All in all it was an impressive routine, though I agree with the less-than-high score because the footwork wasn't much to write about. The salsa is supposed to be a male-arrogant dance, the mentality of it like that Old Spice ad: "Look at her. Now look at me. At her ass. Now back at me. Keep looking at me. This is what you want, ladies."

Harry wasn't quite getting that. Or perhaps he was. Jenn was suppressing squeals over his bare chest.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Samba ~ 35

I had consumed a beer and two large glasses of port by the time Jenn and I started watching the results show, but I don't suppose that's any excuse for my cheering Chelsee's getting through. Something's changed in my attitude toward Chelsee and I'm not sure I approve.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Tango ~ 35

Comment here.

Elsewhere

The true highlights of the show, I think, were the antics of Craig and Bruno. Craig's prancing dance when heading to the stage was a thing of beauty. But that was blown out of the water by Bruno's fit of manic dance hysteria as the show was starting. Honestly. Click on that link. That was a moment of pure gold.
This past weekend's show was a really good advertisement for the Strictly Live tour, wasn't it? The tour plays larger venues like Wembley Arena, so I would expect those shows to have more of this feel. It kind of makes me want to get tickets for one of the seven (?!) nights they'll be in Cardiff in February.
James Morrison's still performing?
Brendan Cole is becoming the dance equivalent of a spare tire, as he is set to dance next week with Anita because Robin is out of commission. Robin is recovering from a severe infection in his foot. Interestingly, both Artem and Robin used to share a flat together. What kind of crazy masochistic training do those two get up to that they are injuring themselves?

Predictions

I completely missed it last week.

Sympathy for the devil

2011-11-18T08:56:00.001Z

One of the great challenges facing a Welsh nationalist is identifying ways in which the Welsh have been horribly treated by the English. This is an all-important feature of any movement to sever ties with the crown. We Americans did it; the Irish did it; any number of African nations did it; the Scottish are doing it now. For some reason, a people can't just simply walk away, they must walk away mad.

This element is especially important in Wales where there is, in fact, no good reason at all for separation. I've mentioned before that if Wales were to cut ties today, it would celebrate tonight and wake up tomorrow with a terrible hangover and the sick reality of being considerably worse off. Roughly 28 percent of Welsh jobs are in the public sector. Cut ties with the British government and it's inevitable that quite a few of those jobs would go. Unless business taxes were lowered (somewhat unlikely if we assume separation would be driven by the socialist Plaid Cymru), it's possible a number of private sector jobs would go as well.

Wales' transportation infrastructure is stuck somewhere in the 1970s, with too few dilapidated trains running too few places and just a two-lane road serving as the only viable north-south route -- a road that, at one point, narrows to a single lane because it crosses a medieval bridge. Meanwhile Wales' digital infrastructure is laughable, with fewer people receiving broadband here than anywhere else in the United Kingdom.

Wales would find itself several decades behind the rest of the developed world with not enough resources, natural or intellectual, to give it a realistic chance of ever catching up within any of our lifetimes. The Welsh nationalist response, of course, is to blame England for the dismal state of things. But who do the disadvantaged peoples of England blame? Infrastructure is poor but it is not poor as a slight to the Welsh. In trying to find that vital "They Did This To Us" argument, pointing to lack of economic development isn't acceptable because they've done the same to themselves. If you and I are eating from the same bowl of cold, tasteless porridge you can accuse me of a number of things but malice toward you isn't honestly one of them.

Admittedly, any nationalist argument is inherently un-winnable, or un-loseable, depending on which side you're arguing. Because it is so emotionally driven. It is wrapped up in what the person feels more than what is. And as an ex-girlfriend once screamed at me in an argument: emotions are never wrong. Emotions are not tied to logic; they just are. An outside observer, or, indeed, a whole fleet of outside observers, may struggle to connect what they perceive to be reality to your emotional response to said reality, but that does not make your emotion wrong. There is no right and wrong with emotion. If you feel deeply hurt and betrayed by someone baking your favourite cake and giving it to you on a sunny day, it is not wrong for you to feel so. Confusing to the cake baker, perhaps, but not wrong.

So, if a Welsh nationalist wants to feel that Wales' lack of infrastructure and economic output can be blamed on English people actively detesting the Welsh, there may not be a great deal of evidence to support this line of thinking outside his or her own head, but he or she is not wrong in an emotional sense.

That said, emotion seeks vindication. When we feel something we want to feel it to be right. My friend Jim, who worked with me at television stations in both Reno and San Diego, used to say of the angry people who called to complain about our perceived bias one way or the other, that they did not want to discuss things, they simply wanted you to echo their opinion so they felt less crazy. Very few of us are happy to simply be right. We can't just accept that we see the sky to be blue, we need this confirmed and affirmed by other people.

So when the Welsh nationalist fails to win you over with arguments of being economically neglected by the English (who were economically neglecting themselves), he or she will try a different tact. In Wales there are a lack of atrocities like the Highland clearances or the myriad Bloody Sundays of 1887, 1920, 1921 and 1972, so it can be a little bit of a challenge for the Welsh "nat," but diligence is a long-standing Welsh virtue and eventually he or she will come up with something. If the nationalist is particularly well-versed he or she will sight acts of union in 1536 and 1543, which put Wales on equal legal footing with England but also prohibited a Welsh-only speaker, i.e. one that did not speak English, from holding public office (a).

Indeed, just about any They Did This To Us argument is going to hinge on the Welsh language. And, as such, it will almost certainly include Brad y Llyfrau Gleision ("Treachery of the Blue Books," a series of academic reports in the 1840s that, in part, blamed the Welsh language and religious nonconformism for Wales' inadequate schools) and the most iconic symbol of that line of thinking: the Welsh Not.

The Welsh Not was a small piece of wood with the words "Welsh Not" or, simply, "WN" inscribed that a child would have to wear around his or her neck if caught speaking Welsh in school. It was effectively a dunce cap for Welsh speakers. At the end of the day, the child would often receive a beating. It's worth noting that the authors of the much reviled Llyfrau Gleision didn't endorse the practice, feeling it was arbitrary and unnecessary, and, according to John Davies' History of Wales, it was not a particularly widespread practice.

The practice had disappeared by the early 1900s, but, yes, it did happen. The Welsh Not was brought up in one of my classes the other day by a man who had allowed himself to get quite angry and I've found myself thinking about it ever since. I wonder whether it's terribly fair to get so upset about the thing.

Victorian attitudes toward the discipline of children is notorious. I sometimes wonder just how accurate is such a portrayal but you simply can't have a story about a kid growing up in Victorian times without including at least one stick-wielding authority figure. I can believe it, though. Long after the Victorians were dead, their buildings crumbling, teachers in my childhood schools were still wielding paddles. As far as I'm aware, none of us kids in Texas in the 1980s ever got a spanking for speaking Welsh. That's probably just because none of us spoke Welsh.

The kids suffering a block of wood around the neck and an afternoon lashing more than a century earlier were, I think, suffering more because of the philosophy of the time than because of what they were actually doing. The cruelty of Victorian thinking was there as much for the English-only speaker as the speaker of Welsh. If a child wasn't being disciplined for speaking Welsh it might have been for getting maths tables wrong or speaking before being spoken to or nodding his head to the rhythm of a teacher's voice (I was once sent to detention for that last one). The disciplinary actions weren't inherently anti-Welsh but just overall unkind.

Within that, I think it's important to remember how different the past is to the present. It is possibly unfair, but at the very least misleading to apply modern thinking to situations of roughly 150 years ago. When the Victorian (primarily English) establishment looked at the Welsh they found a people who were, on the whole, disadvantaged. Additionally, the Victorian establishment felt their own ways of thinking and acting to be superior above all. To help the Welsh, then, one obviously needed to instruct them in the ways of the Victorian establishment. First and foremost, this meant speaking English.

We are very quick to attack this arrogance but I think it's firstly important to accept that it was a different time, they were operating by different rules. And secondly, it is good to ask whether this line of thinking is really so distant. Go back to the top of this blog post, where I lament Wales' inadequate access to technology. I am certain a number of Welsh nationalists would agree with me that computer literacy and access to technology is incredibly important. But what makes us right? We see it as right.

We would applaud initiatives to extend broadband to rural areas. All the politicians would wear out their arms patting each other on the back. We would put little ribbons on education centres and stand around having our picture taken cutting these ribbons. We would unveil plaques to show for all time how proud we are of ourselves. And I cannot think of how such a thing could be wrong. But what if, 150 years from now, they looked back at us in disgust? What right did we have destroying cultures and families and communities with internet access?

The example I used in my class was of the Arab Spring. In my heart of hearts I see nothing wrong with the spread of democracy in the Arab world. I applaud it. I get teary-eyed over it. I feel inspired by it. If I had any money, I would contribute to see it continue. But why do I think this way? Is it really good? Or do I simply say it is good because it is what I have and I feel I am superior? What will they say 150 years down the line? Will they look back in bitterness at those who drove democratic movements? When some American comes along to teach Berber in the Libya of the future will he find himself wondering whether the actions of the Benghazi establishment so many years before really were as awful as some of those around him claim?

I think it is fair to assume that in many cases the Victorian establishment felt they were doing the right thing by discouraging Welsh. I am sure some of them felt a great sense of altruism and righteousness. We can accuse them of being misguided, shortsighted and arrogant but I'm not sure it's fair to accuse them of malice, of being anti-Welsh. I'm not sure the Welsh can claim (overall) to have been horribly treated simply for being Welsh. I'm not sure the Welsh Not was as terrible a thing as a Welsh nationalist would have you believe.

-----
(a) The acts were finally repealed in the mid-1990s. I wonder, though, if a person would actually be hired today if he or she spoke Welsh but no English.

Strictly week 7: Immortal, darling

2011-11-15T15:24:00.001Z

Each time I sit down to write a recap of the previous weekend's "Strictly Come Dancing" action I ask myself: "What was the one thing that stood out most? What sticks vividly in my memory?"

Usually, whatever comes to me, I take as the highlight of the weekend. If it lasts through the port-induced haze, it must be amazing, right? But this week the thing I recall most is Claudia Winkleman's hair in the results show. Honestly. I mean, I have always loved Claudia in part because she is so wonderfully un-TV. For a woman who shows up on myriad television programmes, she frequently has the look and demeanour of someone who's just been pulled from a dressing room at an Asda on a Sunday morning. Fuzzy-minded and questionably attired in ridiculous prints and oversized tops she muddles through in an endearing way. One can't help but like her. On Sunday, however, when the camera first came to her she looked as if she had just been rolled down a hill and forced to wrestle a zebra before being allowed to effuse about the quality of attempted fleckerls and sashays.

In terms of the actual show, though, the highlight came, of course, from Mama Rose. How can you not respect a 10-second costume change followed by a gold-plated queen leaping into the air? If that didn't make you happy, you don't know how to feel, my friend. This is the sort of thing that makes Britain great.

Here's a look at all the weekend's dancers, starting with the exiting couple:

Audley Harrison and Natalie Lowe ~ Cha Cha Cha ~ 20

I predicted this exit in last week's recap, though I was wrong about who would be there with him.
The phrases "cha cha cha" and "Audley Harrison" fit seamlessly with the words "no" and "stop;" it was never going to be a good dance. And with the list of any other forgettable or awful dancers now exhausted, Audley's departure was inevitable. This dance would have been acceptable in week 1, but so far down the line it had all the excitement of a park bench.

Russell Grant and Flavia Cacace ~ American Smooth ~ 26

Many moons ago, I was an extra in a Guthrie Theater production and had the strange distinction of being in every scene of the play, performing four different roles. At one point I had to exit down the vom then run full pelt beneath the stage and up again to enter stage right some 45 seconds later, in a different costume. I always took extreme pride in that.

I would argue my costume change was far more complicated than that pulled by Mama Rose, but still 10 seconds is 10 seconds. Respect.

But here's the thing: that was effectively the meat of the performance. Mama Rose and Flavia moved around a bit, he changed into a shiny gold suit and then leapt about. I'm not saying I didn't like it, but, well, I don't know.

Maybe I'm expecting too much from Mama Rose. I mean, on the results show he mentioned having a big entrance planned for the next week's dance, to be performed at Wembley. And in my mind I immediately imagined fireworks and tigers and the cast of 300 singing the Pet Shop Boys' "Go West." This is unlikely. Sadly. Perhaps what I want of Mama Rose is not realistic.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ American Smooth ~ 31

Since I'm in the mood for praising the Strictly costuming department for their speed in Mama Rose's dance I will praise them, as well, for their thrift in making Ola's dress. With a bit of last Christmas' tinsel, a bed sheet stolen from grandma and a roll of cello tape they were able to fashion a lovely frock. Well done, BBC. It's good to see you are making the best use of every penny you get from our license fee.

Robbie was also involved in this dance, making a number of weird faces, but I wasn't really paying attention to him. I have decided I no longer hate him, and may even find him to be affable in some sort of way, but I still am not really a fan. Those ultra-white teeth disturb me.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Jive ~ 31

Jenn and I disagreed on this dance. Jenn felt it was well done but I found it to be lacklustre and awkward. I didn't get the strange mix of dolls and high school themes in the dance. And, most upsettingly, Alex doesn't really look good in a cheerleader outfit. She looked too much like the cheerleaders at my high school, who weren't totally the stuff of teenage fantasy. Not that it stopped me from dating two of them, mind. And to that end, were I a single man I don't suppose I would bar the door if Alex were to show up dressed as a cheerleader. But the point is: like the dance, it just didn't work.

The whole thing felt uncomfortable. One could sort of see Alex thinking: "OK, now I do this. And then this. And the fist pump. And spin around. And this. And this. Then over here." It was procedural rather than feel-good.

Anita Dobson and Robin Windsor ~ Argentine Tango ~ 33

Poor wee Anita's face when she found herself in the bottom two. I hope you feel good about yourself, British public. You did that to her. And, well, perhaps Jenn and I did, too, because we never vote.

Len was distinctly wrong in suggesting this Argentine tango was in any way superior to Harry's but it definitely ticked all the boxes.

I was mildly confused, however, by the first two moves Anita did in the routine: sitting in a chair, she seems to dramatically point to her legs, as if to say, "LOOK AT MY LEGS." Then she shifts, another dramatic bit of pointing, "LOOK AT MY LEGS," and Robin comes flying in from off camera.

I think a big part of success in Strictly, unfortunately, is connecting with the audience both within and outside the dance. I'm not sure how well Anita and Robin do that. They tend to just come out, perform and then clap cheerfully for all the other contestants. I fear that won't be enough as the final nears.

Holly Valance and ~~Artem Chigvinstev~~ Brendan Cole ~ Rumba ~ 34

As sexy as a bathmat, but it didn't really matter. What cold soul (of those who vote) wouldn't have voted for Holly this week? It's the phone-in version of a get-well-soon card to Artem. And one hopes he does get well soon because the Holly and Brendan mix wasn't great.
It started out with the two of them sitting on a bit of IKEA office furniture, which -- perhaps I'm weird here -- isn't the sort of thing that I really think of as sexy. It looked as if they were inappropriately dressed whilst waiting to register their new car. Soon enough, though, their ticket was called and they stepped forward to the Counter of Unsexy Manoeuvres, bending and turning with the grace of rugby players. Then Holly sits down, Brendan walks away, changes his mind and runs up to her, audibly says "OK, here we go" (Really. At 1:30 in the dance), heaves her to her feet as if she were a drunken pal rather than a lover, and then ends things with a bit of acting that Shaquille O'Neal would criticise.
I would assume the sympathy vote would hold for another week if Artem's not yet better by Saturday and then, of course, they will go through easily upon his triumphant return, but I feel at some point soon Holly is going to be in danger of leaving. She seems to be aware of this herself. In a recent interview she said: "I thought I'd probably be a bit better than this - to be honest I think I've been average."

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Viennese Waltz ~ 35
I've said time and again: the Viennese waltz is a boring dance. I'll admit to liking it in a romantic way because it is so much older than all the other dances but I don't like it in a sit-and-watch-it way. It's boring. The J-Train and Kristina avoided this issue by simply not dancing the Viennese waltz. Not much, anyway. I would guess they performed the absolute minimum of required content, the rest of the time spent flailing about.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. True, it's not a great dance but it's hardly better to avoid the dance.
Also, the J-Train didn't really look dapper in that tux; he looked like a waiter at a casino restaurant.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Foxtrot ~ 36

Jenn and I got lost in a discussion about Chelsee's hair during this dance and had to watch it twice. The overall gist of the conversation was that I think Chelsee's hair shorter makes her less aesthetically displeasing. Upon watching the dance a third time, I can't help but notice that her dress was rather flattering to her form. What I'm getting at is that I find her less and less annoying to watch. What I think this means, really, is that I am allowing myself to appreciate that she is a good dancer.
I still can't stand to hear her speak, and her vapidity makes her ugly to me, but when she is simply performing -- moving to the music and hitting the steps and making it seem natural -- I enjoy it.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Argentine Tango ~ 37

Len was on some really bad drugs. That can be the only explanation for his criticism of the dance. Sure, it's true Harry's not exactly the man of 1,000 facial expressions. He tends to wear the same look through every dance. But in this dance, it worked. Harry looked intense and arrogant. Len said there was nothing of the sort in the performance and was bitchy with both Craig and Claudia Winkleman over it, and he was wrong. Throughout the performance, Harry maintains unwavering eye contact with Aliona, his movements are sharp, his jaw is locked -- you can't be more intense without having it look like a pantomime villain.
Perhaps Len's wife, like my girlfriend, swoons wildly for Harry and he simply can't stand it, but he was way off the mark in his comments and scoring.

Elsewhere:

Is Wembley this year's Blackpool show? And how the hell did I not get tickets? There are supposed to be 6,000 people there. I applied on the BBC website to be put into the draw for tickets to each of the shows; I am heartbroken that I don't get to see the show live.
The band was really missing the mark this weekend, weren't they? In a number of songs the singers were off-key. The Guardian blog loves to criticise the band but normally I have no complaints. They are a live band who have to perform a song to exact timing. You're going to lose a bit of passion when you do that, but overall I think the songs still turn out pretty well. This weekend, however, was probably the worst they've ever been.

Predictions

I'm guessing Alex and Robbie will be in the bottom two next weekend, and Robbie will be the one to go.
I'm feeling less and less sure the J-Train will make it all the way to the final; he seems to have hit a plateau. But, for the moment -- unless Holly suddenly improves -- I'll still expect him to be there with Harry and Chelsee.

Strictly week 6: Hands that do dishes

2011-11-08T16:44:00.000Z

Yes, I am fully aware of UN resolution 1515: "Nobody puts Baby in the corner." I understand its implications fully and am perfectly willing to accept the use of military to see the resolution properly enforced. But why did they have to put Baby in the seat of a "Strictly Come Dancing" judge?

The presence of Jennifer Grey was, to me, one of the most difficult aspects of this past weekend of Strictly. The excuse was that Len (yes, that's him on the left -- back in his glory days) went on holiday, which almost certainly has to be false. Who schedules a holiday right in the middle of a show's run? Originally, I had guessed he had accidentally been double booked, since he is also a judge on "Dancing with the Stars" over in the United States. But Bruno Tonioli also judges both shows and was there on Saturday. Did "DWTS" end up with some forgotten British star as guest judge in exchange? I've not seen Dale Winton recently, perhaps he's been shipped over there. If not, where was Len? Why aren't British tabloids hacking phones to find out the truth behind that one? Why did I just use an outdated phone-hacking reference?

Actually, in my own extensive research (typing Len's name into the Google search box) I've learned that Len was treated for prostate cancer in 2009. So, it's quite probable that this absence was related to a routine check-up of some sort. Whatever the reason for his absence, it was one that showed how important is Len to the whole circus. Because J-Grey was a disappointment.

Due to some sort of production error she was only given the 7, 8 and 9 paddles and her input was roughly what one would expect from a person who had never watched the show. Or seen a person dance. Honestly, BBC, next time a judge has to go on a mysterious "holiday," run a quick competition offering fans a chance to be the fill-in judge. Or just call in Jodie Prenger. She'd be awesome.

That all said, it was still a pretty good weekend on Strictly. Fatigue is starting to set in, but the performances improved technically, Artem once again almost killed himself for the sake of dance, Mama Rose got his groove back and Lulu was given the boot.

Lulu and Brendan Cole ~ Tango ~ 27:
J-Grey made some sort of reference to porridge after this dance that I didn't get. But I'm guessing she didn't get it, either, because she was clearly reading the comment and Americans don't tend to say "porridge." Most of us simply call it oatmeal.
Though, there were elements of Lulu and Brendan's performance that had the look of dancing through porridge. Toward the end, Lulu was simply holding on to Brendan. The self-apointed bad boy of ballroom, meanwhile was giving it approximately 60 percent. Possibly he was distracted by having to talk to Lulu all the way through the dance, but he seemed a bit bored as well and appeared to be looking out at the audience to see if there's anyone he knows. On "It Takes Two" Monday the two spent a long time saying that, yes, they would often disagree with each other in rehearsal but they got along and never had any actual fights. Which, by the very nature of them denying it, means they totally hated each other.

Russell Grant and Flavia Cacace ~ Paso Doble ~ 24:
After a lacklustre performance the week previous, Mama Rose was back with a strange routine that involved sitting on a bull. One felt there was almost certainly some sexual allusion there but I'm not sure exactly what. In the Mama Rose alternate universe in my head it was a reference to the time Mama Rose's drag queen extravaganza was touring Spain and caused a national scandal in a notorious incident involving five naked picadores, one matador's cape, 54 prophylactics, an untold quantity of dramamine and 78 litres of chocolate syrup.
In our world, I didn't get it but at least he wasn't up there for long. Another thing I don't quite get is how Mama Rose ended up at the bottom of the leader board. His paso doble was undoubtedly sloppy but it was more technically sound that Lulu's bobble-head dance.

Audley Harrison and Natalie Lowe ~ Viennese Waltz ~ 27:
How many times can Audley survive the bottom two? What's the record for bottom-two survival? I would guess it to be the four appearances achieved by Heather Small in 2008. If that is the record, it means Audley is now set to at least tie with Heather. If he can somehow survive again, I would think it would make him the Strictly comeback king. Whether I want that, I'm not so sure.
I'm not so sure Natalie wants it, either. Have you noticed there's something in her manner that seems to have given up? I worry she has the Brendan Cole attitude of: "If I'm not winning I'm not caring."
Being Australian, perhaps she's just struggling with the British weather and lack of sun. I know the feeling. Obviously, she should come visit and I will console her...

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Rumba ~ 28:
Trains are not sexy. They get things done. The J-Train doesn't seduce, he makes babies. He gets things done.
Technically, his rumba Saturday was on the money. Jenn and I have a tiny television and in the wide shots, when Jason's face was unrecognisable, it was a very good routine. In the times one could see his facial expressions, however, or lack thereof, it felt a bit creepy. Like being loved up by one of those security blokes who just stare at you as you walk into Tesco.
Honestly, Tesco. Teach your fucking employees how to use the word "hello."
But I digress. The J-Train got all the steps right but somehow managed to get the dance wrong. He's had some less-than-great performances of late. I blame his enthusiasm for sporting dodgy moustaches in the introductory video pieces.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Waltz ~ 29:
Being disconnected from one's dance was a theme this past weekend and Robbie played his part by not twitching a facial muscle through the whole of his waltz. His response to criticism of his looking miserable, despite twirling around with a Polish sexpot squeezed into a dress that was probably originally intended for an 8-year-old, was that the song was about unrequited love. He wasn't supposed to be happy. And fair enough, that's true. But Robbie also didn't look sad. He looked embalmed.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Quickstep ~ 31:
Alex has an old-school charm to her, doesn't she? At the end of this dance, when she and James fell over, I was reminded of some old video of Carol Burnett that I am now too lazy to make any attempt to find on YouTube, but you understand what I mean, right? Carol Burnett or Lucille Ball or the like would come out and do a hilarious/amazing routine and at the end of it, whilst the audience were going wild, they would slap their partner on the back or laugh in that big "We're the best of pals sharing a side-splitting in joke" sort of way. Like Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye at the end of the "Sisters" routine. Know what I mean? No? Well, I do, and somehow that results in this fact: she is back on my perving list.
Because Jenn reads this I feel unwilling to elaborate, however, beyond two words: custard wrestling.

Anita Dobson and Robin Windsor ~ Charleston ~ 31:
I have to admit I've never been a fan of the Charleston being on Strictly. Partially that is because I feel there is a failure to fully recognise the spirit of the dance. It is supposed to be a post-watershed affair, but people tend to lampoon the various social revolutions of the 1920s, picturing the whole thing to be a Bugsy Malone-style romp. We coulda been anything that we wanted to be, Robin Windsor. And for some reason you chose to be the gayest lumberjack in all the land.
The thing I want out of a Charleston is for it to be risque, a thinly-veiled excuse for a woman to flash her knickers. Instead, in the modern age, it tends to be hijinks. Which is fine, I suppose, if the hijinks don't feel forced. And that's where Strictly goes wrong. What you end up with is something that doesn't feel authentic, doesn't feel fun.
Within that, though, Anita did OKish. She was definitely wearing down toward the end and I'm not sure what it says about the dance that I felt the most impressive thing was the pouring of a martini without looking, but it wasn't bad.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Samba ~ 33:
In the same sense it is not dancing for Lulu to be hanging from the ceiling it is not really dancing for a fella to stand around with his shirt open. Fortunately for Harry, he can actually dance. He can't display any kind of emotion in his face, but he can dance. If this were pro wrestling I'd suggest putting him in a luchador mask. Actually, I suggest that here, too. I think his scores would improve.
Of course, none of this matters to any of the females watching, including Jenn, who usually just sort of whimpers through Harry's performances, rubbing her knees. No, she doesn't do that. She just wants to. I sometimes think I should just give her some time alone when Harry dances.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Jive ~ 34:
Similar to last year when he threw out his shoulder flinging Kara about, Artem this year caused himself serious injury just before Friday's show but managed to suck it up enough to perform a dance that I felt was undermarked. Holly's casual attitude played to her favour this week with her coming out and performing a tricky and high-energy dance wearing a face that said: "This? No problem. Pre-breakfast warm-up, mate. This kind of thing I do with a hangover."
That said, her actual movements were sharper than usual. Or perhaps Artem's were duller. Either way, it worked well.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Charleston ~ 36:
I think it would have been funny to force J-Grey, who was reading everything she said, to attempt to have an actual conversation with Chelsee. And when I say "funny," what I mean, of course, is "terribly cruel."
It was the Charleston again and again the dance was neither risque nor carefree. At one point you can very much see Chelsee thinking through the routine, which is a dangerous thing because Chelsee's limited brain power means that any intense thinking might accidentally cause her brain to overheat and motor functions to cease. Like when my laptop is rendering videos and struggles to open new programmes at the same time. But, as Artem has shown, you've got to be willing to put yourself at risk in order to win. So, Chelsee made it through a laundry list of standard Charleston moves then did a little roll over Pasha's back and stood there for a movement whilst her brain restarted her kidneys.
Some part of me supports her, though. I definitely don't want her to win but I'm happy for her to do well.

Elsewhere

I edit a vlog every single day, so I realise that sometimes you get a little bit tired and just slap crap together, but did you catch how poorly the results show was cut? Claudia is talking to the judges up in the balcony, then throws to a performance by Brucie; he sings and then whilst he's milking applause we see the judges back down on the set floor giving him a standing ovation; then it's straight back to Claudia in the balcony where a number of the celebrities are sitting. Nonsense.
It turns out Artem suffered a spinal fracture. And still danced the muthahuggin' jive, y'all. He is the Kurt Angle of professional dancing.
Whether Artem will be good to perform this Saturday remains to be seen but in the meantime Holly will be dancing with Brendan Cole.
Have you noticed how Alesha is really coming into her own as a judge? I am starting to like her more and more. Although, it's still a given that she'll always be the one giving the first 10 of a series.
Sometimes I watch clips from "Dancing with the Stars" and get a bit jealous. The American version seems to be higher impact.

Predictions:

If Audley is in the bottom two, he will go. I'm going to predict that will indeed happen and Robbie Savage will be there with him.
More and more I feel a nagging doubt about the J-Train but I'm still going to place him in the final with Harry and Chelsee.

One of my favourite vlogs in a while

2011-11-08T13:35:00.000Z

I sometimes allow depression to get the better of me and I lose sight of the fact I have a gorgeous, funny girlfriend and live a pretty good life in an often beautiful place. This video of how we spent our Sunday reminds me of that.

Strictly week 5: Strictly Come Haunting

2011-11-01T15:13:00.003Z

I was right, yo. That's the most important thing to remember about this past weekend: I was right in predicting how it would turn out. Take a look back at the week 4 recap. Whom did I say would be in the bottom two? Nancy and Audley. And whom did I predict would be leaving? Nancy. I was right and I was right. Go Team Chris. I should be putting money on this.

No. No, I definitely should not.

Week 5 of the Strictly Come Dancing experience felt just a little low-energy for me. Perhaps the months of dancing is starting to wear on the celebrities. There is usually a bit of a lull from about week 5 to the Blackpool show. But there were still some highlights this week, including Harry and Aliona's eight-bar tango and the J-Train getting back on track. Here's a look back at the weekend, starting with the exiting couple, Nancy and Anton.

Nancy Dell'Olio and Anton Du Beke ~ Rumba ~ 14:

Anton Du Beke. Rumba. Those two things rarely fit together perfectly. He's too much like a World War II RAF pilot to be sexy. He should be up in the air, blasting Jerrys, not routing about on the dance floor with some wobbly Italian. But that's where fate found Lt. Du Beke this weekend and, though he kept calm and carried on, it just didn't work. Admittedly, a fair share of the blame also falls on the strangely unsexy Nancy Dell'Olio. Her wide-legged gunslinger stance again brought to mind visions of a washed-up Lolita drunkenly staggering through town, muttering of sexual conquests of long ago.

Nancy was so bad she was drawing heat from Alesha, for the love of Pete. Alesha finds nice things to say about almost everyone. Yet, in this case she told Nancy: "You're a walking disaster."

It was so out of character for Alesha (and so true) no one thought to boo her in pantomime style, as they did when Craig said more or less the same thing.

Audley Harrison and Natalie Lowe ~ Jive ~ 20:

He's 100 feet tall and weighs roughly the same as the combined population of Saipan; what did you expect? A jive was never, ever going to be Audley Harrison's time to shine. Other potential disasters include the rumba, the Charleston and any other dance that involves moving with grace and/or speed. Of course, he didn't help himself by spending part of the week back in Los Angeles. Gotta be in it to win it, dude. Audley is incredibly likeable and brings good energy and enthusiasm to the dances but, uhm, well, I'm getting a little tired of him. In his dances he has a tendency to repeat the same action several times. Case in point: pretending to play the piano. Twice. Snooze. I suspect Natalie has given up.

Russell Grant and Flavia Cacace ~ Samba ~ 22:

Mama Rose has been suffering some knee pain as a result of all this dancing and it appeared this week that he was lost in a Vicodin-tinted world. Russell was uncharacteristically low key and reserved. In the alternate-universe narrative I maintain for Russell, he was once the biggest queen on the circuit. From Miami to Brighton to Sydney, the queers, dykes, fag hags and fag stags would fill the clubs every night almost breaking into riots to see the glorious Mama Rose perform.

But after a time it became too much.

The fame.

The boys.
The alcohol.

Well, darling, one can never have too many boys. But, still it became such a strain on Mama Rose that he started dusting his margarita glasses with crushed painkillers rather than sugar or salt. Eventually, it all fell apart and Mama Rose slipped into anonymity and legend.

Now, his estranged niece, daughter of his ridiculous heterosexual brother (honestly, how embarrassing!) has come to ask Mama Rose for help. Innocent little Flavia dreams of winning the glitter-ball trophy.

"Honey, you don't know what you're getting yourself into," says Mama Rose, signalling with a swizzle stick to one of his be-thonged cabana boys that another cocktail is desired.

"Please," begs Flavia. "I know I can win."

"You think it's that easy, do you?" snaps Mama Rose. "This is the glitter-ball trophy, sweetie. Do you even understand that? You think you can just show up with your little abs and white teeth and they'll just hand you the glitter-ball trophy?! Ha!! They. Will. Tear. You. Apart."

"Uncle Russell..."

"Uncle Russell, indeed. Don't play the family card on me, darling. I will never understand what went wrong with my brother that he ended up with a woman. Ugh. I feel ill thinking about it."

"Mama Rose, please. Please. I know I can win. I know we can win."

And so Mama Rose came back. And word spread. And again they cheered his name from the balconies.

But now, the old ghosts have come back, too. The old fears. And new pain. Mama Rose is not the vibrant queen he used to be. And this past weekend he was out of it. Tired and moody, removed. Maybe Mama Rose just doesn't have it in him anymore. Can Flavia pull him back? Can the greatest be great again? We'll have to see what happens next week.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Paso Doble ~ 26:

I was mildly confused that they looked a bit like zombie Cherokees, and then was overall disappointed in a routine that felt disjointed. I dislike Robbie considerably less these days, but this dance did little toward making me actually like him. It's the whole Michael Jackson thing, I think. The crotch-grabbing and such. It's just creepy.

Lulu and Brendan Cole ~ Paso Doble ~ 29:

Nothing says, "This woman can't dance for shit," like hooking her up to some wires and having her flown about the room. That's not dancing, it's holding on. Anyone can do that. Well, with the exception of Owen Hart, perhaps. Lulu spends the first 20 seconds simply being in a harness or being removed from the harness whilst the camera is conveniently pointed at something else. I did like Brendan, looking like a zombie Ed Norton, doing a no-look slide down the bannister but everything else in this performance was a waste of time. Lulu flaps about a bit of mosquito netting, they do an arm thing that almost puts the audience to sleep and then Brendan distracts the camera for another 20 seconds whilst Lulu gets hooked up to the wires again. She spent 40 seconds of a 90-second performance messing about with a prop. It's time for her to go.

Anita Dobson and Robin Windsor ~ Tango ~ 31:

Anita is the same age as Lulu but did she need to be strapped into wires? No. She comes jumping out from a tombstone and, bang, she and Robin actually dance a full routine. A few too many pantomime-villan scary faces for my liking, but all dancing. I'm confused, though, as to why the costuming department consistently puts her in unflattering frocks. This past weekend she reminded me of Liza Manelli performing as Lola in a Muppet Show version of Copa Cabana.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Paso Doble ~ 31:

James looked incredibly un-scary as a Dracula. He far more resembled a cross between Jerry Lewis' nutty professor and J.D. off Scrubs. Meanwhile, Alex was about as sexy as a bra from Primark. That said, it was easily an improvement for Alex. I want so much for her to be better, though. I sometimes wonder if my issues with Alex stem from the fact I know she is a Welsh speaker from West Wales. And every other woman I've ever met who fits that description is, like Alex, affable but somehow lacking in the sexiness that exists away from pragmatism. I mean, one can imagine doing the naughty with Alex but not feeling very naughty about it. You know, really just doing it because you need a few kids to help out on the farm.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Tango ~ 32:

Chelsee's notorious top end was too great a challenge for the fabrics known to the BBC costuming department, creating a wardrobe malfunction that threw her for a loop. I'm willing to bet any number of teenage boys have spent any number of hours attempting to spot the "gift," in Claudia Winkleman's words, of the wardrobe malfunction but without success. I think Chelsee simply felt that structural integrity was compromised, rather than there being an actual breach. The whole thing upset her to the point that she just stood there crying after the dance, which is still better than listening to her speak. All told, however, it wasn't a bad dance. But, in watching it back again, it also wasn't great. Even before the puppies tried to escape she was a little wobbly, looking at one point she was being thrown around by Pasha.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Tango ~ 34:
Harry only seems to have one facial expression. Fortunately, this was a dance in which a slightly catatonic stare was appropriate. Len complained there was not enough tango in this tango but it's not as if Harry was strapped to wires or faffing about pretending to play the piano, so I've no complaints. I find I really like Harry, even if he does make Jenn go all teenage-girly.
Drummers are an interesting part of a band. Vitally important to the actual musical product they are often the guy you forget about. Without looking it up, who's the drummer for the Rolling Stones? Who was the drummer for Guns N' Roses? My cousin tells a story of once managing to blag his way into the VIP section of a club by asserting he was the drummer for Seether, "because no one knows what the drummer for Seether looks like."
So, this is Harry's moment in the limelight and one senses he's enjoying it in a kind of likably uncomfortable way. I want him to do well. And this past weekend showed again that it's a good bet he'll be in the final.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ American Smooth ~ 35:
There's still something missing, isn't there? I like Holly but keep waiting for that moment when I think: "Wow! She's hit it!"
That moment never comes. I feel kind of let down, though I don't really understand why. I think it's that she doesn't follow through with all the steps. She gets them all right, but doesn't add the bits of flair that make a dance enjoyable to watch. She's like a British Olympic gymnast. Holly Valance is the Beth Tweddle of celebrity dancing.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Quickstep ~ 37:
Has anyone else noticed just a slight change in Kristina's style over the past few weeks? As much as one can when done up for ballroom dancing, she looks oh-so-slightly more like a real person. She no longer seems like a scary, burned-out Russian gymnast. This endears her to me. And that human-ness seemed to come out well in her dance this week with the J-Train. Now if only she could get Jason to be a bit more personable. Presently, I think this is their biggest stumbling block. There's something just a little too Sunday matinee about them. Never go see a Sunday matinee performance of a play or musical, friends, because the performers know they have another show to do that day. As a result, they will naturally be holding back. Sure, the show may be good, but it will almost never be great. That's where the J-Train is at the moment. Like his fellow Antipodean frontrunner, Holly, he is more often than not lacking something that would make you jump from the sofa and cheer.

Elsewhere:

Crikey. The Wanted are a creepy-looking group of fellas, aren't they?
Artem's nerdy guy impression in the results show professional dance was hilarious.
I think it would be interesting to know who choreographs the various professional dances. Does anyone know where I could find this out? Is my being so interested in Strictly a sign I need very serious help?

Predictions:

I think time is fading for Audley Harrison. If he is in the bottom two next week, he will go. Sometimes, however, a person will avoid being in the bottom two on consecutive weeks because viewers feel sorry for him or her. If Audley isn't there I predict Lulu and Anita will be there. Lulu should go, but it will probably be Anita, giving us our first "Too Soon" casualty of this series.
I am still placing the J-Train and Harry in the final. In there with them will be Chelsee Healey, a name I've not suggested before as a contender, in part because I dislike her so much.

Eight things I loved about October

2011-10-31T14:24:00.000Z

~ 8 ~ Celebrating one year of Jenn-based awesomeness: I first met Jenn at about 7:30 p.m. on 29 October 2010 (a). We were scheduled to have met half an hour earlier and, sitting in the back of Penarth's Ocho Lounge, I told myself I would just leave if she didn't show up before I finished my pint. For the first time in the season I was wearing a sweater, my favourite one, and realising I had been overly ambitious for winter's chill to arrive. I was uncomfortably hot.
Despite having spent a fair amount of time selecting an outfit and primping for this meeting, I was not feeling optimistic and a certain part of me was content with the idea of being stood up. Jenn and I had first corresponded via the internets, which is actually a good way to meet people. There is a stigma attached to dating websites but if you think it through that stigma makes not a damn bit of sense. The people who roll their eyes at internet dating would have no issue with a relationship starting via a conversation in a bar, but think about it: the odds of success in a bar are dramatically lower than in a setting where you know a person's interests. That said, however, dating, regardless of how you do it, relies on a certain degree of chance. I had met a few girls before Jenn and found no success whatsoever. One of the most amusing experiences came when I met a girl at a pub in Cardiff Bay. She showed up and I offered to buy her a drink.
"Hmm," she said, looking at me sideways. "That depends. I am definitely not going to sleep with you, I'm afraid. So, I'm not sure how that affects your decision. You know, I've got nothing else to do this afternoon. But I'd hate for you to feel you were wasting your time."
So, as I say, in the stifling hot of the Ocho Lounge I was resigned to having this date flop. I was feeling somewhat relieved, actually. I knew from Jenn's profile she was a few years younger than me and in those days was feeling older than my actual age, so I feared I was just flattering myself. As now, I was struggling financially and worried I was just spending money on an evening that almost certainly would go nowhere. This girl would turn up, I told myself, find nothing in common with me and be itching to leave within minutes. Looking back now on my personal calendar I see that I had noted a gig at the Gwdhiw that started just an hour after Jenn and I were to meet. Some part of me felt success so unlikely I had a back-up plan for the evening.
My phone buzzed.
"Bit late. Just waiting outside," said a text from Jenn.
I wound through the crowded bar toward the front to find her, then led her back to our table.
"Sorry I'm late," she said. "Been here long?"
"Nah," I said. "Just got here myself."
"Yes, I was all ready to go and then I got distracted because the television was on professional wrestling. It's silly, but it's kind of interesting to watch. And there was this one guy, and this move he did, called 'The Snake,' or something."
"The Cobra? Like this?" I asked, lifting my hand up.
"Yeah..."
"Santino Marella. He was in blue tights, right?"
"Yes. I know it's silly, but I just got hooked," she said.
"I love you," I said.
We stayed until the Ocho Lounge closed, with me doing the majority of talking. I talked and talked and talked, trying to think of anything, everything that might sound in the least bit impressive or funny or interesting. The next day I sent a group email to my friends Eric, Paul, Dan and Anthony under the subject, Sometimes my life is awesome:

"Last night I went out with a girl who was once a burlesque dancer.
I just felt the need to brag about that.
Cope."

A year on I am still keen to brag. Jenn is amazing in a bajillion ways and I am one lucky muthahugga that I stuck around long enough to meet her. And even luckier to have been able to stick around in all the days and weeks since.

~ 8 ~ Visiting Devon: Jenn was born and raised in Devon. In mid-October I got to visit the place for the first time and see why she takes such pride in her home turf. Even before meeting Jenn I've long had a fascination with the southern England county. In Portsmouth I had a mild crush on a girl from Devon and so formed a stereotype that pretty girls are from there. In my novel The Way Forward, Claire, Ben's love interest, is from Devon.
After years of imagining the place I was not disappointed. Jenn and I were down for just an overnight trip and as such limited more or less to exploring Exeter, where a handful of relatives live and where she went to school, but there was enough to make me want to return. What surprises me is that we hadn't gone before; Devon really isn't so very far away -- just about two hours drive. I have happily driven that distance to get to Tenby on any number of occasions. I don't understand why I had imagined it to be so distant.

~ 8 ~ Visiting Forest of Dean: Although the beauty of Devon is not so far away, even closer is Gloucestershire and the Forest of Dean. I had lived here more than five years and never visited the area just across the England-Wales border until this summer when Jenn suggested it as a day-trip activity for when my parents came to visit. Since then I've been keen to get back as often as possible, it being in roughly the same area as the Offa's Dyke path I mentioned in last month's list of eight things.
In late October, Jenn took a day off work, we packed up the car and the two of us drove out to spend a day in the beauty of English forest. I had a great time, although I think next time we go Jenn and I should pack a more adequate lunch than two packets of crisps and some chocolate bars. Also, next time I go, I'd prefer not to be stopped and hassled by the police upon my return.

~ 8 ~ The pine smell of my T-shirts: Jenn and I purchased a trifecta of cheap chest of drawers when I first moved into the flat back in May. They were about £15 each from IKEA and just barely large enough to hold most the belongings of a man who has always quietly prided himself on having few belongings. As indicated by their price, the chests of drawers are basic bits of furniture -- young pine churned from some corporate forest somewhere, cut up and thrown into a cardboard box with a set of instructions so simple as to be mildly confusing.
Even though they were assembled several months ago, the chests of drawers still have a strong scent of pine. So, when I pull out a T-shirt it has that smell. I don't know why I was so particularly fond of that smell in October, but I was. Something in the scent seems to be trigging a tiny, tiny thought of hope -- a feeling I can make my life better.

~ 8 ~ Auto repair: In September, I bought a new car. And, of course, by "new" I mean "new to me;" it is in fact several years old. Old enough to have a handful of foibles, such as the fact that the heating blower didn't work when I first bought it. As it happens, the guy who sold it to me, Mark, had another Honda he was using for spare parts and sent me the blower from that one, thus saving me pooploads of money and trouble in trying to find a replacement. All I needed to do was install it. Sure. No problem. I've worked on cars before. Sort of. OK, I've bought beer for my friend Jim, or my brother and watched them work on my car. But I've got a masters degree (in Welsh). How hard could it be?
Pretty hard, it turns out. My first challenge was finding evidence of anyone ever having done this job before. The internet is the font of all knowledge these days but in searching how to replace the blower for a 1998 Honda Accord I was confronted with endlessly helpful advice and videos on how to do this with the U.S. version. Turns out, bafflingly, the U.K. version is completely different. As in, the parts look nothing alike, nor are they located in the same place. But with a bit of guesswork and blind faith in my untested ability I did, after several hours, replace the blower. And for that I felt like a manly, manly man.

~ 8 ~ Vlog no. 200: Sometimes I really wonder the point of the daily video log Jenn and I do. I'll think: "Who would watch this? Why? Aren't there better things I could be doing?"
Then I ignore those questions and just carry on vlogging. One reason is that the advertising earns us £20 a month. That's not exactly a mortgage payment but, hey, three months of vlogging paid for our recent National Trust membership. I can't complain. And, the overwhelming majority of the time, I actually enjoy vlogging. I'm not 100-percent sure why. I think it's the experience of each day looking back on the one previous and seeing that it was (usually) pretty OK and that I have a gorgeous girlfriend. It is a way of counting blessings, I suppose. And it's a way for my parents and family and friends to still have me in their lives. Should they want such a thing. I often wish my friends back in the U.S. would vlog so I could keep a feeling of contact with them.
Anyhoo, October saw the milestone of Jenn and I recording our 200th vlog. Appropriately, we did very little on that day but made the best of it.

~ 8 ~ Mince pie mondays: I'll admit that some days on the vlog are better than others. Sometimes there is little going on in a day. Jenn and I found that Mondays were consistently slow and dreamed up the idea of Mince Pie Monday, a weekly review of mince pies. For those of you playing along at home, mince pies are little fruit pies that have been a part of the British Christmas tradition for centuries. Just about every shop in the country offers its own brand of mince pie, so we set out to taste test as many as we can before Christmas to identify the best. It is ridiculous and usually pretty amusing. A little closer to Christmas I'll put up a list of all the mince pies we ate, with links to the videos. But in the meantime, you can find most of the mince pie vlogs here.

~ 8 ~ Christopher Rees: One of the highlights of the musical year in Cardiff is Sŵn, a multi-day, multi-venue music festival held throughout the city. It uses South by Southwest as its inspiration, though, admittedly, has a little ways to go before it garners as much attention. Regardless, it is still a good time and, I think, an incredible positive for Cardiff and Wales as a whole. Jenn worked as stage manager for one of the venues, which meant I had the opportunity to get in to see several bands for free. Perhaps foolishly, I instead spent most of that day writing. I have been struggling with writer's block for a year now so have developed an attitude of simply dropping everything in those rare moments inspiration strikes. But, at the end of the day I dragged myself from the laptop and went to see the excellent and bluesy Christopher Rees. Any band with a horn section always wins with me. Which reminds me, 3 Minute Hero have a new album out, released Halloween weekend. I have yet to hear it, but expect it to be on my November list of eight things.

-----
(a) This was the first time for us to speak, at least. As it turns out, I had actually seen her on a train roughly nine months before and had wanted very much to talk to her but had failed to build the nerve.

Strictly week 4: Pasha's weekend

2011-10-26T09:53:00.000+01:00

Pasha Kovalev's feet. That's what stands out most to me from this past weekend of "Strictly Come Dancing." There alongside Katya Virshilas to add a bit of flair to Caro Emerald's musical performance he effectively stole the entire weekend, as far as I'm concerned. Did you see that? He had cartoon legs. This, coupled with the fact he and his insufferable celebrity partner, Chelsee Healey, performed amazingly on Saturday night, made it very much Pasha's weekend. Yes, Russell Grant and a teddy bear is TV gold, Robbie Savage broke his nose, the J-Train was derailed and Nancy Dell'Olio appeared to be fighting with Anton du Beke in the middle of a routine -- it was another brilliant Strictly weekend -- but the most important thing to take away from this weekend is that Pasha is a bit awesome, bitches. He can move his feet superhumanly fast. Dude's a freak.

Here's a look at everything else from Week 4, starting with the exiting couple:

Rory Bremner and Erin Boag ~ Cha Cha Cha ~ 24:

Rory's early exit felt inevitable. Take a look back at previous Strictly recaps and you'll see I've always labelled him as an Also There, i.e., one of the people you'd struggle to remember if challenged to list every celebrity from this season. But it was never going to help having him perform to a song that forces irony. Rory and Erin did their cha cha cha to "Dance to the Music," which only drew attention to the fact Rory was not really dancing. To music, or otherwise. He was moving into a set place on stage, performing a sequence of steps, then moving to a new spot. The transitions weren't too far from having him simply walk from sequence to sequence.

Rory seemed genuinely sad at his exit and one couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him, but not so sorry that you particularly lament the fact Nancy Dell'Olio was clearly the one who should have left.

Nancy Dell'Olio and Anton du Beke ~ Pasodoble ~ 18:

Anton frantically pointing ay and screaming, "CAPE!" was a bit of Strictly gold. The outburst came in response to the question of whether Nancy was portraying a bull or a cape in the pasodoble story of the matador. There is something amusing about the Anton/Nancy dynamic; they are like a bickering version of Henry Crun and Minnie Bannister, being rolled down a hill in a large barrel. That's definitely one of my more obscure references, I realise. But trust me, they are like that.

They seem to do very little other than argue with each other. Even within the dance. At about 1:25 in this performance, Anton jerks his hand away from Nancy as if she were covered in poo. It's hard to gauge these things but he seems to be genuinely annoyed by her. Meanwhile, Nancy lurks around like a burned out señora in a Federico García Lorca play, a woman who was once the object of every man's desire now lost in the falsity of clothing and makeup, deluded by alcohol.

Russell Grant and Flavia Cacace ~ Tango ~ 24:

"You're already a Strictly legend," Alesha told Russell after his dance Saturday. Which is code for: "Judges' scores have become irrelevant in your case."

Queen Russell (or "Mama Rose," as Flavia calls him) is having the time of his life and I can't imagine the Strictly voters are going to put a stop to that any time soon. In terms of what we've come to love about Russell, this week's dance was lacking just a little bit of something, featuring a bit more actual technique than other dances, but it was still enjoyable. Russell again took on the persona of a big gay queen who looks up from his martini, waves away the the thong-clad cabana boys doing his nails, looks his naïve and overly idealistic niece in the eye and growls: "Honey, first thing we do is teach you how to tango."

Yes, I make up my own little narratives for the dances. Don't judge me.

Mama Rose has promised to bring back the campness (Did it ever leave?) for next week's Halloween-themed samba. Why can't it be next week right now?!

Lulu and Brendan Cole ~ Samba ~ 25:

Meh. It wasn't bad. Watching the dance, Jenn observed: "She seems to be adhering to my philosophy of the bigger the hair, the closer to God."

Lulu's enormous coif made her look like a Charlie Brown character. Unfortunately, that made her no more likeable. Both Lulu and Brendan seem eternally lost up their own backsides and I find them to be as genuine as a £15 "oak" dresser from IKEA.

Also, how shit of a dance is it when even the pro admits to wasting time? Len got on their case about the bit in which they run up the stairs and Brendan defended himself by saying: "We had 1 minute, 15 seconds of content. I think that's enough."

It would be if the dance were 1 minute, 15 seconds long, but they're not.

Audley Harrison and Natalie Lowe ~ Foxtrot ~ 25:

The first 20 or so seconds of this dance involved Natalie twirling about whilst Audley rose from a chair in a supposed-to-have-been-debonair way. My grandfather is in his mid-80s and also takes about that long to get himself out a chair, and with an equal amount of panache.

Once on his feet, Audley performed admirably. It just didn't click, however. I think Natalie needs to try an alternate route to success; these two are in need of a Kenny and Ola-style paso.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Rumba ~ 25:

Craig was right. It was sexless. I have spent years perving on Alex Jones, she had her boobs almost falling out of her top and was sporting a pair of slutty tights to make even the Cardiff girls on the pull blush, and still I found myself thinking: "This is all rather awkward."

Somehow, bafflingly, the combination of James, who usually gets his partners to behave like absolute whores during the rumba, and Alex, whom I would like to lock in a shed and keep for personal use, created a situation that was wholly not sexy. It's like taking the best chocolate in the world, combining it with the best raspberries in the world and discovering it tastes like garlic butter. What the hell?

I'm not even sure it would have helped had they listened to Jenn's advice of: "Touch yourself! You need to touch yourself, Alex! Why are you not touching yourself?"

On a side note, the fact my girlfriend shouts this at the television is one of the myriad reasons I love her.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Jive ~ 27:

According to the always-reliable Daily Mail (and conformed by the actually reliable Guardian), Robbie may have broken his nose doing a knee slide into the camera at the end of his dance. That ranks up there with some of the greatest Strictly injuries: Austin Healey dislocating a finger in the cha cha cha, and Jade Johnson tearing a ligament in the tango. Strictly will break you, bitches.

Whether Robbie did or did not damage his proboscis, it's a sign of how much he was putting into his performance Saturday. The fact he seems to be generally trying and strangely loving the ridiculousness of it all is changing my overall impression of the guy. I still don't really like him, but more and more I'm content to see him do well.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Pasodoble ~ 27:

Ah, the fall from grace. It happens in every good Strictly journey. This week the J-Train started out full throttle, wearing a Freddie Mercury-like matador coat and dancing to Queen, but rather quickly into the dance things went a bit stompy. You could see J-Train was trying to remember the steps. He might as well have done that "I'm remembering something" face of looking up and slightly sticking out the tongue. It wasn't a bad dance, and I think perhaps the judges marked him a bit harshly, but it wasn't what we had come to expect.

Also, how utterly mental was the video package before their dance? I want to see more of the J-Train simply running around supermarkets wearing a cape and a ridiculous moustache.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Viennese Waltz ~ 30:

Remember last week when I said I think the Viennese waltz is boring and can really only think of only one example of a good one? I said, also, I couldn't remember who had performed that one good Viennese waltz but randomly guessed it was Ali Bastian because she got a really high score for it. I was wrong. It was Kara Tointon's Viennese waltz, which was choreographed by Artem. And by the same token, I am pretty sure that Holly's Viennese waltz will be the only one I like this series.

Len didn't like the lamppost props set up on the stage but I think they served to show the audience movement in the dance. Holly and Artem ran a little slalom course through the lampposts and I thought it worked. Well, it worked as well as it was ever going to work. It was still a Viennese waltz.

Anita Dobson and Ronin Windsor ~ American Smooth ~ 32:

Anita Dobson, the likeable and portable stage actress! So easy to carry! And fits in most hand luggage! I realise Robin's a muscular guy but he made Anita look as if she only weighs about 12 pounds.
There's a kind of subtlety to the interaction of Anita and Robin. For a big camp fella who likes to train in man cleavage ripped T-shirts, Robin tends to tone down his performances. Watch the dance from Saturday again and pay attention to his facial features. It's rarely more than a wink or grin. That's admirable in a way, because you can see he's keen for all focus to be on the celebrity, to let Anita be the star. But I think at the same time it causes a kind of void. One forgets about Anita and Robin during the week.

"Each week I think, 'She's not going to be very good,'" Jenn said of Anita. "Then she comes out and I remember I love her."

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Slow Waltz ~ 35:

Jenn was very well-behaved this week, only kicking her legs into the air once in teenage glee at the sight of Harry. As such, I am not boycotting him and can confess it was a quality dance. I agree with Len, though, that the bit on the stairs was a waste of time. I disagree with Alesha that it was a 10. Harry still shows all the emotion of a saddlebag when he dances. That kiss on the cheek he gave Aliona looked the sort of thing you'd see in a Nativity play put on by 10 year olds.

"Oh. Mary. I love you."

"I love you. Too. Joseph. (smooch) Now we will go to Bethlehem. And I will have the baby Jesus."

"Oh. What a. Happy day."

The dance earns the distinction of getting the first 10 of the season. But then, that 10 was from Alesha, so it doesn't really count.

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Quickstep ~ 36:

This dance was really good. That I am able to admit such a thing despite my overwhelming dislike of Chelsee probably means it was, in fact, really, really good. I had expected it to pull the first 10 of the season. Chelsee seemed to have decided at some point during the week she actually wants to try and it showed. I think it helps, as well, the costuming department didn't again try to make what is, in fact, an average-looking girl look like a super-hottie. Her massive top end was battened down and her midriff covered, and it was a look that flattered her. Now if only they could secure something over her mouth to keep her from speaking.

Also, points to the both of them for being able to use the props with fluidity. Props are more often than not a bad idea in dances, especially when the prop has an integral role in the storytelling. The end bit, in which Pasha covertly unbuttons his jacket so Chelsee can pull it off his shoulders and reveal a "boarding pass," could have gone so very wrong.

Elsewhere:

Jenn and I came up with a new term this weekend: "faux-mance." That's the faux romance, or chemistry, the show would have you believe exists between each of the couples. The one between Russell and Flavia is awesome; the one between Lulu and Brendan is creepy and false.
I liked that Lulu and Brendan were so crap Len had a go at playing the trumpet rather than watch them dance.
I love this picture of Flavia and Mama Rose in their tango.
Tess' dress on the Sunday results show, yo. It seemed odd rather than sexy. Tess didn't seem to be selling the thing very well. It was as if someone had put her into it, she had walked out onto stage and then only realised upon seeing herself in the monitors it had been a bad choice. She then spent the results show attempting to cover up, folding her arms and often placing her script cards in front of her.

Predictions:

I was correct last week in guessing Nancy would be in the bottom two but wrong in claiming Audley would be there with her. But I'm going to make the same prediction this week and guess Nancy will be the one to go. I would like to think the cantankerous faux-mance between herself and Anton is wearing on the patience of other viewers as much it is mine.
Despite the setback, I'm still betting on the J-Train to be in the final. Joining him will be Harry Judd and Holly Valance

Eight things I loved about September

2011-10-25T15:39:00.001+01:00

~ 8 ~ Coming home: As much I loved being back in Minnesota at the end of August, I wasn't able to fully enjoy myself during that trip because the whole experience was absent one very important thing. Well, not thing, but person: Jenn. This is the downside to falling in love with someone, of course: being 5,000 miles away from them induces melancholy.
Since moving to Britain, visits home have consumed me with a kind of madness, a desperation to return to the United States and live a somewhat caricatured American life of pick-up trucks and country music and ice cream and baseball. And in past years, it has taken several months for said madness to wear off. This time 'round, however, it was starting to ebb even before I got on the plane back to her majesty's United Kingdom. Undoubtedly, a part of me wanted to stay, to be able to head over to friends' houses for barbecues and football games and beers and wandering conversations and to watch their kids grow up, to smell the Minnesota autumn, to eat big breakfasts, to drive endless roads. But even as I pined for all these things I knew I wouldn't be happy with them. Not without Jenn. I wanted to get back to her, back to waking up to her each morning, back to always kissing her goodnight and back to all our silly things.
At 8:30 a.m. on 1 September, after roughly 12 hours of flying from Minneapolis to Amsterdam, then Amsterdam to Cardiff, I again set foot on Welsh soil -- exhausted and happy. And Jenn was there at the airport waiting. Home, according to cliché, is where the heart is. My heart is stretched all over the place. Increasingly I think home is where people wait for you to return.
After being randomly stopped by a customs official and then making him regret it by insisting upon speaking Welsh to him, I stepped out into the arrivals area. Jenn jumped from her chair and skipped toward me, then wrapped her arms around me.
"You're home," she said, her eyes welling up. And she didn't let go of me the rest of the day. Not that I would have let her.

~ 8 ~ The return of 'Strictly Come Dancing': One of the silly things Jenn and I enjoy, and one I have enjoyed since before even meeting Jenn is, of course, the BBC programme "Strictly Come Dancing." If you have ever before read this blog, or watched the vlog, or spoken to me in person for more than three minutes you'll know I have a weird and possibly disturbing addiction to this light-entertainment festival of glitter, C-list celebrity and nonsense. I can't help myself. And I'm afraid it's not going to ebb away anytime soon. In Jenn I have found someone who will giggle and yell and laugh along with me. We sit with our bowl of popcorn and overfilled glasses of port, commenting away as if we understand anything of ballroom dance and as if we somehow know the celebrities. That is, after all, one of the best parts of Strictly: that strange feeling you could somehow invite all the people on the show over for dinner.
What the ancient Celtic peoples used to refer to as The Long Dark -- i.e., the short-dayed space of time stretching from roughly October to April -- is fast wrapping its miserable grip on the Soggy Nations, but I find the fun of Strictly is a way of staving the woe. Whilst the world outside is cold and blustery and wet, I can wrap myself in a duvet, fortify myself with wine and cheer at the sight of ridiculous people being ridiculous.

~ 8 ~ Back to the Ebbw: I wouldn't say I necessarily love the fact I am back teaching Welsh in the south Wales valleys; I wouldn't necessarily say I am even happy about it. What I feel is a strange melancholy pleasure -- that kind of sadness some weird part of you enjoys. I am not unhappy to be earning money, at least, and that comes with the three classes a week I teach up there. Additionally, I teach one class a week in Caerleon. If you are from anywhere outside of south Wales, these town names will likely be unfamiliar to you. In all honesty, I would suggest they stay that way; south Wales is a bit like the day after an automobile accident: there is nothing to see here. But, having said that, there is a certain beauty in the valleys. I can't decide whether the beauty is in potential or history -- what it was or what it could be. The people of the valleys, the ones who are not drunk, at least, are kind and extend of themselves in a way I sometimes find difficult to fathom. People in the valleys take the time to learn your name. When they ask a question they actually wait for you to give an answer:
"How are you today, Chris?"
"Oh, I'm fine."
"Yeah? How so?"
Some part of my emotional memory often connects Ebbw Vale with Moorhead, Minnesota, where I went to college for a handful of years. My emotions about that place were and still are rather mixed. It simultaneously represented for me opportunity and misused chances. I think if I were to find myself five years on, still trekking up the A470 several times a week to teach Welsh I might see it as a failure. For now, though, I am content. I feel welcome up there; I feel a sense of emotional safety. That feeling of: "I've got this. And from this I can build."

~ 8 ~ My new car: A key facet of my working in places dozens of miles from Penarth is my getting there, of course. I don't make a list of things I hate about each month but were I to do so, the day I got into a car wreck would be at the top of September's list. In an instant, I felt the bottom drop out. That thing I have to build on from Ebbw Vale is tiny and not really even large enough for me to properly support myself, let alone go around purchasing new automobiles. Sitting on a guardrail of the westbound M4 on 13 September, I felt that tiny thing had been lost.
A day or so later, however, I heard from someone who watches my vlog, who was selling two cars, both for around £500, which was all the money I had in my savings account. Cue a flurry of emails and texts leading to Jenn and I travelling to Monmouth and coming away from the experience as the proud new owners of a 1998 Honda Accord.

~ 8 ~ Dyffryn Gardens: Jenn was so taken with Dyffryn Gardens in the summer, when she, my parents and I went for a visit we found ourselves back in September and signing up for a season pass. Combined with my purchase of a Honda, this meant that September was a month in which I was made to feel like a responsible middle-class adult. This is the sort of things adults do, isn't it? Purchasing economical cars and visiting gardens. That we do not have a National Trust Membership is, I feel, perhaps a failing. But the thing is: I don't really mind being such an adult. The gardens are vast and beautiful and relatively quiet. There are a hell of a lot of people packed onto the Island of Rain and I find often that aspect of life here can affect me quite negatively. I feel a desperate need to escape. To actually do so is impossible, but I can, at least, find little moments of quiet in places like Dyffryn. Author J. Frank Dobie once wrote he felt as much a sense of freedom in a manicured British garden as he did on the open Texas plain. I can't say I agree with him, but the latter can, at least, help keep the mental monsters at bay.

~ 8 ~ The Wye Valley: Additionally helpful at keeping those terrible things of my mind from attacking is getting out into the British countryside. I don't know why it has taken me so long to develop an interest in the Offa's Dyke Path, the trail stretching Wales' length along its current and one-time borders with England. Originally built to keep those blasted Welsh where they belong it is now just a lovely place to go for a walk. I have visions of hiking the whole of the trail at some point -- possibly next summer, if I can organise myself properly -- but for the time being, I am enjoying various stretches running along the River Wye, between Chepstow and Monmouth. This is the British countryside they write books about. This is the sort of scenery that makes your heart skip. The fact so few Welsh are willing to "own" this part of their country depresses me, and may explain why it has taken me so long to properly explore the area. I am only beginning. My greatest complaint these days is that I am not often enough out enjoying the Wye Valley. I am especially looking forward to seeing it change as autumn takes its proper grip.

~ 8 ~ Doctor Who: Ah, he was a robot the whole time. In terms of conclusions for a story arc, the way this last series was about as weak as the classic, "Oh, it was all just a dream," ending. Which, of course, they have also done. But who cares? Watching Doctor Who for sci-fi accuracy is only the road to frustration. The reason we watch is for the quick, banter-style writing -- of which there was a fair amount in the second half of the series. I was happy to see it come back and slightly sad to see it go so quickly.

~ 8 ~ Danielle Ate The Sandwich: This isn't really a new thing. Sometimes the things you have loved for a long time spring back up and remind you why you are such a big fan. As is the case with Colorado-based singer-songwriter Danielle Ate The Sandwich. I've been a fan of hers for several years now; in 2009 I drove the width of the United States, from Boston, MA, to Tacoma, WA, just to be able to see her perform in a coffee shop.
In September I was reminded again of how much I like her voice and humour and style. Danielle Ate The Sandwich has built a career for herself using simply the tools available to anyone with access to a Macbook and the internet. She used to record herself for YouTube in her bedroom, now she's travelling the country. I admire the way she has built her own success, without a label, and remained so talented and likeable.

Strictly week 3: All aboard the J-Train

2011-10-21T14:42:00.001+01:00

Let's mark this past weekend down as the one in which I finally agreed with the judges about Jason Donovan. After the absolute brilliance of Russell and Flavia dancing to Barbara Streisand, I was pretty sure the third verse was going to be same as the first in terms of finding myself again starting a 'Strictly Come Dancing' recap with nothing but praise for Queen Russell. Where do you go from there? How do you possibly make it better? The J-Train had the answers, making a finger-wagging, tush-shaking stop in Campville. And the gauntlet was thrown down, bitches.

The J-Train is obviously here to win. And if winning means cranking the Big Gayometer to 11, you can bet your ass the Antipodean dance warrior is going to 11. That's not to say Queen Russell was anything other than amazing. Indeed, many of the couples seemed to step up their game this week. Whether it was Harry deciding to leave his shirt at home or Holly strutting about in little more than pantyhose and electrical tape, the celebrities were selling it.

And, for the most part, Jenn and I were buying. Here's a look at this past weekend, starting with the exiting couple.

Dan Lobb and Katya Virshilas ~ Viennese Waltz ~ 24:

The departure of, uhm, oh, you know, that one guy from that one thing... remember? He was kind of tallish, you know? Nice enough fella. He danced with that crazy girl -- the one who looks like a porn star. Remember? No? My point exactly. His departure was hardly a surprise. Though it is unfortunate because he seemed genuinely likeable and his dancing wasn't all that bad.

Nancy Dell'Olio and Anton Du Beke ~ Tango ~ 20:

Nancy puts the 'bat' in 'batshit crazy,' doesn't she? If the British tabloids are to believed (which, I doubt they are) she is a boozing, ego-maniacal, hot-tempered diva who hates her dance partner because he won't make a pass at her. Let's assume that's not totally true; but it's relatively easy to see how one could come to such conclusions. After conveniently not dancing through the first 30 seconds of her routine (which Anton later tried to sell as 'hard to do' on 'It Takes Two'), Nancy then stomped around the dance floor like Lainie Kazan's drunken id made flesh. Immediately after the performance, she went straight over to flirt with Brucie, not so much as even glancing in Anton's direction, nor waiting for him to join her in the walk over to listen to judges' comments. If she's not insane she is still unlikeable. I look forward to her departure.

Audley Harrison and Natalie Lowe ~ Quickstep ~ 20:

Being roughly 78 feet tall and weighing 52 tonnes, it was unlikely Audley was ever going to produce a stunning quickstep. What he managed here was the best anyone could hope for: successfully embracing the spirit of the routine. No, he wasn't dancing particularly well, but you could tell he really wanted to be dancing well. And that's sort of half the battle at this stage.

On a side note, I would like to thank the BBC costume department for locking Natalie out of her dressing room Saturday, thus leaving her with no option but to wear whatever came to hand, namely a handful of serviettes and some mosquito netting.

Lulu and Brendan Cole ~ Rumba ~ 26:

A number of people after the dance described this number as 'beautiful.' Is this one of those 'bad' means 'good' sort-of things, in which 'beautiful' actually means 'creepy and disturbing'? If so, then, yes, I totally agree: it was beautiful. I like Lulu about as much as I like stomach cramps.

Also, it's worth pointing out the lift. In last week's 'Choreography Corner' (sweet baby Jesus, did I just write that phrase without irony?) on 'It Takes Two,' Karen Hardy said that when Brendan gives up on his partner he simply picks her up into the air. And what happened this week? Illegal lift, yo. Brendan's given up on Lulu -- so, too, should the viewing public.

Anita Dobson and Robin Windsor ~ Jive ~ 27:

In that wig, Robin looked like Harry Connick Jr.'s stupid brother. The whole thing had the feel of a parade float having broken loose and careening down a hill toward a raging Sandinista gun battle. Aboard the float, the performers know they are going to die but decide to give one last performance, to jive their way to bullet-riddled glory. So, there's Anita: trying desperately not to fall over on the out-of-control float, bracing herself for the deathly sting of hot lead, frantically working toward the climax of the routine before coming into the crossfire. And looking so darn likeable doing it. I mean, gosh, how can you not want her to do well? So, go on Anita! Dance wildly to your doom!

Russell Grant and Flavia Cacace ~ Foxtrot ~ 28:
At just 10 seconds into this dance you knew it was going to be, if not technically the best dance, the most enjoyable performance of the week. Because 10 seconds into the routine Queen Russell flips a parasol over his shoulder and hits the audience with a glare that says: 'IT'S RUSSEL MUTHAHUGGING GRANT, BITCHES!'
Then, bedecked in an all-white suit like a gay version of Will Varner in The Long, Hot Summer, Queen Russell takes two steps, sweeps his foot seductively and again flashes the audience a look; this time the look says: 'You are loving it.'
You bet your sweet biscuits we were loving it, darling. I have since watched it again at least six times. Each time I feel joy. I particularly liked this dance because there is a bit more partnership between Flavia and Russell. Yes, he's stealing the show but seems to be drawing her into the routine, saying: "Come on, honey. Let's ride this ridiculous wave together."

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Cha Cha Cha ~ 30:
I liked the music. Everything else, however.... Meh. Tits McGee is still, to me, just a chavy hot mess whom I dislike a little bit more each time I see her. What's with her crazy pound-shop-bought Beyonce wig and Hamburglar face? Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Jenn, on the other hand, is less cruel and insists it was an OK dance. Though, she couldn't help notice that in the shoes worn Saturday, Chelsee looked to have horse feet.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Tango ~ 30:
Robbie's growing on me. A bit. I still don't like him but I would, at least, discourage people from throwing things at him. The thing with the chair made no sense, in which he picked up a chair, did a little turn, thrust it away from him, did another little turn and defiantly set the chair back where it had been in the first place.
"You want chair? Robbie give chair! You no want chair? Fine! Robbie take back chair! You no get chair! Now Robbie dance with pretty Polish girl! Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!"

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Tango ~ 30:
As mentioned above, Holly chose to go all Blue Peter this week and make her dress out of pantyhose and electrician's tape. I can't decide whether it was as sexy as I'm pretty sure the costuming department expected it to be, but I'm not complaining. However, the routine was flawed from the beginning by the song choice: 'Cell Block Tango' from the musical Chicago.
At the start of the song, the singer says the name 'Lipschitz' several times, leaving a viewer to wonder whether saying, 'lip shits,' over and over really is acceptable pre-watershed material. As a result, I was distracted through the beginning. Then there's Holly missing a step and getting her heel caught in her dress. Good recovery and all but...
I guess what I'm trying to say is I feel a little disappointed in the fact I'm not perving on Holly as much I think I should. I don't really find I want to do naughty naughty things in a shed with Holly Valance and for this I am placing the blame squarely on her shoulders.

Rory Bremner and Erin Boag ~ Quickstep ~ 31:
Every. Single. Damn. Time someone does a quickstep, the judges namecheck Fred Astaire. Rory looked nothing like Fred Astaire. He did, however, look alright. It was easily his best performance so far. But still there wasn't a great deal to pull you in, to make someone want to vote for him. It felt like a very good drawing on a styrofoam cup.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Viennese Waltz ~ 32

The fact James was dressed a bit like the Joker confused me slightly, but once I got over that I found it to be a pretty good dance. I've watched six seasons of Strictly and I can only think of one Viennese waltz I actually enjoyed watching, and at the moment I can't remember who performed it. Ali Bastian, I think. Point is: it's not the most exciting of dances. This coupled with the fact that, at times, Alex was making a face like a trophy wife trapped in a loveless marriage who, when called upon to suffer wifely duties, lies back and thinks of Cymru. I can't decide whether I think Alex will blossom into an amazing dancer, or simply follow the lead of her national rugby team and be good, but not good enough.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Jive ~ 33:
I am boycotting Harry Judd this week due to the rapturous teenage squeals his shirtless performance induced in my girlfriend. Jenn was kicking her legs in the air and giggling with lusty delight, so, of course, I hate him now. And his abs.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Tango ~ 36:
Would you like a little awesome sauce with your awesome sandwich? Why not? It's complimentary on the J-Train buffet car. I still think the J-Train makes silly, Ricky-Groves-esque faces but there's no denying he's set himself out as the one to beat in this series. I particularly liked the way he looked as if he was shouting right before launching into little sequences. He would grab Kristina into hold, they would snap their bodies taut and then launch forward with him mouthing: "Hooah!"
I love that kind of thing. I frequently (far too frequently) daydream of being on Strictly and have long promised myself I would shout all the way through my tango and paso doble. Thank you, J-Train, for living that dream for me.

Elsewhere:

Ol' SuBo is a big ol' bag full o' crazy, ain't she? She was this week's musical guest, not necessarily performing at her best and looking she was going to stab somebody.
I often re-watch the dances on Ye Olde Tube of You, thanks to the dedication of user MrAtariST. He/she uploads each dance individually, making it easy to watch just the performances you want. I think it's interesting to look at the page views for each dance. You'll notice Holly Valance's performance was viewed more than 50,000 times (as of Friday, 21 October 2011) and the J-Train's performance more than 20,000 times (again, as of Friday, 21 October 2011), whereas Audley's dance has only been viewed about 1,500 times. I wonder if the YouTube views are an insight to how the people will vote next week.
Watching Nancy on 'It Takes Two' this week I have decided I very much dislike her. She's creepy.
I liked the Footloose performance but, uhm, what's the point of remaking Footloose? It feels like sacrilege. How dare you try to take from Kevin Bacon's limelight?

Predictions:

I'm predicting Audley Harrison and Nancy Dell'Olio in the bottom two again this week, with Audley most likely making his exit.
I remain relatively certain the J-Train will be in the final. I am loving Queen Russell but I have an oh-so-slight doubt his appeal will last all the way to Christmas. I mean, how many iconic gay songs can he dance to? OK, enough to last until Christmas, perhaps, but against so many good dancers I'm not sure. So, I'll choose Holly Valance and Harry Judd to be in the final with J-Train.

Strictly Week 2: God save the dancing queen

2011-10-11T14:45:00.000+01:00

I hate to start out exactly as I did last week, but, honestly: Russell Grant, bitches. If you don't like Russell Grant, there is something very wrong with you. No, really; you are suppressing some kind of deep psychological trauma and if you don't seek help soon you may be a danger to yourself or others. I cannot imagine what kind of sick, twisted, miserable state of mind a person would need to be in to sit and watch Russell mincing about the dance floor and not feel at least a modicum of joy. If you are such a person, I pray for you.

On a side note, if you ever happen to find yourself in the great state of Minnesota when the mighty 3 Minute Hero are performing, I suggest you go. You'll find my friend, Jeff, lead singer of the band, employs a number of similar moves on stage. He is like the sleazy, heterosexual version of Russell Grant.

Back in His Majesty's United Dancing Kingdom, all was made right this week with the exit of Edwina "Did I mention I shagged John Major" Currie. I found her to be disturbing in all sorts of ways, not least being the fact she looked a bit like Rob Brydon in drag.

Starting with the exiting couple first, here's a look at the second weekend of "Strictly Come Dancing:"

Edwina Currie and Vincent Simone ~ Foxtrot ~ 19
At this stage in the competition, a routine is just 1 minute 45 seconds long. Edwina and Vincent ate up the first 30 seconds by sitting or stylishly placing themselves near a table. Some 15 more seconds were then eaten up by their swaying back and forth behind the table, thus hiding any shoddy footwork. Once they finally got moving there wasn't much to keep you from wishing they would sit back down. The dance was emblematic of the whole Edwina/Vincent dynamic, which is that they were kind of creepy in a child-predator sort-of way. I am sure great rafts of curry puns had to be thrown out by Brucie's writers, but it's for the best.

Nancy Dell'Olio and Anton du Beke ~ Salsa ~ 14
Anton and latin dance have never gone well together. They are like lemon cake icing and a chicken enchilada; it's never going to work. With a fair amount of tweaking it may be possible to make the pair tolerable but no one, ever, is going to sit back after the experience and say: "You know, I really, really enjoyed that."
So, even if Nancy could dance, this would not have been one of the couple's best routines. And, of course, Nancy cannot dance. On Saturday she appeared to be stumbling down a very steep hill, with Anton unsure as to whether he wanted to help out.
Using an algorithm based on social media and online searches, the Guardian predicted earlier this week Nancy would be dropped. She wasn't, which, I have to admit, doesn't yet upset me. I strangely like the bickering dynamic between her and Anton. They are like a post-modern buddy film: the Turner and Hooch of the dancing world.

Dan Lobb and Katya Virshilas ~ Salsa ~ 21
Dan's growing on me. I liked his seemingly impromptu slapping of Katya's ass late in their dance. It seemed as if he had forgotten what he was supposed to do and just thought: "Go for the bum."
You would, wouldn't you? I would. Katya strikes me as 32 flavours of crazy but, still, you would. In terms of actual dancing, however, the two remain non grata as far as I'm concerned. I don't imagine Dan as ever being anything more than one of those people who fill out the show.

Rory Bremner and Erin Boag ~ Salsa ~ 22
In his comments after the dance, Len said: "This is not a natural dance for an Englishman... it's not what we do, is it?"
I'm sure there are a few million people who would like to point out Rory is Scottish-born and -raised. Not that it has any effect on one's capacity to perform the salsa. His promise last week to channel Sean Connery for this dance was a clear sign it was never going to go well. Sean Connery and salsa dancing? No, Rory. No. And even the costume department knew he was doomed, kitting him in what I have deemed to be the Loser's Shirt.
It's well known amongst Strictly freaks the costume department will often re-use outfits from one year to another. The budget of Her Majesty's British Broadcasting Corporation demands as much. Tweaks are made here and there according to a celebrity's particular frame and the nature of the dance, so often the recycled clothing isn't obvious. The shirt Rory was wearing, however, has been worn at least twice in other people's salsa performances -- those performances being so forgettable I cannot now remember who wore it. It is the shirt of salsa mediocrity and it was right to be worn by Rory.
Erin's body, meanwhile. Hello.

Audley Harrison and Natalie Lowe ~ Salsa ~ 23

I'm not sure why Audley was dressed in the uniform of a Star Trek security officer, but I suppose it fit. You could imagine him wielding the bat'leth with a special kind of ferocity. Meanwhile, the aerobic workout routine Natalie and he performed was acceptable. It was far more zumba than salsa, but fun to watch. I was upset to see him in the bottom two; he strikes me as being pretty likeable. But perhaps he has no real support base. The average Strictly fan is unlikely to be wildly fond of boxing and the average boxing fan unlikely to be wildly fond of Strictly. Additionally, according to my friend, Simon, Audley's not that well-respected in boxing circles, though I'm not sure why.

Lulu and Brendan Cole ~ Foxtrot ~ 25
What was that whole thing with the mirror? It was a strange attempt to add artistic flair to a dance that wasn't good enough to merit artistic flair. The whole routine had the feel of a son dancing with his slightly intoxicated mother on the day they both discovered he is dying of AIDS.

RussellGrant and Flavia Cacace ~ Salsa ~ 25

Amongstthe myriad things I love about Team Flaviant is the joy both sidesseem to be having as a result of the experience. Flavia is actuallysmiling. Not that crazy, "Someone's gonna die" smile sheusually has, but the smile of a person for whom there is some kind ofactual emotion behind the act. To use a second StarTrekanalogy, this is like when Data got an emotion chip. You feel a kindof happiness for her as she discovers what it's like to be a realgirl and not simply an incredible set of abs.

Russell, meanwhile, is rightly making the very most of every moment. In their dance Saturday, there was a part when he grabs Flavia by the shoulders and the two just sort of spin around madly in the centre of the dance floor. In slow motion the next day, we saw Russell was effectively in the throes of ecstasy during that spin. Good on him.

Harry Judd and Aliona Vilani ~ Foxtrot ~ 27
Under-marked. Again. Jenn is so in love with Harry she went all wobbly watching his dance. I can't say my reaction was exactly the same, but I agree he danced really well. There is a certain teenage mopeyness to his face and frame when he dances that could be ironed out but he easily out-danced a number of the people who finished above him on the leader board. Also, who's idea was it to dress him like a gay James T. West?

Anita Dobson and Robin Windsor ~ Salsa ~ 28
A score of 28 is a little high, but perhaps the judges were concerned about the repercussions of giving Anita low marks. Can you imagine how devastating it would be to see her little face turn to a frown? You might as well stomp a puppy to death on live television. There is something imminently likeable about Anita. Similar to Russell Grant, she seems to be savouring every blessed moment of this experience that has plucked her from the celebrity obscurity of being someone who's name is usually followed with, "And who is that again? Oh, really? She's still alive?" to being someone for whom a room full of people hoot and cheer. And you can't begrudge her for enjoying it. The only questions I have are:
1) When are they going to dance to a song by Queen?
2) When is she going to start actually dancing?

Chelsee Healey and Pasha Kovalev ~ Salsa ~ 29
Mr. Tumnus with an enormous rack: that is what Chelsee looked like on Saturday. Those car-wash-brush trousers were a bad idea, as was exposing her less-than-chiseled belly. In fairness to the vapid, unintelligible, love child of the Hamburglar, Chelsee is not fat, she is simply someone who should not have an exposed midriff on national television. It made her look like a genie who'd been left in the bottle too long.
I dislike Chelsee in almost every way, but I have to admit that after starting out like a hot mess near the judge's table, she managed a pretty good -- if not actually pretty -- salsa. I am not sure, though, this is enough to overcome how utterly unlikeable she is. Rubble-rubble, Chelsee.

Robbie Savage and Ola Jordan ~ Foxtrot ~ 29

I don't really like Robbie Savage, so I'll go back to talking about Russell Grant. Another point in the dancing queen's favour is the fact he so totally enjoys the show and is supportive of everyone else. Case in point was his diverting away from the fawning praise and standing ovation he had just received Saturday to say: "You know, can I just say, I am more thrilled about my friend, Robbie, getting such fantastic marks."

And, indeed, he did. Robbie is annoying and looks like an Elvish warrior who's moved to Vegas and is now doing three shows daily at the Luxor, but he is, frustratingly, not a bad dancer. I am struggling to come to terms with this. Additionally, I am torn over the fact he seems somewhat genuine in his nervousness and attempts to do well. It's like the American Civil War is being fought inside me, y'all. In that conflict, as in this one, a man named Grant played a decisive role. And I fear my hatred for Robbie is on the Confederate side.

Alex Jones and James Jordan ~ Foxtrot ~ 29
Admittedly, I was a little disappointed this dance did not allow for James to use his superpower of getting women to behave like harlots, but this was, for me, one of the best dances of the night. It was under-marked. Alex looked very much the part and even made me wish, just for a moment, I was John Prescott, which is something I never have before wished and never will again. There are minor improvements to be made here and there but I am so looking forward to seeing her carry on I can't even think of anything particularly snarky or perverted to say.
Boobs.

There. The balance is restored.

Holly Valance and Artem Chigvinstev ~ Salsa ~ 30
On "It Takes Two" Monday Craig Revel Horwood expressed concern that Holly may be just a little too confident. I think this is a diplomatic way of suggesting he thinks Holly feels she is too cool to be on the show. It's hard to tell. I think Holly is like Artem's partner from last year, Kara, in that she probably won't decide internally until about Week 6 whether she genuinely wants to be on the show. If/when she does decide to put her heart into it, I think she will improve dramatically.
Thus far, however, Holly's yet to produce the stunning dance of which one suspects she is almost certainly capable. And what I mean by that, of course, is this: Holly has not yet worked me into a fit of lust. I mean, Holly should be dancing in such a way that I wonder whether I should be watching her alone, with the door locked. I'm not getting that from her, though. Which is kind of disappointing. Obviously, there is work to be done.

Jason Donovan and Kristina Rihanoff ~ Foxtrot ~ 33
The J-Train rolls on. But here's the thing: he was sitting down for the first 23 seconds of the song. Where were you on that, Len Goodman? Len famously hates "faffing about" at the beginning of a dance but said nothing in this case. Once again, Jenn and I couldn't help muttering the word "fix" as the scores came in. Yes, the music was good and Kristina looked like sex in a full-body unitard and Jason got all the steps right but I would not say his footwork was all that much better than Harry Judd's or Alex Jones'. As with last week, I've found myself having to watch the dance again in attempt to see what the judges were so crazy about. I'm not seeing it. As a matter of fact, on second viewing I'm spotting a cavalcade of goofy facial expressions. I don't think he should have scored higher than Alex Jones and I don't feel he was a full six points better than Harry Judd.

Predictions
This week has done nothing to shake my belief that the J-Train is going all the way to the finals. I am uncertain, though, about the three others who will be there with him. At the moment, I'm going to stick with my prediction of those other two being Holly Valance and Harry Judd. Though, I think Alex Jones has a strong chance.

Elsewhere:

On "It Takes Two," discussing last week's dance disaster, Zoe Ball asked Anton: "When did you realise it was all going a little bit wrong?" - "Thursday before," quipped Anton.
Randomly, I miss Lilia Kopylova.
Lulu and Anton are set to dance the rumba this week. Make the bad man stop.
Will Young's musical performance seemed a bit odd to me. Jenn would not agree. She refers to him as "Willy Yum-Yum" and confessed to me she has seen him twice in concert.

Especially at this time of year

2011-10-08T13:34:00.003+01:00

Oh, Minnesota. Sometimes I miss you so much I feel my heart is going to stop.

Strictly Week 1: The Rise of Donovan

2011-10-04T17:06:00.000+01:00

Russell Grant, bitches. Russell muthahugging Grant. There are some who fear he will be the Ann Widdecombe of this series but I think those people are overlooking some minor differences:

1) He's never suggested handcuffing pregnant women to their beds.

2) He's actually trying.

3) He's awesome.

Along with some surprisingly OK dancing for so early in the competition, Russell was perhaps the highlight of this past Strictly weekend. But, of course, what's Strictly without a bit of intrigue, so I'll just throw this out there: is Jason Donovan a fix?

I've vowed to keep the Strictly updates considerably shorter this year, so, bant â ni straight into the individual performances, starting with the lowest-scoring couples.

Nancy & Anton / Waltz / 12:

What is the dealio with Nancy Dell'Olio? Apparently she sees herself as a sexual predator. Fortunately, she can be easily stopped if you simply throw a feather boa at her. That bit of costume was her undoing; one can see why Anton chose to have her just sit on a chaise lounge through much of the dance. According to a tweet from Russell Grant, Nancy was supposed to have left her feathered nemesis on the couch, which suggests perhaps that even without the boa the dance would have been awful because Nancy is crap at taking direction. How did "Leave the feather boa behind" get translated to "Carry that thing with you to the death"?

She's like that old salt in the eyes sketch from Kids in the Hall.

Edwina & Vincent / Cha Cha Cha / 17:

I find it difficult to criticise too heavily the people who seem to be having genuine fun on Strictly. I imagine that if one had been able to tap into Edwina Currie's thought process during her Cha Cha Cha, it would have been something along the lines of: "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Bless her for trying. And seemingly losing herself in the moment; rolling around on the floor at the end of the dance and flashing her knickers before an audience of millions. Why aren't American conservatives this fun? In terms of actual dancing, however, I'm not entirely sure Vincent is up to the challenge of choreographing for someone who isn't Flavia (his professional partner) or, at least, quite Flavia-esque. The dance was too jokey.

My favourite comment on Edwina comes from the Guardian's live blog: "Edwina's dress is a bedraggled-looking red affair, with a rhinestone choker that looks like she's being throttled by Michael Jackson."

Lulu & Brendan / Cha Cha Cha / 17:

You know it's bad when Brendan concedes defeat. All too often he insists upon defending his celebrity from the "harshness" of Craig's camp villainy. In this case, however, after manically flouncing about the stage with Lulu for a bit -- at one point actually turning to her and raising his shoulders, as if to ask: "What the hell are you doing?" -- he was happy to just stand there and admit that, yes, Lulu had chosen to make up her own steps in the moment. She looked like an inebriated mother of the bride, trying to relive her youth on the wedding party dance floor.

Robbie & Ola / Cha Cha Cha / 19:

Len is right: of all the footballers to perform in the whole of Strictly, Robbie Savage shows the most potential. That isn't really saying much, though, and there was far too much standing rigidly still in his Cha Cha Cha to make an assessment of what he may or may not be able to do. From what little dancing there was, however, I am pained to admit it was not as awful as I might have hoped. I really hate football banter on Strictly and I thoroughly dislike Robbie's taking so much pride in having been a dirty player during his footballing career. It's OK for Ric Flair to be the "dirtiest player in the game" because he is a professional wrestling heel. For an actual sportsman to carry that mantle is embarrassing. I dislike him on principal.

Audley & Natalie / Waltz / 20:

Did they really only have three days to put that dance together? In the "Here's a look at them in training" video package, Natalie said she and Audley Harrison had just three days to work on their dance due to, uhm, some sort of reason that wasn't properly explained. It had something to do with the fact Audley lives in the United States, though, last I checked, airlines are still operating flights between the U.S. and the UK, so I'm not sure why that mattered. From her physique, Natalie looks she could have swam to America, so a part of me feels pity for Audley and the workout that must have been waiting upon his arrival in the UK. But boxers are used to intense training and it seems to have paid off somewhat. He was far more graceful and comfortable on the dance floor than Joe Calzaghe ever was (the only other boxer I can remember being on Strictly). The fact he has hands the size of Shetland ponies was always going to hurt him, though -- especially considering Craig's armography fetish. Indeed, the very first word from Craig after the dance was, simply: "HANDS!"

I fear any attempts at Latin dance. I worry they'll have the feel of the "Puttin' on the Ritz" scene in Young Frankenstein.

Russell & Flavia / Cha Cha Cha / 21:

Russell Grant, you magnificent queen, I like you far more than I thought I would. He and Flavia seem to be on the path of embracing his campness and running with it, something I think could work out brilliantly if done right. In this dance, both Russell and Flavia just sort of did their own thing. They need to interact more, with Russell being playfully naughty about Flavia's quite admirable physique. Of course, Russell will need to be able to breathe in order to do such a thing. At the moment, his getting through the whole routine without needing to stop for oxygen seems to be the primary goal.

He'll get time to work on fitness level, though. He's very clearly popular with the audience; that alone will likely carry him to at least week four. If he and Flavia master the camp-burlesque dynamic, and he manages to do the basic steps (as he was this weekend), I would expect him to carry on to the Blackpool show.

Alex & James / Cha Cha Cha / 22:

As I mentioned last week, I have a long history of perving on Alex Jones. But in all that time I had never noticed she has boobs. I mean, it's not that the things weren't there, but they didn't really stand out. On Saturday, however, suddenly, they were there: boobs. Bronnau, as they are known in Alex's native tongue. The Guardian live blog described her as looking like "a broken chandelier." A broken chandelier with lovely boobs.

In terms of her actual dancing, however, it was less than exciting. James, who is my favourite professional dancer for just this reason, managed to get her to work in a few raunchy moves but Alex hasn't yet developed the ability to make you think: "Oh, crikey. They're going to abandon this dance at any moment and just go straight to having sex."

That's the sort of thing I want from Alex Jones: naughty, naughty, naughty broken chandelier and boobs.

Dan & Katya / Waltz / 24:

Before writing about Dan Lobb's waltz I considered watching it again on YouTube, because in my memory I have it confused with Rory Bremner's waltz. I decided against doing that because obviously it was so wholly unmemorable it's not worth watching again. Every Strictly must have its dancers that are there to simply fill out the roster. Dan, it seems, is one of those people.

Chelsee & Pasha / Waltz / 27:

Top-heavy Chelsee Healey annoys me just a little more with each passing moment. Unlike Alex Jones, I noticed Chelsee's boobs because she has no other redeeming qualities. After her dance, as Chelsee and Pasha were making their way to Tess' area, Tess said: "Here she comes, a favourite, running up the stairs."

I think that statement would be more accurate sans one of the commas. That is: a favourite running up the stairs. Men watching the show will almost certainly put her in their top five favourite people to watch running up stairs. But as I said, last week, it's just not enough for me. There is too much wrong with Chelsee to be compensated for by the presence of ginormous breasts.

Her accent, for example. Listening to her speak is like pouring petrol into your ear. In the whole of her video package I only understood a handful of words: "Wahmah mah wah nah gah baby wah nah fah mah wah out wi' me mates wah mah wah nah gah mum."

Frustratingly then, despite looking "like a poodle wearing a pink trumpet made of icing" as the Guardian live blog described her, Chelsee was not an awful dancer. She was, it pains me to admit, OK. Perhaps her utter lack of attractiveness, personality and basic verbal skills allow just enough room in her brain to retain dance moves. An awful, deviant, perverted part of me is eager to see her perform Latin.

Rory & Erin / Waltz / 27:

See the above, re: Dan & Katya. Replace "Dan Lobb" with "Rory Bremner."

Harry & Aliona / Cha Cha Cha / 28:

Under marked, yo. Aliona has scored again with a good partner whom Jenn has a girly-type crush on. All through Harry Judd's Cha Cha Cha, Jenn was squealing and giggling, which probably would have knocked my confidence just a little had I not already consumed so much port and the fact Aliona was distracting me by wearing as a top something that basically looked like a glittery sock. Raised amidst the crumbling Soviet Union she almost certainly understands the importance of thrift and seems to carry this philosophy to her costumes, where she wears in a season the same amount of fabric Ann Widdecombe wore in a night. Bless her.

Also it's OK for Jenn to perv on Harry because I may have a wee man crush on him, as well. He wore a Minnesota Twins T-shirt in one of McFly's videos, after all; regional love carries a long way.

Their dance was on par, if not superior, to Jason Donovan's and was probably under marked because they were first to perform on the night. As I mentioned in a recent vlog, I am so confident of Harry's success I'm considering putting money on it.

Anita & Robin / Waltz / 28:

If watching Anita Dobson's waltz didn't make you just a little bit teary-eyed, you have no soul. Robin the big gay monkey seems to have a knack for putting together emotionally stirring waltzes, having done similar with crazy Patsy Kensit last year. I had no idea who Anita was before this. She played the former bitchy wife of an "East Enders" character who was killed off, brought back to life and killed again all before I moved to this country, which means my attitude toward her was tabula rasa. Based on the video package, she seems a nice person who is genuinely excited to be on Strictly, so she has gone from "Person I'm not paying any attention to" to "Person I kind of like." That said, I do not look forward to seeing her perform Latin.

Holly & Artem / Cha Cha Cha / 28:

Having performed first on the Friday show, Holly Valance's Cha Cha Cha may have slipped your memory by now. Wearing what the Guardian live blog described as "a dress made from four Quality Street wrappers, a fistful of chocolate coins and a few scraps of tinsel" Holly performed admirably amidst the crazy spinny handsy madness of Artem's movement. In high-energy stuff Artem doesn't seem capable of toning things down a little, so, by comparison, Holly looked just slightly as if she had just been roused from a slumber. There's likelihood of improvement, though, if Holly decides she actually wants to be taking part -- which I'm not sure she has yet done.

Jason & Kristina / Cha Cha Cha / 32:

OK, I've gone back and watched Jason Donovan's Cha Cha Cha and, yes, it was good. In the moment, however, I agreed with Jenn, who said he looked like a pervy dad who's getting to dance with a drunken 18-year-old girl and still can't believe his luck. Fair enough; dancing with Kristina might elicit the same response from me. As I say, though, I don't think J-Train's dance was all that much better than Harry Judd's. Certainly not so wonderful it deserved such glowing praise from Craig. The wonderfully camp villain of Strictly suddenly got all regional, referencing the fact both he and Donovan are Australian and then shouting: "Bonzer, mate!"

What? He's never done that with Natalie; he didn't do that with Holly Valance (both of whom are also from Australia). His own Australian accent has been allowed to disappear in favour of a more British one. Where the hell did this Australian patriotism come from?

When you work regionalism into the mix it affects your opinion of a person (see above, re: my opinion of Harry Judd). Perhaps that's the reason Craig dropped an 8 on the J-Train but what's the explanation for the other judges? I feel the J-Train was just so slightly over marked because the judges like him. He's been a frequent guest of "It Takes Two" over the years and I think, perhaps, he's got a slightly different status amongst the judges than the other contestants. They like him and want him to do well and, I think, perhaps, they are allowing that to cause them to score him a bit less harshly.

Not that it matters, of course. The massive ovation given to the J-Train even before he shook his moneymaker is sign he will have plenty of fan support along his Strictly journey. Indeed, unless Harry Judd and Aliona find true love in one another's arms (thus echoing the endearing romance last year between Artem and Kara Tointon) the safe money at the moment is probably on J-Train to walk home with the coveted glitter-ball trophy. And, I suppose that's fine. For some reason I can't really figure out, I like the J-Train. Perhaps one of the reasons I like him stems from the reason behind my nickname for him:

Last week, my friend, Elisa, drew my attention to the group dance from the launch show. At about 2:10 into this video, Jason Donovan throws Nancy Dell'Ollio out of his way like Thor dispensing a frost giant. Nancy learned the hard way: you don't stand on the tracks when the J-Train's coming.

Elsewhere:

I can't think of too many other things that stood out for me this week. It was good to see Tess Daly again with her crazy hit-or-miss fashion sense. And it occurs to me that somewhere in his great big bag of cliché and pun, Bruno almost certainly has a "Prince Harry" reference ready should Harry Judd perform well in waltz or foxtrot.

Predictions:

Expect to see Harry Judd and the J-Train in the final, possibly accompanied by Holly Valance.

Time to get your Strictly on

2011-09-28T16:27:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again: another season of "Strictly Come Dancing" is set to begin. Longtime followers of this blog may also know this period as "the only time Chris ever writes anything on his blog anymore." I have designs on breathing a bit more life into this old web space but, yes, I admit: over the past few years this site has fallen rather silent during those terrible spaces of time in which British television screens are sans Bruce Forsyth. I would apologise but obviously I'm not all that sorry because I keep doing it.

So, from now until Christmas -- usually on Wednesdays but I can't really promise anything because procrastination seems to be the only thing I'm good at these days -- I'll be posting a recap of each Strictly weekend. Admittedly, these recaps will be read only by Ashleigh, Helen and, perhaps, my mother. Moms are like that: they support you in everything. My mother used to watch my vlog when it was Welsh-language.

The vlog is English-based now, however, so for those who complain that the Strictly recaps are just a load of unreadable wasted internet space you can head over there for a load of unwatchable wasted internet space, much of which will probably still be Strictly-related.

Because, as I explain every year, I have a madness for "Strictly Come Dancing." I don't fully understand it but I tend to not worry too much since I could be fascinated with far less acceptable things. Heroin, for example. Or alcohol abuse. If Amy Winehouse had been addicted to "Strictly Come Dancing" she'd still be here and probably producing a super-amazing concept album in which each track is in a musical style fitting the dances performed on the show.

Strictly possesses some element of "home" for me. It gives me the sense that somewhere in the world things are OK. I am a deeply cynical person, wracked with persistent feelings I am going to be killed in some terrible way and then shortly forgotten. There is a hell going on inside my head. When I watch Strictly, though, that hell disappears. I am just happy. Stupidly happy. Balls to you should you begrudge me that.

I love it all. It is so incredibly silly, and unapologetically so. I love the music, I love the dancing, I love Bruce and Tess, I am sad about the absence of Claudia Winkleman but willing to give Zoe Ball a try, I love the ridiculous outfits, I love women in skimpy clothing, I love Len and Bruno and Craig and Alesha, I love my traditions of watching the show with a bowl of popcorn and a huge glass of port, I love the emotional warmth of the show contrasted with the increasingly colder weather, and, yes, I even love the "emotional journey" taken by each of the celebrities.

The spangled circus of B-celebrity starts up again this Friday. I can hardly wait. So, with that in mind, here's a look at who will be competing in the show's ninth series:

Apparently Rory Bremner does comedy impressions. I did not know who Rory was because I hate impressionists. Many moons ago, I used to fly into Las Vegas quite frequently and find myself tormented by the visage Danny Gans, a now deceased entertainer who incorporated an impression of George Burns into his act. George Burns, for the love of Pete. He might as well have worked in a Will Rogers impression.

But, see, that's the thing about impressionists: they'll hold on to a character long after he or she is relevant because the impressionist has little to no creative talent of his own. My guess is that Rory Bremner doesn't do any George Burns impressions, which is a mark in his favour, but the fact he does an impression of Brucie makes me squirm in discomfort.

Rory is dancing with Celine Dion look-alike Erin Boag. In terms of partners poor Erin's been in a slump since her run with Austin Healey. I am pessimistic about her chances this year but perhaps an individual's ability to mimic a celebrity could translate to an ability to follow direction.

~
Apparently, Edwina Currie had sex with former prime minister John Major. Why anyone would want to admit to such a thing, I cannot guess. But Edwina does, with relish. In the quick little bio of her in the launch show she made sure to touch on that. Knowing nothing of her beyond the Strictly realm I can't say whether she is like this always, but she seems now keen to have you believe she is a saucy little minx. Who also happened to serve as a Conservative member of parliament. It's as if she is Ann Widdecombe's id.

Perhaps all female Conservative MPs are, in fact, the same woman: derivatives of Margret Thatcher created in some terrible and botched 1970s chemistry experiment.

On a side note, I can't help think Edwina looks a bit like John Major in drag.

The opportunities for incredibly awkward sexuality are abound with Edwina because she will be dancing with pocket-sized lothario Vincent Simone. I'd say their chances of lasting five weeks, however, are less than good.

~
Similar to Edwina, Nancy Dell'Olio's claim to fame seems to be that she had sex with a man more famous than her. In this case, the man was former England football manager Sven-Gorran Eriksson. But unlike Edwina, Nancy doesn't appear to have done anything else. Ever. That includes learning English. She just sort of mutters out a fit of semi-coherent words strung together in an order one might expect from throwing fridge magnet poetry into the air.

I think we're supposed to think of her as sultry. I find this difficult to do, however, considering that in close-up shots she has the skin of a man. I am perfectly willing to accept a 50-year-old woman can be sexy, but not when she has man skin. It's just not my thing. Unintelligible growling is also a turn-off, so Nancy's 0-2 in my book. And contrary to what her erstwhile bed partner might have you believe, that's not a record to be proud of.

(Ha! See what I did there? I made a joke about how crap England were under Eriksson. Blimey, I'm clever!)

Nancy is dancing with the beleaguered clown prince of Strictly, Anton du Beke. I'm trying to remember now whether Anton has ever been allocated a good dance partner. No, I don't believe he has. One thing I have learned because of this fact is that when Anton is annoyed he laughs really loudly, attempting to show he is not annoyed at all. Expect, then, for Anton's microphone to occasionally pop as he lets out ear-shattering guffaws when dancing with Nancy.

~
Is it fair for Jason Donovan to be in Strictly? He says he can't dance but has spent several years performing in West End musicals. To that end, you'd expect him to be a favourite to win. He seems to be aware of this and is already showing more feeling of strain than any of the other contestants. I fear our Jason wants too much to do well, which is often the kiss of death on Strictly. Much of Jason Donavan annoys me, but I find myself hoping (and kind of expecting) to see him do well. How could I not? He's made out with Kylie Mynogue.

I also want Jason to do well because he is dancing with the delightfully synthetic Kristina Rihanoff. From the look of her, it's rather likely Kristina's had a certain amount of work done, which is generally the sort of thing that puts me off. Especially when the person who's had work done is Russian. She reminds me too much of one of those scary, humourless former gymnasts. But via her Twitter and such, Kristina seems likeable and I've always had a soft spot for her. Besides, after being saddled in recent years with the likes of John Sargeant, Joe Calzaghe and Goldie, Kristina deserves a chance to make it past week four.

~
Anita Dobson: Who?

Whoever she is, she'll be dancing with everyone's favourite big gay monkey, Robin Windsor. I doubt very much Robin will ever surpass the television gold he produced with Patsy Kensit. They were incredible.

~
In truth I feel Russell Grant would have made a better dance partner for Robin, both being particularly camp individuals. Doing such a thing would likely have been seen as far too progressive a move for family viewing, but, honestly, would it actually have upset anyone other than Ann Widdecombe? As a matter of fact, if a Russell-Robin pairing would keep Ann from ever returning, I would lobby the BBC to make it happen.

As is, the astrology-touting old queen is being paired with a lady. When I first read about Russell being part of the show I felt a cringe building up from the well of my soul. How many times will we be subjected to Russell working astrology into his little interviews?

"Oh, Craig is a such-and-such sign, that's why he's cranky."
"Well, since I'm a such-and-such sign, I think I'll be really suited to this dance."

And on and on and on until you find yourself trying to knock yourself into blissful unconsciousness with sofa cushions. But on the launch show I decided I actually like him because he is ridiculous. I especially loved his interaction with Audley Harrison. Indeed, I feel those two should be kept on as a pair even after they are both eventually voted out.

Russell is dancing with Flavia Cacace, which is unfortunate because I feel she has no sense of humour. Flavia has abs. Incredible abs. And for these she has had to give up a lot of things, like ice cream and chocolate cake and having a personality. As I say, this is unfortunate. It's a pretty good bet Russell won't be able to shake his groove thing to the necessary standard but if the two were to sell themselves in that sort of "Up Pompeii" or A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum sort of way, it would be amazing.

~

Man mountain Audley Harrison probably isn't going to be turning out the most sprightly of Charlestons. But it's a good bet he will be a favourite of Len and Brucie and, possibly, me. I'm inclined to believe boxers don't have the right mindset for Strictly; they're not able to allow themselves to be as silly as they need to be to do well. But seeing Audley camp it up with Russell Grant in the launch show makes me think maybe, just maybe, Audley could do it. He won't win, of course, but I feel I have reason to hope his dances won't simply become two minutes of my looking away from the television.

Audley is dancing with fitness machine Natalie Lowe. I have a crush on Natalie, one based on equal parts fear and respect. She could break a man with those thighs. Audley is 6-foot-6 and has beaten dozens of men unconscious, but still I pity (and envy) him.

~
I have mentioned before my feeling that professional dancer Katya Virshilas has the look of a girl who would be forced to embarrassing pornography should her Strictly boat ever sink. "Waterloo Road" star Chelsee Healey, however, looks the sort who would choose such a career as a first option. I can't help feeling she turned to light drama only to fill time whilst producers of her next film run sexual history checks on the 143 men and women she will "entertain" in a movie called Midnight in Chelsee.

Her thick Mancunian accent, meanwhile, makes her insufferable to listen to. When she speaks it sounds as if she has participated in one too many throat gagging scenes. I dislike her in almost every way. I dislike her voice. I dislike her face. I dislike her hair. I dislike her strange munchkin frame. Even her enormous boobs annoy me slightly. Sure, I will enjoy watching her run up the stairs to Tess' area but the wantonness of Chelsee means the naughty thrill is gone. Chelsee would happily run up steps topless for a £5 note.

Chelsee is dancing with newcomer Pasha Kovalev, of whom I know absolutely nothing.

~
I think it's fair to say Alex Jones is the best thing to ever come out of Ammanford, Wales. Indeed, I think it's fair to say Alex Jones is the only good thing to ever come out of Ammanford, Wales. My friend, Chris, is from a village just north of Ammanford and when he goes back home for visits does so via a circuitous route designed to avoid Ammanford. On a recent trip that took me through the town I noticed there is, very strangely, an American-themed bar there. I was intrigued but later decided that any American who would call Ammanford home is likely not an American with whom I would choose to keep company.

But now, of course, Ammanford is my favourite place in the world. Because Alex Jones is from there. And Alex Jones recently responded to something I said on Twitter. Last year, Kara Tointon responded to me on Twitter and I decided I was in love with her. You'll note she then went on to win the show. My love is that powerful, bitches.

Whether I will back Alex to win is yet to be determined because I haven't really seen her dance yet, but she's certainly off to a good start. The "One Show" presenter began her career in Welsh-language television, where she presented all manner of less-than-good programmes, most of which I would watch solely for the purpose of thinking dirty thoughts about Alex. I watched "Tocyn" for the love of Pete. It was a show that statistically had zero viewers. Over the past two years or so, Welsh-language channel S4C has been in upheaval due to the fact it has been woefully mismanaged and is now losing a good deal of funding. When critics speak of S4C they almost always point to "Tocyn" as an example of the channel's failings. But I watched that show. Because Alex Jones was on it.

Alex is dancing with cougar bait James Jordan, which could be awesome. In past series, James has had his best moments when teamed with the more mature ladies. He has a certain power to get them to dig deep and find their inner harlot. Remember him and Cherie Lunghi? Naughty. Whether James can get the same from someone his own age (he is 33, Alex is 34) remains to be seen. For the sake of myself and all the rest of the male population in Wales, I really hope he does.

~
I have long found pop-rock boy band McFly difficult to dislike. Something in my core tells me I should hate them but then I end up singing along to their songs. And by "singing along" what I mean, of course, is "singing the first two words of a chorus and then saying 'dubba-doo-doo' in tune to the rest of it." The band's drummer, Harry Judd, is a big reason for my McFly tolerance. In the 2004 video for "5 Colours in Her Hair" he inexplicably wears a Minnesota Twins T-shirt. For that alone, I hope he makes it to the final three.

And there's reason to believe he will. Harry has already been through the Strictly experience on a minor level, having performed with Ola Jordan in a "Children in Need" special. Also, he is a member of a once wildly popular boy band. Many of those teenage girls who loved him half a decade ago will now vote him through even the most awkward of rumbas.

Harry is dancing with the unexpectedly likeable Aliona Vilani. At the start of last year's series I had only bad things to say about the flame-haired Russian. But watching her and Matt Baker changed my mind. If Brucie's writers don't come up with a gag combining Aliona's fondness for cartoonish hair dye and the fact McFly's first single was "5 Colours in Her Hair," I am going to feel very let down.

~
For some reason I keep confusing ITV presenter Dan Lobb with BBC presenter Dan Snow. The fact it is the former and not the latter dancing on Strictly is something I find disappointing. Dan Snow could dance and inform us about great Royal Navy battles or some such thing. Dan Lobb, however, will just sort of... well, I don't know what Dan Lobb does. According to his bio page, he went to university at the University of Tennessee, also known as "the school that totally stole its look from University of Texas."

Dan is also a presenter on ITV's "Daybreak," the show that has produced two of the memorably worst contestants in Strictly history.

Dan is dancing with taskmaster Katya Virshilas. When not weighing her pornstar options Katya has a tendency to experience mood swings with her partners, so if Dan is anything like his ITV colleagues he can expect to suffer a few tantrums.

~
Lulu is a diva. This is the way she is being sold by Strictly, at least. I had thought, however, that one of the prerequisites to being a diva is having people actually know who the hell you are. Her claim to fame is having sung an obnoxious version of that song from Animal House roughly five decades ago. She sang an even more obnoxious song in 1969 and won Eurovision. She's sung a handful of other obnoxious songs over the years and somehow picked up an American accent despite having been born in Glasgow.

Lulu is dancing with self-important Kiwi Brendan Cole, with whom I was recently embroiled in a Twitter battle. No, really. Brendan made a stupid remark about the Welsh language, I called him a name and Alex Jones got dragged into it. I explain the whole thing in my vlog post from that day.

Even before that whole brouhaha, however, I had long disliked Brendan. He is my least favourite of the professional dancers. I respect that he is very much responsible for one of the show's betters aspects -- the fact celebrities are pushed to actually try (when the series first started it was envisioned as a sort of jokey thing but Brendan was too hyper-competitive to simply go out and clown around) -- but that's not enough to make me like him. One of the things I enjoy most is seeing Brendan fail. One of the things I enjoy least is listening to him blame failure on anything and everything other than the simple reality he is an egotistical douchebag.

~
Speaking of egotistical douchebags, Robbie Savage is another Strictly celeb who has expressed his displeasure with me via Twitter. I have disliked Robbie for as long as I've known he exists, so when I learned of his being on Strictly a part of me died. This means putting up with him in regular doses. And worse yet, it means football cliche's from the judges and uncomfortable attempts at football banter from Brucie. I may choose Robbie's dances as an opportunity to go to the toilet.

The former Wales international footballer fancies himself a cheeky chappy, which is a British term for someone with a playful and impudent sense of humour. But people who think of themselves as a cheeky chappy rarely ever actually are. They are just annoying. That "Ooh, I'm a maverick, me" stuff wears thin almost instantly.

Robbie takes a certain pride in the fact he was frequently carded when playing football. What sort of thing is that to take pride in? "Hey, hey! I was crap at what I did and put my team at a disadvantage as a result! Ho, ho! Such a cheeky chappy!"

Fortunately, Strictly history shows footballers -- guys who made a living working with their feet -- aren't particularly good dancers. And the Welsh aren't really a big enough voting bloc to carry Robbie very far (especially when actually likeable Welsh-speaker Alex Jones is in the mix), so one can only hope he won't be around too long.

That is unfortunate only because Robbie is dancing with sex kitten Ola Jordan, who each year seems to be hellbent on wearing as little fabric as possible in her routines.

~
I know nothing of Holly Valance but I think I like her. Maybe. I can't decide. Is she a former sex symbol who decided that perhaps eating might be an OK thing and now takes the piss out of her status fall, or is she a former sex symbol who has yet to figure out she is a former sex symbol? I suspect, though, that if she performs anything along the lines of the raunchy routines that Artem put together last year for Kara Tointon, I will develop a crush on her and not really care either way.

As mentioned, Holly is dancing with inveterate bad speller Artem Chigvinstev. He won last year with Kara, so it feels a little unfair for him to be paired with yet another attractive girl who might be able to win. But, again, if he works raunch and crazy tricks into his routines, I won't really give a damn.

Predictions:
Having seen all the dancers basically do little more than step forward and step back in the launch show, it is difficult to guess who will make it to Blackpool, which is kind of when Strictly starts to really click. I'm guessing Robbie, Anita, Nancy, Edwina and Lulu won't be there. I suspect Jason Donovan may fall at an early hurdle and I have a suspicion Alex Jones' talent won't really surpass the Eisteddfod standard (Ooh, a catty slight at the low quality of Eisteddfod performances. That was totally unnecessary). Beyond that, however, it's hard to guess who will be in the final three, let alone raising the glitter-ball trophy in December.

Along the way there will be utter failures of the voting public, high-school-level scandals and Zoë Ball awkwardly attempting to console losing couples on the Monday edition of "It Takes Two." It will be camp, it will be ridiculous and it will be amazing. I can't wait.

Eight things I loved about August

2011-09-21T13:00:00.000+01:00

More and more I find my monthly Eight Things post is something of a Best Bits of the Vlog summary, which is probably a little tedious but also perhaps just a little bit helpful. During my recent visit to the United States I frequently found myself listening to friends apologise in a roundabout way for never watching the vlog -- which is actually OK. Just because a friend of yours churns something out on a daily basis doesn't mean you have to watch each and every bit of that something. Indeed, I've half thought of trying to think up some sort of a code to identify the vlog "episodes" that are relevant. You know, the ones that will come up in conversation when I see next see people.

"Yeah, you really should have watched the one when Jenn fought a giraffe. That was amazing."

So far, I haven't thought of that code and, as it happens, this post doesn't even totally serve that purpose because I reference a few things not captured for YouTube posterity. Any hoosiers, here's the list (in no particular order) of eight things I loved about the eighth month of 2011:

~ 8 ~ Visiting Minnesota: I had last visited Minnesota in July 2010, when I swore up and down to anyone and everyone I would not allow another year to pass before my return. I turned out to be wrong, of course. Visa and financial issues kept me sound on the Island of Rain for 13 months. So, getting back spun me into a sort of rapturous love with my adopted home state; absence makes the heart grow fonder. I found myself swooning over minute details of American life -- wide roads, country music, seemingly limitless supplies of junk food, ESPN, etc. -- many of them being things I hadn't been all that keen on when actually living there. But such is the madness of going home. The thousands of pieces of life not present in the Soggy Nations spark memories of greater things in which they played an insignificant role. For example, listening to country music reminds me of driving the width and length of America, through the stretches where often there is no other radio to choose from. Watching ESPN reminds me of running on a treadmill in the workout room of the downtown La Quinta in Austin, Texas, where my brother and I stayed for a few days whilst exploring the city in 2009. I don't so much care for country music or ESPN but the memories these things induce are intoxicating and so I love them by association. There's almost certainly a psychological term for this but I am too lazy to go on a Google expedition for it.In addition to tenuous subconscious links, however, Minnesota holds actual and real things that I love and pine for all the time I am living 5,000 miles away. Specifically, my friends. I got to see my best friend Eric, and his wife Kristin, and their 8-month-old daughter Annalise, several times during my fortnight in the Land of 10,000 Lakes.All the videos from my time in Minnesota can be found here (a), with Eric showing up on: 18 August, 21 August, 26 August and 30 August. On the the 30 August video you also see another old friend, Shawn. Minnesota provides something no other place can (b): friends I have known for more than two decades. On the night Shawn and Eric and I hung out at the Town Hall Tap we reflected on an observation made by another old friend of ours, Paul, who once said: "I find it harder and harder to make new friends, and impossible to make new old friends."But Minnesota provides the latter, as well. OK, newish. I have known Dan and Johanna, and Anthony and Maggie for eight years. That kind of pushes them a certain distance out of the "new" category, I suppose.Like seemingly all of my friends these days, both couples are parents to newborns. Dan and Johanna's son, Liam, is about four months old; Anthony and Maggie's daughter, Olivia, is roughly half that age. I got to visit them all one evening when I took the ridiculously long drive out to Dan and Johanna's house in rural Minnesota. They have a few acres of land that butt against several dozen more acres of farmland, found at the end of a 2-mile stretch of dirt road. We cooked hot dogs and bratwurst on the grill then sat around the fire into the night. Eventually babies drew everyone else away but myself and Dan. We sat until midnight, watching the fire die away and listening to coyotes yip and howl nearby.Coyotes, bitches. Dan has coyotes wandering around near his house. They are rural life's version of the chav, perhaps, but far less annoying because you can get away with shooting them.Minnesota had all these things and made me long to return to them. Additionally there were the streets of my beloved Saint Paul, long runs in the heat, meandering walks in sprawling grassland and wilderness, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (absence of the latter is why Britain lost the empire, I'd suggest). There were so many things to love that this Eight Things post could easily become Eighty Things, all dedicated to the home state of Prince and Hüsker Dü. But I'll limit myself to just four more experiences from the trip:

~ 8 ~ Watching the Twins beat the Yankees: I fell out of love with baseball in 2002, when MLB players came terribly close to striking. Baseball, of course, heralds itself as America's pastime and although you are now more likely to find kids playing soccer (and rugby) in neighbourhood parks, the game retains a unique and special place in the American identity. Nothing is so American as going to the ballpark. In light of that, and in light of the 9-11 attacks that had occurred just a few months before, I felt baseball players had a moral obligation to shut their millionaire cry-baby cake holes for at least one season and entertain people by swinging sticks around, spitting, staring at their gloves, adjusting their junk and occasionally displaying a modicum of athletic ability. In the end, the season went forward but my disdain for Major League Baseball would not recede for another seven years.The team that eventually helped me warm again to the game was the same team that had first introduced me to baseball as a kid: the Houston Astros. My grandfather's favourite team. In 2009, my brother and I went to a game at Minute Maid Park with my uncle and had a great time. The Astros lost but I didn't care. A few weeks later, Eric, Paul and I watched the Red Sox beat the Athletics at Fenway Park and I almost cried with joy. Catching a baseball game has now become a required element of summer visits home.This year it was my father, my brother and me at Target Field, watching the Minnesota Twins take on the New York Yankees. In games the nights previous, the Twins had been soundly defeated by the most over-hyped sports club on the planet but, suddenly, on this night the Twins remembered how to play baseball and beat New York 9-4. And it was perfect. The summer evening was perfect. My brother's banter was perfect. The hot dogs and beer were perfect.Baseball is in many ways a metaphor for America: it pays far too much regard to the wealthy, it has an overinflated sense of importance, but when it gets things right it does so in a way that is heartbreakingly wonderful.

~ 8 ~ Minnesota State Fair: Additionally wonderful is the 157-year-old tradition commonly known as "the great Minnesota get-together," aka, the Minnesota State Fair. An institution older, in fact, than the state itself, the Minnesota State Fair draws shy of 2 million visitors each year over its 12-day run. It is 320 acres of agriculture, education, commerce, music, food and fairground rides. I have never met a Minnesotan, regardless of socio-economic background, who didn't like the Minnesota State Fair at least a little bit. Quite honestly, if you were to go to the fair and tell me you had found nothing enjoyable about the experience I would assume you to be suffering from deep psychological issues. It is awesome covered in awesome, dipped into a tasty batter of awesome and then deep fried in awesome.Eric, Kristin and I went to the fair on a Friday night, which was the first time I had been in the evening. I am one of those city kids who likes to see all the animals that the rural kids moved to the city to avoid, so I've usually preferred to go to the fair in the morning, when animal are more active. But it turns out that going at night is even better.We were able to get in free thanks to a family connection who works at the fair and drove us in on a golf cart -- making me feel as if we were all somehow important, as if we were rock stars being shuttled around at Reading Festival or some such thing. Although, in that scenario we were rock stars required to wear high-visibility vests who were then dropped inconspicuously into the middle of the International Bazaar. On arrival, beer and Pronto Pups and cheese curds were procured and I had one of the best fair experiences of my life. One of the biggest highlights was seeing Eric get invited up onstage to play with the Belfast Cowboys. He had gigged with the band a few times in the past, so he knew the parts, but it was still cool to see my best friend walk up and suddenly start performing. Again, it made me feel as if we were all somehow important. Though, perhaps some of us a little less so."It's like he's Ferris Bueller," Kristin said. "I guess that makes me Sloane and you're Cameron."I'm not sure how I feel about that.After a few songs, Eric hopped off stage, we got more beers, went on fairground rides and enthusiastically shouted our conversations into the Minnesota summer evening, thousands of others swarming around us in a fit of lights and sound and laughter. And as we left the fairgrounds, that evening's fireworks illuminated the night sky.

~ 8 ~ Minnesota Renaissance Festival: Mention of the Renaissance Festival induces a fair amount of eye rolling in certain circles. It is, admittedly, a gigantic party seemingly put on by all those kids you knew in high school who were in theatre not because they had the ability to tell a story through acting but because they liked being loud and they liked people paying attention to them and they thought they were witty. You know, the guy whose favourite word was "erstwhile" because it sounded clever. In other words: me.But that makes it no less enjoyable. Ren Fest, as it is often referred to, is kind of a state fair of the absurd, based very loosely on the idea of re-creating the renaissance. Very loosely. Cheese curds are involved, the costumes people wear run the gambit from the early Middle Ages to looks sported by pirates of the Barbary Coast. At this year's Renaissance I saw a kid dressed as Obi Wan Kenobi. In many ways, Ren Fest is what you want it to be.It occurs to me that many American events are centred around the opportunity to shout "woo" at the top of your lungs. We are a people who like to shout "woo." It's fun, yo. By the very nature of the activity, it is impossible to be bored whilst shouting "woo." Go on, try it now; take a deep breath and let out a vocal-chord rattling "woo!" Your heart skipped a little, didn't it? Shouting "woo" is fun. Shouting "woo" is why America is better. Ren Fest is an event where this simple truth is understood. If you watch the video of my brother, Jon, his girlfriend, Vanessa, and I at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, you'll notice that most things are communicated via the medium of shout.I enjoyed it immensely. How could I not? Shouting was involved. And jousting. And lots of women in bodices.

~ 8 ~ Visiting Nine Mile Creek: I grew up running around and swimming in Nine Mile Creek -- the little strip of water that runs through Bloomington, MN, before spilling into the Minnesota River -- as well as the wooded area that surrounds it. In the video of the day I went to visit Nine Mile Creek I talk about my first visit to the area and why it means so much to me. Totally by coincidence, on that same day (and therefore, in that same video) Jenn visited the Gower Peninsula, back here in Wales, which holds a lot of importance to her from her childhood.

~ 8 ~ Visiting Jen and Dave: The pro-Minnesota theme of August started even before I set foot on the plane, because the month began with a quick visit to see our friends Jen and Dave, in London. Jen, or as she used to prefer to be called, Jeni, and I have known each other for nigh 20 years, stretching back to when the two of us went to high school together. I generally refer to Jen and Dave as my family on this island of rain, they are so special to me.So, when they asked if Jenn (that's Jenn with two letters "n," i.e., Jenn my girlfriend) and I would like to come for a weekend visit we jumped at the chance. It was a relatively quiet weekend: on Saturday we simply went for a walk and hung out at the pub; on Sunday we ate some more delicious food and spent more time at the pub. It's not exactly action-movie stuff. I suppose if we all had various neuroses it could have been converted into one of those tedious Woody Allen films, but really it was just a weekend of visiting with friends, which is something I seem to do far too infrequently.

~ 8 ~ 5 p.m. Pen y Fan: One of the myriad things I love about Jenn is her tendency to run with whatever silly idea I come up with. In most cases, I have spent my life saying things like, "Know what we should do right now? Road trip to Winnipeg!" and having that idea shot down by a more sensible person. Jenn, however, would simply grab her coat.And that more or less explains how we came up with the impromptu idea of having dinner atop a mountain. Which sounds quite romantic but for the fact that the particular mountain we chose was in Wales, which means it was rainy and cold and we were hammered by gale-force winds. But, still, we had fun.

~ 8 ~ Watsky: George Watsky is one of those anomalous artists who is so eclectic he doesn't fit particularly well into boxes. Your best bet is to refer to him as a hip-hop artist, and a particularly good one based on his ability to rap really, really fast. But his fondness for pun, literary allusions and Jewish white-boy look don't drop him into your typical vision of a hip-hop artist. Because of that, it appears that mainstream music companies have decided to give him a pass. Yes, he's good, but he's hard to market. As we all know, things that are easy to market are better than things that are good. That is the whole philosophy behind One Direction.But for people like Watsky there is the beauty of YouTube, where idiosyncrasy is seemingly encouraged and a number of talented people who will never get major-label contracts find success. People like Watsky are what make YouTube good.That said, Watsky can be enjoyed via that old-school method of mp3 and on his website he has a number of free downloads, all of which I am listening to constantly on my iPod these days.

--------

(a) On a side note, I was really happy with all the vlogs from my time in Minnesota. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology I was able to access video Jenn was recording on a daily basis in Wales and mesh it together. I think it worked out well.

(b) OK, that's sort of not wholly true.

I remember

2011-09-09T08:34:00.000+01:00

Khalid al-Midhar was dead even before I woke up that morning. Not that I knew who he was, or knew anyone who did know who he was. The only connection is that he and I were both registered as students at Mesa College, in San Diego, California. Though, by all accounts, he never attended a class there.

On the morning of 11 September 2001, I fell out of bed just before 6 a.m., showered, dressed and jumped into my car to head to a 7 a.m. philosophy of logic class at Mesa. It was a typical beautiful San Diego morning: the sun shining so brightly it bounced off my rearview mirrors and into my eyes as I drove west through the sparse early-morning traffic on Friars Road. With a Starbucks white chocolate mocha in my car's cup holder and a cranberry orange muffin in my lap, I started to learn what Khalid, his room-mate Nawaf al-Hazmi, and 17 others, had done.

I have never been a fan of morning radio. I don't understand why people would want to listen to incessant talking at that time of morning. Surely you would want to rock -- get your heart pumping in anticipation to take on another day -- rather than listen to yet another cookie-cutter wax-voiced DJ tell yet another cookie-cutter dumb-girl DJ what he thinks about that show you don't watch that was on last night. Apparently I am in the minority; such programmes are inescapable on both sides of the Atlantic. Generally I choose not to listen at all but the only CDs in the car that morning were all from a Barry Manilow box set. My ex-wife loved Barry Manilow, and not in an ironic way. Add that to the list of reasons things eventually fell apart.

So, I found myself skipping across the radio dial. I let the radio scan three circuits, each time allocating 101.5 to be the start/stop point, hoping the "morning zoo" of Dave, Shelly and Chainsaw would shut up for a bit and simply play some Blackfoot. "Train, Train," by Blackfoot, is one of the all-time best songs to gear yourself up to go to school/work/rob a bank. No such luck, however. Dave, Shelly and Chainsaw were obsessed with something they were watching on TV in the studio.

Few things are less interesting than listening to a group of people watch television, especially when that group are too engrossed to properly explain what they are seeing. As best I could figure out, a plane had crashed into a building in New York City. Their inadequate powers of description did nothing to contradict the vision I had of a single-engine Cessna smacking against a skyscraper, breaking a few windows and -- at the very worst -- possibly killing four people. That sort of thing had happened from time to time in San Diego. No one had run into a building, admittedly, but plenty of tragically inexperienced pilots had managed to put their planes into the side of a mountain. And I could not see why it was drawing so much of Dave, Shelly and Chainsaw's attention.

In those days I was an active member of the Global Media Conspiracy, working at one of the local television stations. You may have guessed this, but within the newsroom mind there exists a kind of equation for tragic events: a ÷ b = c. Where a is the number of people dead, b is the distance of the event from the news market and c is the event's level of newsworthiness. By this equation, a maximum of four people being killed in a novelty accident roughly 4,000 miles away does not warrant taking time from local traffic and weather, talk of that bitchy one on "The Bachelor," or the possibility of rocking out to Blackfoot. Dave, Shelly and Chainsaw were wasting my time. And I was starting to eye the Barry Manilow box set when I heard them all gasp.

"Oh, fuck," said one of the male presenters.

As I say, I was a member of the Global Media Conspiracy in those days. I knew full well the implications of profanity on the airwaves. I had seen coworkers instantly fired, their careers ended, because they had used tamer words on air. My ears perked up and I devilishly prepared to listen to the torrent of mea culpa that was almost certain to follow. They would all awkwardly apologise, possibly go to commercial, and maybe when the show eventually came back it would be one presenter short. But that didn't happen.

"Oh, God," Shelly said. "That building just fell down. Oh, God. Oh, my God."

In the background I heard others using profanity. Someone screamed. And I realised something was happening.

This was only ten years ago, so it's hard to remember there were no smart phones, no Twitter, no Facebook, etc. -- nothing to spread information quite so instantly as we have today. Even blogs had not yet hit the mainstream. I worked on my television station's website and it was still occasionally a challenge to convince management such a technology was more than a fad. Instant information was hard to come by. So, when I arrived at my class at Mesa College I still only knew something was happening, but I had no idea what. Searching the AM and FM radio stations en route had provided little additional knowledge.

In the classroom, a handful of other people had heard of the something that had happened but were equally in the dark. One guy had thought to tune a pocket radio to Howard Stern, reasoning that since this event was taking place "back east" Stern would surely comment on it -- but not realising Stern's show was on time delay. Whatever Stern was saying at that moment would not be broadcast in the West Coast for three more hours.

The course instructor eventually arrived, confirmed he was aware something was happening and announced that in light of that something our class was cancelled.

"Before I let you go, however," he said. "I think it's appropriate, this being a course on logic and reason, that we remember not to rush to judgment about who is responsible for whatever this is. And when we find out who is responsible, it's even more important to remember not to stereotype, not to group an entire race or religion or culture into a box just because of the actions of a minority. OK, go home and be with your families. I'm not sure when classes will resume."

----------

I called my news manager as soon I got back to the apartment.

"Want me to come in now?"

I was scheduled to come into work that afternoon, but when something happens a part of the journalist's soul aches to be in the newsroom. There is a need to be there, to be acting, to be doing something. It is a kind of coping mechanism, I think. For me it always was, at least. It was my way of firing into the air, I suppose.

When Custer's men were being slaughtered at Little Bighorn many of them simply fired randomly into the air, the innate frantic desire to act overpowering the rational ability to pick a target. They couldn't really think of what to do but knew they had to do something, so they shot wildly and screamed at nothing in particular.

A journalist knows he can do nothing about the people in burning and collapsing buildings, but he still feels the need to scream and to shoot into the air, so he talks and talks or writes and writes until the shock of the thing starts to wear off. My news manager told me to wait to come in.

"You're definitely going to be here late," she said. "You should try to get some sleep."

I would not sleep for another 36 hours. I managed 45 minutes of lying on the couch, watching Peter Jennings try to make sense of it all, before I decided to go in early. I went straight to work churning out story after story -- this event cancelled, that Navy ship on stand-by, this official claiming such and such, that official warning so and so, these people raising money, those people collecting blankets. It went on and on. And the whole world felt confused. Over and over I wrote stories from all corners of the San Diego viewing area for which the underlying theme was: "What the hell is happening?"

People brought in pizza, then Mexican food, then breakfast, then pizza again. Occasionally I would get up, go to the toilet and walk slow back to my desk, but for the most part I just worked -- pushing the assignment desk and reporters to give me anything, so I could write it and publish it and feel like I was doing something. So I could keep firing into the air.

Early in the evening of 12 September 2001, one of the guys from the assignment desk came up to me with a box of Krispy Kremes.

"Hey, man," he said. "You're wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Did you go home?"

"No."

"Have a donut, man. Take a second. People are starting to burn out."

He sat and talked to me about nothing. I can't remember the conversation now. In the back of my head I realised he had made it his job to distract people in the newsroom for the sake of their sanity. I think there must have been long pauses in the conversation, points where I'd say, "Yeah," and trail off into silence. On my desk a television ran the ABC satellite feed, and suddenly there were the Coldstream Guard outside Buckingham Palace. The Queen had directed them to play the Star Spangled Banner. And they did so brilliantly. Staccato. Defiant. Unapologetic.

And it got me. It still gets me.

Because here's the thing about being an American: the rest of the world loves to see you fail. Yes, sometimes American arrogance seems to deserve the karmic repayment of failure. But as an American you can't help but notice the glee other nationalities take in seeing that failure, urging it on at times, baying for it. Each American deals with this in his or her own way. Some Americans try to turn from the rest of the world, some of us try to accept the criticism with a grain of salt. It is not so horrible, but it can be annoying. And amid the immediate blur of 9/11 I felt that around the world people were probably tutting judgmentally and impishly declaring we had brought this on ourselves.

But here was the British monarchy, the institution we had rebelled against to form our very beginning, rushing forward to show unwavering support. Still amid the confusion, Britain seemed to be saying: "We don't know what's going on, but we know we are beside you."

It got me. It still gets me. That display of support is one of the reasons I love Britain so fiercely to this day. And it was the reason I fell apart crying on that early evening the day after the attacks. I cried so hard my lungs shook. I have only once in my life cried harder.

----------

I got an email from Radio Cymru the other day asking if I'd be interested in coming on air to discuss the 10-year anniversary of 9/11. As one of only a few Welsh-speaking Americans I frequently get the call to comment on whatever big news item is taking place at the moment. Over the years I've provided Yanqui analysis of presidential campaigns, political dealings, tornadoes, financial woes and the significance of Thanksgiving dinner. I had suspected I might get a call about the 10-year anniversary, as well.

In the email, a producer posited a few of the questions that have and will be asked ad nauseam in connection to 9/11: Are there any lessons to learn? Could this all have been avoided had the West behaved better?

Those are the producer's words: "pe bai'r Gorllewin wedi ymddwyn yn well" -- if the West were to have behaved better. To me this smacks of the sentiment that America had it coming, that somehow 9/11 was deserved. I didn't respond to the email for a full day because I found it difficult to avoid abusive language. Once I calmed, I said I would be happy to discuss the 10-year anniversary but that phrasing of that particular question was exceedingly poor. How exactly was the United States supposed to have "behaved better?" What is "better" in the eyes of the Islamic extremist who seeks only the total eradication of Western culture? When your critic wants you dead it's impossible to find common ground.

As we look back 10 years, I think it is foolish, revisionist and naïve to suggest the United States, or any of the myriad other countries attacked by al-Qaida, somehow were responsible for the tragedies directed at them. The people who died in 9/11 were simply living their lives. I'm willing to bet, based on the law of averages, that some of those people were dickheads. But none of them deserved to die. None of them had it coming to be struck down by a group of extremist zealots who felt they had a right to kill in Allah's name. And none of them could have or should have "behaved better" to avoid being killed.

The United States could perhaps have prevented 9/11 from happening had various security services not been so keen on being proprietary with information. But there is nothing, save not existing, it could have ever done to spare itself being the target of extremist Islamist ire. The extremists are crazy; there is no negotiability in their standpoint; they are wrong.

The assertion that America has no culpability in the causes of 9/11 may sound like arrogant patriotism to some people from the Soggy Nations. In Britain, one seemingly must assume at least a portion of guilt for every bad thing in order to be properly cultured. I don't buy that in this case. And although I am unrepentantly pro-American (strangely more so since moving to the UK), I don't think that makes me a blind patriot.

This 11 September, as they do every year, a number of my friends back home will commemorate the day by posting to their Facebook/Twitter/whatever messages like, "I haven't forgotten," or "I still remember," or some equally inane statement of the same sentiment. This is ridiculous. It is simply a declaration of memory. I haven't forgotten 9/11, but additionally I haven't forgotten the birthday cake Jenn made for me in March. I haven't forgotten my high school locker combination. I haven't forgotten what I had for lunch yesterday. There are any number of things my memory is capable of recalling. But that isn't a declaration of patriotism, it's a taunt of Alzheimer's sufferers.

For the purveyors of these functioning memory claims I think the assertion is that America somehow changed as a result of 9/11 and they remain resolved to uphold that change. I suppose this is similar to the attitude conveyed in Johnny Mathis' "Secret of Christmas:" It's not the things you do at Christmas, but the Christmas things you do all year through. But what, exactly, are these people remembering? I would argue their memories are, in fact, a bit fuzzy. Because in fundamental terms the United States did not change. We have different technologies, we are paying attention to different surgically enhanced celebrities and we are simultaneously lamenting and upholding different politicians, but at its core America has not changed. It remains the brash, friendly, right-of-centre, wonderful, ridiculous country it has long, long been.

Eliminating political specifics, technological advances and pop culture, the United States is the same place it was a decade ago. So, what was the effect of 9/11? Nothing. All those people died and, essentially, nothing happened as a result.

That sounds cruel but, to me, it is a good thing. It shows the resiliency of the human spirit and also draws a huge, blood-stained line under the biggest lesson of 9/11: Terrorism Does Not Work. As a means of change it is woefully ineffective. It accomplishes nothing toward the terrorist's stated aims.

The attacks of 11 September broke my heart but they didn't change me. On this ten-year anniversary I may go to Starbucks, I may rock out to Blackfoot, I may cry. But I will still be American. Unapologetically so.

Minnesnowta

2011-08-20T00:15:00.000+01:00

I'm in Minnesota, sitting on my parents' deck and listening to cicadas sing. And as happens each time I come back to visit, I am asking myself why I left.

"Well there is that matter of you getting a college degree. Or two," noted my best friend, Eric.

True. And I need only turn on any of the myriad 24-hour shouting channels, formerly known as news networks, to be reminded of other reasons for going. Yesterday, driving to Eric's, I found myself stuck on the freeway behind a truck with the words, "AMERICA: LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT," emblazoned across the back. I said a quiet thank you for the fact I have the option.

But still some part of my mind swoons with visions of returning, living in the Saint Paul neighbourhood I loved so much. They're getting a light rail line soon; I used to say that was the only thing missing. In the beauty of Minnesota my mind spins with visions of what my life would be like were I to return.

Conveniently, those visions assume me to be in a far higher pay scale than I am now. They magically erase my financial woes. Often they assume some sort of ridiculous shift in personality or taste ("Oh, if I lived in America again, I'd go see Kenny Chesney in concert").

As much as one part of me aches to move back to the United States, another part fights to remind me why I left.

I dislike this dichotomy, this inability to be happy in whatever skin I'm in. But, at least, for the moment I have ready access to lots of really good ice cream.

Eight things I loved about July

2011-08-16T15:58:00.002+01:00

~ 8 ~ My masters graduation ceremony: My masters degree showed up in the post a few months ago and has since disappeared into some corner of my desk to collect dust. Such physical testimony of my MA in Welsh-language creative writing is unnecessary. Honestly, the degree is so useless, who would lie about having it? What job is going to hinge on its existence?
The other people on my course would appear to agree. All dressed up in cheap suits and rented robes for the 22 July ceremony, we were easily the least mature of the postgrads. Others sat respectfully, still clinging to the belief that all the stress and exhaustion and emotional turmoil they had put themselves through will one day pay off. Anni, Gwilym and myself knew different. We giggled at students with funny names and played a game in which the goal was to see who could keep applauding long after the rest of the auditorium had stopped.
Still, somewhere underneath it, I felt a sense of accomplishment -- a greater sense of pride than I had in earning my BA. I felt a sense of pride in myself, something I don't allow very often. I seem to be too hellbent on attacking myself to ever take a moment and think: "Actually, well done, me."
It is a pointless accomplishment but a big one, none the less, and though I certainly wouldn’t go back and relive that period of my life, I am glad to have done it.

~ 8 ~ Sleeping sans duvet: What we call summer in Britain -- and what others would call spring -- arrived in ernest in July. There were days sunny enough to allow for barbecues, and evenings warm enough to throw off the duvet ("comforter," for those of you playing along at home) and sleep with only the top sheet. Such evenings are not to be too romanticised. Whereas hot nights of my childhood were accompanied by the sounds of crickets and cicadas, any slight rise in temperature in Britain will always be met with the evening sounds of drunken chavs shouting at each other in the street. But I've enjoyed the weather all the same. Our old flat has a particular knack for capturing the cold and somehow focusing it to my fingers and toes. When the weather is warm enough for me to wander about without socks I feel a greater content.

~ 8 ~ The perfect summer day: The second day of July provided the perfect British summer day. A late morning lent itself to a big breakfast, followed by a trip to the Wye Valley to walk a section of Offa's Dyke Path, the hiking trail stretching the length of Wales. I have visions of hiking the whole of the trail in the not-too-distant future (next summer, perhaps), but for the time being I am content with day trips to specific sections, like the one running south from Tintern Abbey.
That section of the trail is thick with forest, something frustratingly rare in Britain. Wales was once covered with trees. Demand for lumber for houses and shipbuilding took their toll over the centuries, I realise, but I find it odd there are no major efforts to renew what was lost. Autumn in Cardiff would be overwhelming were the surrounding hills covered with deciduous forest. But at least there is that tiny corridor of the Wye Valley. I look forward to visiting it again in a few months when the leaves turn.
Though, I was quite happy with the state of it in summer. The whole valley is soft with green and a fresh, almost mountainous, air pushes along with the river.
Jenn and I wandered the England side for a few hours then crossed back over to Wales for ice cream and lounging in a large field behind a pub. A family played makeshift cricket on one end of the field, teens lazily threw a Frisbee on another end. We sat beneath a tree and listened to the babble-chatter of people in the pub's beer garden.
Driving home along the M48, windows down, some part of me remembered driving across the United States and I felt that happy-melancholy-longing-content that comes when one good experience induces memories of another. Jenn put her feet on the dashboard and I felt I was in a country music song.
Barbecues are an ever more established part of the British summer, thanks to American and Australian influence, I think. When I lived in Portsmouth 15 years ago an American friend and I had to create a makeshift barbecue using cement blocks and a bit of fencing. Now a person can buy a small, one-use barbecue at almost every petrol station. These sorts of things are handy in a climate as un-barbecue-friendly as Wales. We got one and set it out in the concrete area that is otherwise the domain of sea gulls and trash bins. Jenn brought out a pitcher of Pimms, we ate grilled salmon, grilled asparagus and potato wedges and sat happily until the sun set. After dinner, we took part in our ridiculous post-hiking tradition of taking a bubble bath in our tiny tub, then finished off the evening with tea and cheesecake.

~ 8 ~ Celebrating 4th of July: Despite the presence of perfect summer days, I couldn't help feeling homesick in the run up to my nation's birthday. I wanted to be back in Minnesota, swimming in a lake, drinking cheap beer with friends and watching fireworks. Holidays are when homesickness is worst. The collected memories of past experience mesh into a single "always" and your heart aches more than you can stand.
I taught Welsh on 4th of July. I mentioned it to my students and they looked at me blankly, as if it meant nothing to them. Of course, that's because it meant nothing to them. I went through my day as normal and did my best not to think about what I was missing back home.
Then I got home from the gym and Jenn had lined the stairwell to our flat with American flags. Inside, more flags were hanging from the ceiling. Jenn packed up a bag and a one-use grill and the two of us set up a wee camp at nearby Cosmeston Lakes Country Park. I drank Budweiser, Jenn drank California zinfandel. All around our picnic blanket Jenn staked American flags to ensure that anyone within 100 yards could see which holiday we were celebrating. We lit sparklers and stayed until the last light burned from the horizon. It was unquestionably one of the best Independence Days I've ever had. And all of it thanks to an English girl.

~ 8 ~ Penarth: The village of Penarth is indistinguishably close to Cardiff. Most people would probably think it is simply a part of the capital city, rather than being a separate village in a separate county. But it is different. Those who have grown up here hold to that otherness and it is something that still exists here and there. In mid-July Penarth held its annual summer festival, a series of events throughout the village lasting roughly a fortnight. The highlight of the festival was on 9 July when a parade led people down to the seafront for a day of archetypal carnival activities like live music and a soapbox derby. The highpoint for Jenn and I was seeing a Lancaster bomber and Spitfire fly overhead. Those two makes of plane were used heavily in the Battle of Britain -- growling chunks of metal that held off the Nazis. Seeing them always chokes me up.
The planes we saw in Penarth that day were the exact same ones we had seen flying over Hyde Park on the day of the royal wedding. The same planes that caused Jenn to scream at the top of her lungs: "Go Britain!" The Penarth crowd's response was slightly more subdued but Jenn and I were no less pleased to see them.
Later in the day a soapbox derby was held on one of the hills leading down to the seafront. The winner was a 12-year-old boy who said his strategy to winning was simply: "Don't brake."
I have since taken this aboard as a strategy for living life.

~ 8 ~ Having my parents come visit: The graduation ceremony allowed my parents an excuse to come for a visit. I hadn't seen them in roughly a year and they had not been in Wales since 2009. A visit from parents is a weird experience, emotionally. The old teenager part of you starts moaning as soon as they get off the plane ("OMG, Mom and Dad, you are soooo embarrassing!") but another part of you is happy to be in the company of those people who have always supported and cared about you, even when you've done really stupid things like quitting your job and moving to another country to pursue a degree in an obscure language.
In my years of living in England and Wales my parents have visited this island of rain four times, and I'd say on the whole this last visit was the most successful. My mother, especially, seemed to have a good time. And I think a great deal of credit for the positive experience has to go to Jenn, who had gone to the trouble to create itineraries and worked hard to keep everyone in good spirits -- a not-so-easy task when all four of us were staying in the same one-bedroom flat.
Yeah, that was a bit of an error. Four people spending two weeks in a one-bedroom flat is rarely going to come off hitch-free, regardless of who the four people are. But, as I say, Jenn made it work. And it could have been worse: just before my parents' visit a friend was telling me via email of having his parents come visit him in Boston. His mother ended up breaking her leg and his father gave everyone pneumonia.

~ 8 ~ Dyffryn Gardens: My parents visiting brought a number of highlights -- a trip to Tenby, high tea at the Angel Hotel in Abergavenny, and so on -- and I think my favourite was discovering Dyffryn Gardens, a large collection of gardens stretching several acres around an old mansion home. Located near Cowbridge, Wales, the gardens are a short drive from the peaceful confines of Penarth -- close enough that Jenn and I are eligible for locals-only discount season tickets. And it is nice enough we are seriously considering taking advantage of that fact. Jenn fell in love with the place and its endless flora, expressing a sense of wonder at the fact there really exist such beautiful things on Earth. It's not that she had never been exposed to such beauty -- she is the daughter of a professional gardener, after all -- but that she was reminded of that fact. Being there seemed to spark something in Jenn, which delights me. Jenn has a capacity to find in things a joy that I wonder if I've ever had. I am a naturally cynical person and I am envious and in love with Jenn's ability to find unfettered happiness in the myriad facets of life. I loved Dyffryn Gardens because Jenn loved it and her being happy delights me.

~ 8 ~ Elbow del Muerte: Jenn's capacity for joy leads to our doing all kinds of fun and goofy things together. We dress up in silly outfits, we sing along to songs at the top of our voices, we take bubble baths, we eat dinner on a mountaintop, we do impressions of animals on the train, and on and on and on. I enjoy it, of course, and am particularly tickled when we manage to capture some of our silliness for the sake of our vlog (which, in itself, is a very silly thing for adults to be doing). To that end, one of my favourite vlog moments thus far took place in July, when we dressed up as professional wrestlers and grappled on the bed for the sake of thanking someone for subscribing. We are ridiculous people. I wouldn't want it any other way.

A letter home: 4 August 2011

2011-08-04T17:18:00.002+01:00

My dearest Emma,

I didn't get much sleep last night. At some point I found myself staring at the ceiling unable to move from the terrible weight of realisation I have no connection to Cardiff but Jenn. I suppose it wasn't so much realisation I was experiencing, but the sudden ache of feeling what I already knew. I have no friends in Cardiff; that's been a lament for quite a while now. On my phone there are no numbers of people I could phone up if I wanted to go out for a pint, no people I could text to come to a barbecue. Last night that loneliness managed to reach up from the floor and jab me in the ribs. I don't belong here, Emma.

Not yet, at least. Jenn's friends have been good at welcoming me, and friendships -- especially those formed beyond the age of 21 -- simply seem to take a long time to develop where I'm concerned. I suppose you know that better than most, Emma; I struggle so much to find confidantes I have to create them. It is possible that with time I will be welcomed into Jenn's group of friends to the extent I no longer identify them as "Jenn's group of friends." It is possible that with time, as I extend myself beyond the Welsh-language world that rejected me, I will develop contacts that will become acquaintances that will become friends. But last night some vaporous agent whispered into my ear: "What if that doesn't happen?"

It's likely, Emma, this was brought on by thoughts of an impending visit to Minnesota. The distance between myself and my old friends seems to have increased over the past half decade. I feel further away. I feel forgettable. All my friends are parents now; that's the sort of thing that turns a person's focus hyper-local. They have to concentrate on the immediate and unending task of nurturing a tiny living thing. Most energies must be spent on worrying about things within arm's reach: food, shelter, etc. Then those friends get to go to work for a bajillion hours a day (does anyone in America still work a 40-hour week?). In the tiny moments they can relax, my old friends do so in the company of people who are actually there, and, more often than not, people who are living the same kinds of lives.

The times when I cross those friends' minds must be minimal, Emma. Once a month, maybe? Perhaps I'm being optimistic in that. What is there to make someone think of me? I am far away, to be seen once a year, at best. I am far less exciting or rewarding than Thanksgiving, Emma, and how many times have you thought of that holiday in the last month? If turkey and parades and football have no place in your thoughts, what chance have I? I don't think the old powerful bonds will ever be broken, but I do feel them loosening. How could they not?

Meanwhile, I find myself thinking of old friends constantly. Here in this place where I have no friends, the old ones mean more to me than I can stand. At times I am overwhelmed, Emma. And last night that thing jabbing me in the ribs kept asking: "What if it is always like this? You are sure to stay in Cardiff a while; what if the welcome you hope for never comes? And what if the welcome back 'home' slow, slow, slow wears away?"

All these are incongruous thoughts, perhaps. Things have been going pretty well in the month since I last wrote you, Emma. My parents came out to visit, I took part in my masters graduation ceremony, the weather hasn't been 100-percent summery but I am, at least, able to walk about the flat without socks. In a fortnight I will be on a plane to see my old Minnesota friends. I'll wade in Nine Mile Creek and drink cheap beer and laugh in my high-pitch manic yelp. I'll drive slow along Summit Avenue with the windows down and eat barbecue and listen to country music on the radio.

I suppose, Emma, the thing that makes me sad is knowing how temporary all these things will be. They will be an exception to my day-to-day life, rather than a simple continuation. I'm going to get to see my friends and after that first 30-45 minutes of stutter-start conversation we will get lost in the anything and the everything of life and we'll come up with in-jokes for the evening and have running gags and talk and talk and talk.

But then I'll give them a hug and say goodbye, with no idea of when I'll see them again.

"OK, well, I'll see you at Christmas. I hope. Though, last time I said I would visit during Christmas it turned out to be a lie, as was the same promise a year before."

And I think, Emma, I am also sad because I can't even entertain the fantasy of moving back. As much as I miss that old life I would miss the one I have now even more. My saying I have no connection to Cardiff but Jenn is misleading. It glances over the importance of Jenn. It's like saying I have no money but for a 20-storey golden castle full of diamond furniture and dollar-stuffed pillows. Jenn is awesome.

Unfortunately, Jenn won't be on this trip. Finances prohibit. A flight from Cardiff to Minneapolis costs roughly 34¢ per mile, which maybe sounds reasonable until you consider the need to travel 3,897 miles. So, some of the melancholy swimming in my brain today comes from knowing she won't be there with me. As we grow closer and closer, I am eager for her to see the places and meet the people who define me.

But maybe Jenn has had enough of that sort of thing for the time being. Just Sunday my parents left after a two-week visit. Two weeks, Emma. A fortnight. Fourteen days. That is a long time to have one's parents about -- especially when they are staying in one's single-bedroom flat. Four of us in a one-bedroom flat for two weeks. I am surprised Jenn has not broken up with me as a result.

In other news, Emma, I am doing a whole lot of nothing at the moment. The course I was teaching in July finished up about a week ago, leaving me with roughly a month of nothing time until I start teaching again in September. Hence the trip to Minnesota. I am telling myself I will also use this time to refocus on writing. Four days into my summer holiday, and telling myself things has yet to lead to my actually doing them. I don't know what's wrong with me, Emma. I don't understand why I stopped writing. I also don't understand why I'm not more upset about it. I fear some part of me has given up.

Once I get back from Minnesota I'll have a mountain of paperwork to climb and then be teaching four or possibly five Welsh courses throughout the South Wales area, depending on whether I was too late in staking claim to a course in Caldicot. In addition to that far-flung potential location I'll be teaching in Ebbw Vale and Caerleon. Have Welsh will travel. I am looking forward to it in a strange way. I am looking forward to routines and steady income. Some part of me enjoys the drives. Which is good because no site is less than 22 miles away. If you know of any good podcasts that teach Spanish, let me know; I'm going to be spending a lot of time in the car.

I am also looking forward to the autumn, Emma. I always do. It is my favourite time of year. I think all my years in education have imbued autumn with a feeling of expectation, a sense of hope. Each academic year would start with dreams of getting things right, big plans and thoughts of friends to be made and things to be done. Autumn is a time of the new. I am looking forward to walks through technicolor forest with Jenn, fresh challenges, writing inspiration and, of course, "Strictly Come Dancing."

Which reminds me, I need to go to the BBC website and apply for tickets to see the programme live. Tickets are free but issued via a raffle. I applied for the same raffle last year and the year before without luck, but, hey, perhaps third time lucky, Emma.

I hope you are well. Please send nude photos.

I remain your faithful friend,
Chris

A letter home: 13 July 2011

2011-07-13T17:48:00.000+01:00

My dearest Emma,

I sat for a long time today trying to think of where you might be right now. Since you're a figment of my imagination, you tend to move around a lot. I suppose you would be in Santa Fe these days or -- more likely -- at a tidy ranch somewhere in the great, strange beauty of West Texas. You are often in the places my heart wants to be, Emma. And I suppose that as my life in Britain develops a greater sense of permanence, as the dust settles, some part of my soul aches to be out in the vast hot expanses.

Admittedly, I have never lived in West Texas, Emma, and the times I have visited that part of my home state could probably be counted on one hand: a few trips out to San Angelo to visit my great-aunt Johnnie, and that time two years ago when I drove to Paint Rock and cried like a maniac because of, well, convolutional reasons I don't really feel like going into at the moment.

Ambiguous past experiences aside, however, those West Texas plains hold good memories. I remember sitting in the air-conditioned cool of a hotel in Big Spring one night, eating Popeye's chicken and watching a dust storm turn the horizon dirty orange-brown, thinking: "This is about as far away from Britain as a person could get."

Think of the mental shift required for a person born and raised of the cozy, cold wet of Britain to sit in a situation like that and feel total normalcy, Emma.

My mind turns images of West Texas into a catch-all for thoughts of America. My new home in Penarth more closely reflects the catch-all mental images I have long had of Britain. I will never experience total normalcy in either place, of course. And the great ache of life is there will always be some part of me longing to be in both. As I settle into one, the other calls.

Last time I wrote to you, Jenn and I were pushing toward a kind of normalcy supported by IKEA chests of drawers and shelving units; I had recently moved in. More and more it is feeling like home. I am reading more and making lazy forays into writing again. I feel I can trust in the existence of tomorrow and so am willing to think about what to do with it. I am stabilising.

And though my deep cynicism fights against admitting such things, I will confess to you, Emma: I am happy. Yes, some part of me rebels with yearning for lonesome wide-open space, and sometimes that little creature in my head still kicks at the walls, but in the bulk of my moments I am wrapped in a kind of content the equal to which I cannot remember. I can't stand the inherent naivety of statements like, "I've never been happier," nor the doom such assertions usually portend. But, well, my "Swiss-cheese memory," as Sara used to call it, struggles to identify a single period in my past when all things seemed to fit together so well.

Look at the above paragraph, Emma: this is what age does to us. I am speaking of love diplomatically, trying to temper its potential sting with carefully worded statements. As if having things go wrong would somehow hurt less because I had thought to labyrinth my feelings in multisyllabic parlance.

Ah, hell, I'll just say it: Jenn is awesome. And, yes, I know that one person's forever can be another person's summer, but great googly moogly Jenn is awesome. And I love her.

And that's really where I'm at these days, Emma: I have an awesome life and am struggling to cope. I find it difficult to come to grips with the fortuitousness of my own situation. Boo-hoo. And I think some part of me feels angry that the only thing to do with all the sadness of the not-so-distant past is to just let it go.

Twelfth of July marked five years of my living in Wales, Emma. I spent most of that day thinking back to 12 July 2006 and all the space in between. I regret most of that time, though I don't suppose I'd change it. It's a bit like going through terribly painful surgery, I suppose. Would you do that again? Hell no. Do you wish to go back and have it all be undone? No, I don't want that either. It happened, I lived through it and now -- though not necessarily because of it -- I am happy. After spending all day trying to come up with some sort of profound summary of that half decade I managed this:

1) I feel betrayed.
2) The experience is past tense.
3) I can't shake the feeling of being upset over all the time wasted.

Sixteen years ago, Emma, I was driving up to Minnesota with my girlfriend of the time and somehow managed to make a colossal navigational error, which saw me head to Topeka, Kansas, instead of Kansas City. Look at a map, Emma; they are hundreds of miles apart. My girlfriend was fast asleep when I made this mistake. She woke up as we neared Topeka, then spent the three hours it took to correct the error yelling at me.

I will let you in on a secret, Emma -- something I have never told anyone else: I drove to Topeka on purpose that day, because I liked the sound of the name. Topeka. There's something pleasing to the ear. I don't know whether there is anything nice in Topeka; I only saw it from the interstate.

The chastisement received for "making a wrong turn" was severe enough I chose not to tell my girlfriend the truth. Even after she and I broke up, and she would still recant this tale to others over the years, I was content to be seen as stupid rather than credulously inquisitive. I think perhaps some part of me sees that as my debt to her for time wasted -- those three hours she will never get back.

When I look at my experiences in the Welsh language, Emma, I feel that sense of immense time wasted and I want, childishly, to be repaid in some way. I feel owed full-time employment or friendship or... I don't know what. Something more than a deep-hollow feeling of regret.

But, at least it's over. It is past-tense. It is not happening now. And there are other adventures ahead.

My parents are coming over for a two-week visit this Sunday. In a fit of stupidity, Jenn and I offered to let them stay with us. In our one-bedroom flat. The more I think about it, Emma, the less I like it. I have not seen my parents in a year, so I will be happy to have them around but having them be inescapable for a fortnight seems like an error in judgement.

I'm sure it won't be too bad. And there will be immediate repayment of whatever inconvenience is accrued. A few weeks after my parents head home I'll be following them to Minnesota, where I'll hopefully get a chance to catch up with all those friends I've spent the past year missing. Several of my friends have had children since I saw them last. We are getting old, Emma.

Perhaps I will see you when I'm out there. You and I are always moving, Emma -- and you so often in the places my heart wants to be -- but maybe we can intersect, if only briefly. Meet me in Topeka.

I remain your faithful friend,
Chris

Elbow del Muerte

2011-07-12T14:57:00.000+01:00

I don't tend to use my blog to promote the vlog that Jenn and I do (that's what the Tumblr is for) but I love this one so much I wanted to draw special attention to it.

The best bit starts at 03:33 and in a roundabout way explains why Jenn is so awesome.

Eight things I loved about June

2011-07-05T16:54:00.002+01:00

~ 8 ~ Open windows: Summer is more a concept than reality in Britain. We have heard about it, have taken package holiday trips to places where this season actually occurs, and have written the word "summer" on the calendar in hopes that tourists won't put in much research before coming to see the queen. What we call summer is what other people would call "early spring." Unless those people live in Antarctica.
Summer in Britain is filled with days that are either rainy and cold or threatening to go rainy and cold. But every once in a while it does actually get hot. And by "hot" I mean "not cloudy." When the sun shines, Britons assume it to be hot, even if it isn't. In South Wales, hot weather means dressing like an idiot. If you are male, you should wear a ridiculous pair of shorts that went out of style at least six years ago and either a pink polo shirt or no shirt at all. If you are a woman you should dig into that pile of clothes that looked good in the store but somehow became a terrible idea by the time you got them home, and give them all a second chance.
Though it turns a walk through city centre into a visual assault course, summer is welcomed here because it means being able to open the windows, letting in the fresh smell-taste of something other than laundry on an indoor rack.
As the sea gull flies, our little flat in Penarth lies roughly 800 metres from the Bristol Channel, which means we get sea breezes when the wind is right. With the windows pushed open wide there are few better places to be on a lazy afternoon than in our living room, sipping wine and talking nonsense with friends.

~ 8 ~ Finally getting my residence permit: Thanks to myriad episodes of silliness on part of the United Kingdom Border Agency, it took almost exactly six months for my visa to be renewed. First there was the rejection, then an appeal hearing, then an utterly baffling request for passport-sized photos that were promptly returned without explanation. By the time the visa finally arrived on 14 June, more than a month of its two-year lifespan had already passed.
In her majesty's United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, visas are issued in the form of residence permits: easy-to-lose little cards resembling a U.S. driver's license. For the most part, an immigrant in the United Kingdom will find he or she has absolutely no need for this card whatsoever, except when seeking to visit friends and family in his or her home country. In that instance, the visa is needed for the sake of being allowed back into the UK. In other words, unless one has no plans of returning, a visa applicant is trapped on the Island of Rain whilst his or her application is dealt with. In most situations, the UKBA also takes possession of the applicant's passport. So, my plans to visit friends and family last Christmas were scuppered, hopes to see them for my birthday were dashed and intentions to see them in May had to be abandoned.
In the back of my head there is concern over the slings and arrows I will face once this new visa expires in May 2013, but for now I am enjoying being legal again and hoping to visit the United States, finally, in August.

~ 8 ~ Jenn and I dressing like pirates: I had never met Jenn's brother, Andrew, before we were invited to come along to the birthday party of his girlfriend's young son. Callum was turning 6 years old and having a pirate party.
"Are the adults dressing up?" Jenn asked her brother.
I have a brother. Never trust your brother for information about things organised by his girlfriend.
"Yeah," Jenn's brother said. "I think so. We're dressing up."
In fairness, Andrew and his girlfriend did dress up as pirates. As did all the kids. Other adults, however, had apparently not received the "I think so" memo regarding fancy dress. So, Jenn and I arrived in full pirate regalia and felt just a little bit silly.
If you watch the vlog from that day you'll see we looked pretty cool as pirates. But the thing I loved about the day was not simply the act of dressing up but that this is the sort of thing that happens with Jenn. She maintains a kind of enthusiasm and joy for living that I had allowed to ebb away at some point, and I adore her for it. I don't want to go all sickening sweet on you but the past several months have been all about falling for Jenn over and over. That is what I loved about dressing as a pirate: it reminded me, again, how awesome is my girlfriend.

~ 8 ~ Getting spotted by people who watch the vlog: This vlogging thing is ridiculous; I admit it. I have come to accept it is usurping creative energies that would otherwise be spent on writing but I haven't come to a decision yet as to whether I am upset about that. I can't claim vlogging to be an art form (I don't think) but I enjoy it and find it fulfilling, nonetheless. There is a simple challenge in finding roughly seven minutes of each day to broadcast to the world.
And it is that aspect of reaching out beyond my physical boundaries that appeals to me about vlogging. It was the same thing that attracted me to blogging more than a half decade ago. The medium is different, but that hope of connecting on a greater scale remains the same.
I try to tell myself I am vlogging partially for myself and partially so I can still share my life with old friends back in the United States. But YouTube allows its users all manner of detailed statistics, which suggest the same thing as the detailed statistics for this blog: my old friends from the United States don't really care about what I'm doing. So, I will admit taking a certain delight when these newer methods of communication allow me new connections. And I take special delight when those connections occasionally cross into my actual life. Twice in the month of June I was spotted by people I had never met but who watch the daily nonsense Jenn and I churn out for the vlog. My favourite was the red-haired girl who ran up to my train window holding up a notebook in which she had written: "I REALLY LIKE YOUR VLOG."
I have no idea where I am going with vlogging -- if it has a purpose or aim -- but I enjoy it immensely for the time being, so perhaps I need not worry about anything beyond that.

~ 8 ~ Finishing my first year of teaching: At the moment, roughly 47 people subscribe to my YouTube page, which I'm guessing is roughly 99,953 subscribers shy of the numbers one would need to make money from vlogging. So, for a while, at least, I'm stuck doing this teaching thing. Thankfully, I have a handful of courses lined up for the autumn and some masochistic part of me is looking forward to climbing those mountains. But I am also delighted to have seen the end of the courses I had been teaching over the past few months. I'm not sure I fully grasp the sense of accomplishment I feel from having completed a year of teaching. It's that sense of a thing done, I suppose; in most jobs there is not so clear a start and end.

~ 8 ~ Hanson: Yes, that Hanson -- the dudes who sang "Mmm Bop." Don't judge me, yo; Hanson's "Shout It Out" album is good. Not groundbreaking by any means, it was my favourite thing to listen to in the month of June. Their "Mmm Bop" days now long behind them, Hanson are still producing music, releasing albums through their own label. "Shout It Out" was released last year in the United States but not available on the Island of Rain until recently. I bought it simply out of my fondness for the video for "Thinkin' Bout Somethin'" and found myself pleasantly surprised by an album full of solid tunes suitable for cleaning the flat and wishing summer would finally arrive.

~ 8 ~ A Hole In Texas, by Herman Wouk: I started reading again in June. I'm really not sure what happened to me/has happened to me/ is happening to me but after some pretty severe depression in December I lost a number of those things that define me, i.e., reading and writing a lot. In the first six months of 2011, I managed to complete one book and half read another. In June, though, I managed two novels. Yes, I know, you are better than me and burn through two novels a week. Good on you. But baby steps, yo. The first novel I read was A Hole in Texas, which had been given to me last year by someone who thought I'd like it simply because it has the name of my home state in the title. It's a wandering story of political tedium that focuses on the clusterfuck that was the Superconducting Super Collider project in Ellis County, Texas. This was a multi-billion-dollar science project that was killed without particularly good reason in 1993. The assertion from Wouk is that it was killed because other states really do dislike Texas so much they are willing to make the United States look like a gaggle incompetent fools just for the sake of ensuring that Texas doesn't get any more awesome things.
The other main themes of the book were: 1) Jews are great; 2) if you do something kind of stupid, just tell your wife about it from the get-go, because it wasn't actually all that stupid and trying to cover it up makes you look a lot worse. The book was strangely readable in that sense you burn through it and then reach the end thinking: "Hmm, did that ever actually go anywhere?"
But the point is: I read it. Reading something is better than reading nothing.

~ 8 ~ Pigs in Heaven, by Barbara Kingsolver: Toward the end of the month I started Barbara Kingsolver's Pigs in Heaven, which is a something I'm finding very much worth reading. This is the second Kingsolver novel I have read and with it she is moving into the list of my top five favourite authors. Her novel The Lacuna kicked my ass. It first made me feel I should give up writing because I could never match it, then it inspired me to want to push myself to write because I knew how high the bar could go. Pigs in Heaven is not so strong as that but still a good book. Kingsolver has a talent for set phrases, things you want to post to Twitter because they seem like beautiful truisms. She also has the capacity for writing textured stories that carry you along, making you wish the train home would take just a little bit longer or that your girlfriend would be stuck late at work so you'll be able to keep reading.

Actual letter sent to the debt collectors attempting to destroy my life

2011-06-21T11:55:00.000+01:00

Sirs,

Congratulations on frightening my mother by sending a sheriff's deputy to harass her with papers intended for me. That was awesome. My brother and I used to love to get a rise out of Mom with stuff like that.

In terms of getting in touch with me, I suppose the aim was achieved; I personally would have thought it more efficient to contact me via the address Discover Card should have from a letter I sent them nigh a year ago. But you are the professional debt collectors, so who am I to argue?

In that letter to Discover Card I explained I am presently living in Britain and that my financial situation is dire. As I'm sure many of the other people you've sent sheriff's deputies after will have also told you, jobs are difficult to come across at the moment. That is true internationally. Despite possessing a masters degree in the burgeoning field of Welsh-language creative writing, I have been unemployed for roughly a year and a half. In a country with free health care I am just barely able to survive but have thus far been unsuccessful in attempts to secure a salary that would allow me the massive payment requested by Discover Card.

I had asked if there was any way to resolve the situation, if any agreement could be made; their response was to ignore me and put you to the task of using law enforcement officers as message boys. My intent now is to file for bankruptcy as soon as possible. I have contacted an attorney to begin the process.

I am quite happy to receive any correspondence you may wish to send, at my address here in Britain (you will see it above, in the right-hand corner). I have not provided a phone number because even receiving a phone call costs money in this country. Additionally, and honestly, I have no desire to listen to people speak rudely to me about things I cannot make happen. I cannot make it rain; I cannot fly; I cannot make money magically appear in my bank account.

Please keep in mind that because of the roughly 5,000 miles between you and me, items sent via post may take a bit longer than you would normally expect. I assure you, however, that all correspondence will be dealt with in the same courteous and respectful manner you have thus far shown to me.

I wish you the very best. Keep living the dream.

Yours most sincerely,
Chris Cope

Eight things I loved about May

2011-06-16T23:47:00.000+01:00

(Sorry it's a bit late)

~ 8 ~ Moving in with Jenn: I can remember the evening when Jenn's flat very first started to feel like home -- a place where I felt comfortable, where I felt I could relax. It was at some point in the winter and still early enough in our relationship that we would stay up talking to the point of exhaustion. Conversations would drag on and on and on. Cups of tea were endless. We were in that stage of wanting to be around each other but not really knowing how to act on those feelings. Cuddles were still accidental: "Oops. Madam, you've somehow found yourself in my embrace. Quite serendipitously our fingers appear to have interwoven."
One late-night-turned-early morning, we were sitting on her couch with exhaustion drawing out the pauses in conversation. Jenn had turned to put her head on my chest. I allowed my head to slump forward and time began to skip as my grasp on consciousness loosened. Outside it was early-winter cold, inside we were wrapped in each other. The radiator clicked softly with warmth. And I felt more relaxed than I had been in months. In Britain I almost always feel some kind of anxiety; I didn't grow up here, so I can never fully trust in it, never truly feel safe. But in that moment, with Jenn in my arms, I was as content as I had ever been on this island of rain.
The months burned on and the awkwardness lent itself to closeness. We still keep each other up far too late, but cuddling requires no machination. And shortly after spending a week together whilst taking part in April's royal wedding celebrations, Jenn decided that having me live on the other side of town didn't make sense.
Numerous expeditions to IKEA were launched for the sake accumulating affordable and difficult-to-pronounce items in which to put all my things. More trips were made to drop off clothes and books at charity shops or unwanted things at the city dump. Then, on 21 May, we moved my bed into Jenn's flat. Our flat.

~ 8 ~ The awesomeness of Jenn: The decision to move in with Jenn was an easy one. As I've said before, expounding upon all the things I like about Jenn makes me uncomfortable and I can't imagine anyone else cares all that much. My eyes tend to glaze over when I encounter others' blog posts full of proclamations of affection. So, I doubt very much anyone particularly cares to read mine. Suffice to say, Jenn is awesome. She is pretty, she is joyful, she is full of life, she is a domestic goddess and she is mildly insane. What more could one ask for?

~ 8 ~ Exploring Penarth: The other day I happened to be looking back through my journal and saw that Penarth was the first place I visited after moving to Cardiff. Just a day or so after bundling across the ocean, I was wandering the village that, unbeknownst to me, would become my home just a little less than five years later. I can't now remember what drew me to Penarth and my journal makes no mention of a reason why. In my entry mentioning Penarth I am apparently assuming the reason to be obvious. I do this a lot in journaling: I leave out details that my older self really would appreciate. For example, in my senior year of high school I made several references to a girl named "Ginger," offering no surname or explanation of how or why I know her. I have asked friends and they don't remember her, either.
Perhaps five years ago I had heard that Ginger lived in Penarth. We'll never know. But for some reason I decided the place was worth visiting. The person with whom I visited hated Penarth and I didn't visit again until 2010. A while after that I met Jenn and started spending a great deal more time in this village to the immediate south of Wales' capital city. Built up in and around the Victorian era, Penarth looks like the Britain I wanted to move to so many years ago. Too much of Wales is a collection of uninspiring brick homes, most with not even enough history to remember Harold Wilson's premiership. Places like Swansea and Rhoose and Carmarthen and the Danescourt and St. Mellon's neighbourhoods of Cardiff feel like unexciting versions of Sioux Falls, South Dakota -- places in dire need of an Applebee's.
Penarth has its fair share of woefully uninteresting architecture, but there are still plenty of buildings that somehow managed to survive the Second World War and the many decades of design sloth that followed. In Penarth one can see in the buildings some of that arrogant ambition that was a hallmark of the British Empire.
There was a time when Britain knew itself to be awesome. Some of Penarth's buildings can remember that time. Certainly a lot can go wrong when a nation believes itself infallible, so I don't pine so much for the ideology in which these buildings were constructed, but one does wish for its spirit -- the sense of creating things that will inspire long after the creators' gravestones have been worn smooth by the seasons.
Penarth fills me with a strange mix of melancholy and inspiration. I am reminded of when I used to live in St. Paul, Minnesota. I loved it so much, I wanted to do whatever I could to keep it alive. I have lived now less than a month in Penarth and already I am composing letters to county and town councillors, like some batty old man. I have started reading the local paper. I am excited for the summer festival. Perhaps in the autumn I'll turn up to watch Penarth RFC lose. I find this town to be one in which I actually want to live.

~ 8 ~ The Gower: The surrounding area adds to Penarth's appeal, of course. If anyone in Wales possessed the capacity to effectively promote their nation, this strip of land on Britain's western side would be one of the most desired places to live on the planet. Every 20 or 30 miles the landscape changes slightly and you feel far away from the other parts. So, a few weeks ago Jenn and I woke up in our Victorian seaside village, had a big breakfast and drove an hour to a part of Wales that felt very much not like the part of Wales in which we had awoken.
The Gower Peninsula is well-travelled territory but that makes it no less beautiful. Sandy beach or rocky seaside are all within easy reach. When Jenn was a little girl her family would go camping on the Gower so I got to hear a few childhood memories as we walked along. Camping in Britain is an experience I find difficult to reconcile with my American understanding of what it means to camp. When I was a boy, camping meant charging out into the woods to collect firewood, occasionally being attacked by hornets and eating dinner in the pitch dark because Dad had started the fire too late. Jenn's version of camping meant setting up a tent within feet of others and playing cricket with all the other kids in the evenings.
On our walk we had brought along a book on foraging that Jenn had given me for Christmas. We made it our mission to find something we could consume, eventually managing to come across two pea-sized wild strawberries and feeling we had become true survivalists because of it.
If you're keen, here's the vlog from that day. In it you can see Jenn and I singing Elvis songs and acting like children.

~ 8 ~ Completing my tutor certification course: Roughly a year ago I was delighted to have learned that I'd been accepted onto a course training me to become a certified Welsh-language tutor. I had no interest in becoming a Welsh-language tutor but I figured it wouldn't hurt to have an additional bit of qualification to throw on a CV and it seemed a good way to pick up a bit of extra money in addition to the job I was certain was around the corner.
A year on, no other job has surfaced. I still don't want to be a tutor, but I am happy to at least have some way of paying for groceries. In May my course officially ended, and with that I now have Level 5 National Certification. I have no idea what that actually means, but it sounds nice. And I can teach Welsh wherever I damn please. Or, rather, wherever I can find work. Which, for the time being is Ebbw Vale.

~ 8 ~ Getting a bit of work: Actually, the previous sentence is a bit misleading. Presently, the only work I have lined up for September is in Ebbw Vale. But right now I am teaching in Ebbw Vale and two places in Cardiff. In May I was offered a class that is taught in the Welsh Assembly Government offices, helping to get the receptionists up to speed on the language of their nation.
I like the job. Thrice weekly I take the train into Cardiff and get to walk amongst the ornate city and government buildings of Wales' capital city. Much like my life in Penarth, this is the European lifestyle I had daydreamed of when I lived in the United States: taking the train into work, occasionally taking lunch at a cafe. The assignment only lasts to the end of July, so I won't get to live this life for long. In the autumn my life will become one of long drives into the South Wales Valleys. But the company that gave me this assignment does a fair amount of work within Wales' corridors of power, so perhaps there will be more opportunities ahead. Or perhaps the company's hiring me will result in their losing their government contract.

~ 8 ~ Reaching 50 days of vloggery: It's a silly thing, is my daily vlog, but I find I enjoy it. It is a way of noting each day in a way different than to writing it down. Admittedly, my blog and actual writing ability have suffered as a result. But, as the Welsh say, there you are.
Back in December I started vlogging on a daily basis through the medium of Welsh. I think I hoped to connect with the similar-minded Welsh-speaking people I had failed to find in Cardiff. What I found instead is that such people do not really exist. There are Welsh speakers, but they are condescending or struggle to get my humour/mindset. The ways in which that makes me sad are seemingly infinite. After a few months I felt an even greater sense of disconnection than before and decided to abandon the thing.
But I realised that I had been enjoying doing the vlogs. There's something I like about the challenge of trying to document something from each and every day -- the philosophy that each day is worth making note of. So, I fell into the habit of doing them in English. Now, at least, my friends and family could understand.
In early May I passed the tiny milestone of having vlogged for 50 days (through the medium of English). Late this month I will reach 100 days. Each milestone grows less significant, I suppose. I mean, am I actually achieving anything? It's a bit like when teachers would give you gold stars for attendance.
No, it's not even that cool. In junior high school they would give prizes at the end of the year to kids who had perfect attendance. If I vlog for a full year, it will most likely not result in a free sweatshirt. More's the pity.

~ 8 ~ Doctor Who: Britain doesn't really have seasons. We have cold and rainy, less cold and rainy, and a snow day. I think some part of my internal clock therefore struggles to grasp the passage of time. Environmentally, very little changes; how can I know that this day is, in fact, not still the one previous? Thankfully, television comes to the rescue. My years are marked by Strictly Come Dancing, Great British Menu, international rugby matches and Doctor Who. Ironically, I note the passage of time by watching watch the adventures of a bloke who not only travels in that dimension but increasingly seems to enjoy messing with it. This past series of the Doctor's travels seems to have been particularly mind-boggling. But also particularly enjoyable.
On a side note, I think that the person who kills the Doctor is either: the Doctor himself or Amy Pond.

Which more or less explains Gavin Henson

2011-06-16T09:18:00.002+01:00

ME: There's no "i" in "team."

JENN: Unless you spell it the Welsh way.

A letter home: 12 June 2011

2011-06-12T18:47:00.001+01:00

My dearest Emma,

It's been a while. Last time I wrote, I did so from the corporate safety of a Starbucks, having spent the day at the glorious synagogue of savings that is IKEA. A visit to IKEA, of course, is part of the rites of passage in modern life -- birth, puberty, moving house and marriage are all marked with visits to IKEA. That cheap, self-assemble coffins are not available for purchase is clearly a sign of laziness in IKEA's research and development department. They are resting on their laurels, Emma. There should be a DÖD coffin, available in white, beech effect or silver.

Back in January, that IKEA visit was to commemorate a move to the village of Radyr, just within the northern border of Cardiff city limits. I think I told you, Emma, that at night I could hear the Taff River running some 100 yards to the south of the house on its journey toward the sea.

Just south of Radyr's unvaried collection of new-build homes, the Taff slows enough for rowing clubs to practice, then runs shallow past Llandaff Cathedral -- where I would often roam in those days when my heart ached so miserably and my house was so cold. Onward, the river slips past a university, beneath a roaring thoroughfare and then beyond another university into the solace of city park. On weekdays, men stand waist deep in the river and lure trout from their rocky hiding places. In summer, lovers wade in and kiss; children scream and jump from footbridges. The river curves and then widens as it reaches the city centre, carrying rugby fans' discarded plastic pint glasses to Cardiff Central Station and past the perpetually "up and coming" neighbourhoods of Riverside and Grangetown. Eventually its mouth grows wide and it spills out into Cardiff Bay.

A Victorian village sits atop the cliffs of a promontory at the bay's southwestern edge; you can see the tower of a church peeking out above trees. That church is St. Augustine's, the village is Penarth. And Penarth -- located just outside the southern border of Cardiff city limits -- is the reason I have again been spending quite a lot of time in IKEA.

Well, actually, Jenn is the reason. Jenn lives in Penarth. And now, so do I.

This is the part, Emma, where you stop reading for a second and think: "Wait. Who's Jenn?"

It has, indeed, been a long time since I last wrote. I've mentioned Jenn in previous letters, but not by name. For a long while I think some part of me feared that if I wrote her name some magic spell would be broken, that all the fun and happiness would crumble under the weight of reality. I suppose some part of me still fears that. Some part of me fears that Me and Jenn is like that moment in a dream when you realise you are in a dream, and for a tiny fragment of a second you manage to stay in that fantastic place before your eyes flutter open. I don't want to open my eyes yet, Emma.

Some part of me is not yet comfortable expressing to others my feelings for Jenn. But I will tell you she is a beautiful, joyful, brown-eyed girl from Devon. I delight in waking up to her each morning. I am mad for her. We've known each other for nigh eight months; somewhere along the way we found ourselves waking up to each other far more often than not, and Jenn decided it was time for me to move in.

I struggle to think of how to phrase this in a way that isn't maladroit, Emma, but I think of my short time in Radyr as rehab for the soul. The name Radyr derives from an old Welsh phrase meaning "the chantry," where souls were prayed for. You might remember my telling you that many hundred years ago Radyr was nothing more than a plot of land reserved for a cave-dwelling hermit whose days were spent praying for salvation of wealthy peoples now long-forgotten. At night, I would lie in bed listening to an owl call and imagine the spirit of that hermit was still out there, praying for recovery from the long dark bitterness that gripped me.

I don't know I can really say everything is better now, Emma, but I know rehab is temporary. I was never supposed to stay in Radyr; I am ready to move on. I am ready to try to write again, to read again, to be more the person I want to be rather than the bundle of cliché I had become.

So, now I am a resident of Penarth. Even before I officially moved in, Jenn had bought a desk so I would have a place to write. This is a place for me to live, to feel at home. And already I do, Emma. Already I feel more connected to this village than any other part of Wales. Much of that is due to the presence of Jenn, obviously, but Penarth is lovely in its own right.

Literally translated, Penarth means "bear's head" in Welsh, but there's some suspicion (due to the fact that no part of Penarth necessarily resembles an ursine skull) that the name has been misheard over the years and it was originally called "Pen y Garth," which means "top of the promontory." Most people, though, prefer the bear-related translation. Who wouldn't? As your grandfather used to say, Emma: "One should incorporate bears when- and wherever possible."

Penarth often reminds me of why I wanted to move to Britain. Much of the village was built toward the end of Queen Victoria's reign and the architecture possesses that sense of promise and God-willed purpose -- arrogant ambition -- that seems to have been lost in both Britain and America by now. Any attempt at ornate stonework in the modern age would be met with cries of government waste. Intellectuals no longer wave flags. Narrower still and narrower shall thy bounds be set.

But the old architecture remains, lending grandeur to pasty shops, pubs, restaurants, coffee houses and scaled-down versions of major supermarket chains. In content, Penarth is hardly distinguishable from dozens upon dozens of other British towns, but it is far prettier in its sameness.

And its sameness is within easy walk of our flat. This is British/European experience that many Americans romanticise: able to do the day-to-day things sans automobile. The life of my old Peugeot is being extended thanks to lack of use. And within the sameness there are unique things to love: Jaflon is my new favourite restaurant; on Saturday Jenn and I found a cafe that serves amazing waffles.

I am happy here. I worry at times I am too much so. It has been such a long time since I've written anything of worth. I seem to have lost grip of whatever it is that has always pushed me to write. I worry I have fallen into the trap of telling my own story rather than living it; claiming to be a writer rather than actually writing.

Too often I am happy to simply wander my new village rather than isolate myself at a desk. I am happier to explore my little world than create new ones in my head. That is OK. For now. But inside me, churning in my soul, I can feel a building panic and anger at myself for not working.

If I am not working I am, at least, earning a bit of money. I teach a number of Welsh classes through the week. This bores me so much, Emma, that I will tell you no more of it. James Joyce was not an English teacher, Ernest Hemingway was not a staff writer, and I am not a Welsh teacher.

But refusing to tell you about teaching Welsh leaves me with little upon which to expound. I go to work; I wander Penarth; occasionally Jenn and I do silly things. I am usually happy, sometimes dizzy with worry and sometimes overwhelmed with homesickness.

Six months after sending my visa application I am still trapped in a kind of bureaucratic vortex, Emma, so still not able to leave this island of rain. With summer here I find myself aching to see my friends, to sit up with them in the warm Minnesota summer night drinking beer and hearing their stories. I feel I am being made hollow by the homesickness, like when bread is let to sit too long before baking. The excess of time causes gaps to form and when one cuts into the baked bread one finds emptiness. Each day those feelings are exacerbated by the absence of a visa; it is another day when I cannot plan to go home, another day when I cannot build a concrete picture of when I'll next get to hug old friends.

So life, Emma, is what life always is and what it always will be: a state of flux. As I settle into a new place my heart aches not to lose connection to the old places. I am, for the most part, happy with my life, though unhappy I have lost the knack to capture it in words. Each moment is new, though, Emma.

I miss you.

I remain your faithful friend,
Chris

Eight things I loved about April

2011-05-08T22:52:00.000+01:00

~8~ Staying legal: My woeful lack of blogging means you likely never heard my tale of immigration shenanigans. Yes, you heard me: shenanigans. I call shenanigans on the British immigration system.
Back in January I filled in a multi-page visa application, bundled it up with my passport, a handful of Other Extremely Important Bits Of Paper and a cheque for £550, then sent it off to an immigration office located in what Nick Clegg would describe as "one of the great cities of the north," Durham.
A few weeks later, I was called in to an office in Cardiff to have my picture and fingerprints taken by a nice UKBA official who spent at least half an hour discussing house prices with me. I assumed this act (the fingerprints and photographs, not the pleasant conversation) to be an unspoken confirmation of a successful application. After all, it would be terribly inefficient to collect a load of data on a rejected applicant.
And just by my saying that, you can guess where this goes. A few weeks afterward, my passport was returned, along with a letter that said, effectively: "Thank you for playing, but it's time now for you to go home."
I appealed the decision, of course, and a hearing was set for 4th April.
(Here's the vlog post from that day.)
When I had first received the rejection letter, in February, I had been relatively confident the whole thing was a simple paperwork issue. I felt the UKBA, required to be farcically stringent by the current government, had simply chosen to reject my application rather than make any attempt to interpret the oh-so-slightly confusing documents I had sent. I was pretty sure one or two follow-up bits of paper, better explaining things, would sort everything out.
But that was in February. The hearing was in April. And the interim was more than ample time for my imagination to come up with any number of negative scenarios. So, I had managed to work myself into a sustained panic by the time the hearing date actually arrived. As Jenn and I drove to the tribunal we were bracing ourselves for the possibility of needing to get a sham marriage. Indeed, some devilish part of us was hoping for such a thing; it would have made for a hell of a story.
But as it turned out, all was well. It was, indeed, simply a matter of paperwork, which was sorted out so quickly between a Home Office lawyer and a judge that I did not even get a chance to speak. My visa was granted. I became legal once again.
Interestingly, the visa I was granted had ceased to exist at the start of the month, but was awarded because I had applied so many months before. In addition to scrapping the post-study work visa, a number of other changes were made to the immigration system on 1st April that, had they existed in 2006, would have prevented me from ever coming here in the first place.

~8~ The royal wedding: I'm sure one or two Welsh nationalists would suggest my never having come here would not be that great a loss. After all, I like the royal family.
I also almost always like a bit of ridiculous pageantry. So, of course, I was keen to be in London for the wedding of Wills and Kate. Indeed, I would have cursed myself for not going. I mean, why not go? Why miss out on an historic event, even one that is ridiculously cheesy, when it's taking place so nearby?
Admittedly, Jenn had not felt that way. At first. The thought of doing anything other than marking the occasion by maybe-but-probably-not watching it on television didn't really cross her mind until I invited her to come with me. She agreed to go because, well, it was a trip to London and she's a good sport. Here's the vlog post from that day. In it you can see that Jenn properly gets into the spirit of a wedding celebration by wearing one of her best dresses and jumping with excitement as we head to watch the event.
In the run-up to the wedding, many people on this island of rain sought to express a great deal of pessimism toward the whole thing. Royals. Harrumph. No one cares. Harrumph.
And then, according to police estimates, more than 1 million people turned out along the procession route. Spots along that route were full when Jenn and I arrived that morning (police turned us away from Green Park, St. James' Park and Trafalgar Square) and we ended up joining roughly 120,000 people who watched the thing on giant television screens in Hyde Park. After the wedding, a live band performed for the crowd and we all danced like fools in the warm spring sun. It was a brilliant day.

~8~ Visiting Anglesey: One of the reasons I enjoyed the royal wedding so much, of course, was that it provided me with work. Thanks to the event, I was commissioned to write nine articles related to the wedding, the royals and so on.
One of the articles required travelling up to the island of Anglesey, in north Wales, where Prince William is stationed as a helicopter pilot at RAF Valley. I went to get a feel of the place and chat with people about their opinions of William's drawing worldwide attention to that otherwise forgotten corner of the world. But more importantly, the experience gave me a chance to explore Anglesey, something I had never done.
The area, with its wealth of history (St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, is thought to have been born there), has always fascinated me. Upon looking at a Cadw map (Cadw being an organisation in Wales that looks after historic monuments and sites) one sees that Anglesey is littered with ancient burial chambers, castles and various other spots to spark an overactive American imagination. Also, it has a relatively high proportion of Welsh speakers. But somehow I had never been there, save for trips to Holyhead to take the ferry to Dublin.
One reason I had not yet been was my expectation that Anglesey would be a shit hole. This expectation was based on my experiences of visiting Holyhead, one of Britain's most disappointing towns. But it turns out that a good bit of Anglesey is, in fact, lovely -- especially the southern and eastern coasts. They offer the mix of British countryside, mountain views, and sandy beach that the Wales tourist board really should be promoting better, rather than encouraging people to visit some miserable slate quarry or ridiculous fictional village. I have long been convinced that the Wales tourism board is run by people who hate Wales.
There are two vlog posts covering the days I was in Anglesey:
- Day One
- Day Two
I also took several photos, which can be found here.

~8~ Spring weather: In one of the videos from Anglesey I mention a suspicion that my fondness for the area is somewhat borne of the weather experienced whilst there. The majority of April has been sunny and warm, pushing this island into that wonderful stretch of year when Britain feels like the most beautiful place on Earth. The unending misery of winter is forgotten.
Almost. There are times when I find myself driving along with the windows down, sunglasses on, and suddenly I think: "This won't last. The Long Dark will return. It will envelope you, sap you of your energy, hope and creativity. It is coming, Chris. You cannot escape the Long Dark. Woe. Despair. Moan."
But that is still several months away. And in the meantime there is the wonderful spring-summer of Britain. Never too hot, the trees leafy green, the air sweet. And with it the promise of little adventures. Jenn and I are keen to celebrate the summer. We hope to find various cheesy folk festivals and take part in the revelry. For example, I remember watching a feature piece several years ago on Cornish wrestling. In the piece, it talked about a tournament where anyone who's game is allowed to participate in the ancient sport (which is a bit like Judo). So, one of my ambitions for the summer is to take a weekend trip to Cornwall so I can get beat up in an old-school style.
No, I will not be taking part in any shin kicking or cheese rolling, but if you can think of any unique festivals taking place this summer, let me know.

~8~ Sunrise on Pen y Fan: In early April, Jenn and I took advantage of the unusually warm weather and clear skies to see the sun rise from atop Pen y Fan, the tallest peak in south Wales. We woke up at 3 a.m., drove out to the Brecon Beacons mountain range and hiked up Pen y Fan in the dark in order to be there at 6:28 a.m. for sunrise.
In planning the outing, it felt like a quirky, unique thing to do -- the sort of thing one does mostly for the sake of being able to tell others that one has done it. But it turned out to be one of those incredible life events, one of those moments I pray will flash back to me in my last breath so I'll know I've lived a full life.
There is, of course, a vlog from that day, and it does a relatively good job of showing you some of the beauty, but I'll be honest that it comes nowhere near to capturing the moment.
The great blessing of life, and the curse of any attempt to accurately capture it, is that life is too big to be placed within the confines of pictures or words or sounds. Life, at its best, is similar to the Nevada Problem.
"The Nevada Problem" is a term I made up when driving across America in 2009. Soaring across the great stretches of the Silver State, one is often confronted with vistas that are literally stunning. The mind goes blank from the beauty inherent in immensity. But if you stop and try to photograph such a thing, it doesn't fit in the camera lens. You'll get home and find your camera filled with images of dirt and sky. I took pictures of Nevada, but none of them really show what I experienced.
Sunrise on Pen y Fan presents the same problem. You can watch the video from that day, watch the sun pulling itself into the serenity of morning, but it simply can't convey all that Jenn and I felt. It made me cry, yo. I would liked to have thought myself the sort of person to not tear up at a meteorological event, but that was before I saw sunrise from atop a mountain.

~8~ Visiting London: Jenn and I decided to make the best of my royal wedding assignment, turning it into a proper little holiday. Thanks to the awesomeness of my friends Jen and Dave, we had a place to stay free of charge, so we were able to spend all our money on barbecue and Mexican food and caramel ice cream and various other delicious items that can't be found in Cardiff. And we had a great time. Obviously, the wedding day festivities were a highlight but I also simply enjoyed wandering about with Jenn, each moment a wee adventure.

~8~ Great British Menu: Some people mark their years by the seasons, the migrations of birds, etc.; I seem to track the passing of the days by what's on British television. It is now GBM season, when top chefs from across the realm compete to take part in a banquet to be held in late June. Written out like that, it probably doesn't sound like great television. Cooking shows rarely are. Yet they have a strange ability to not only draw us in but instil a kind of loyalty to the programme. I don't simply want to watch, I feel I must. Admittedly, it's not "Iron Chef America" but you take what you are given.

~8~ Getting a phone call from Google: I have been out of work for a very long time. Over the past several months I've spent more than enough time raging against fate for the fact I was totally ensnared by the lie that speaking Welsh helps a person get a job, but that hasn't really done anything to resolve my unemployed status. Since no one is hiring, I have taken to sending letters to people I would like to work for. Thus far this tactic has produced the sort of result you might expect -- the same result that poring through newspapers and websites looking for actual jobs has produced.
One of the companies I sent letters to was Google, both their offices in London and Dublin. In the letter I told them that I am awesome and claimed that if the Welsh language were kung fu, I would be a Shaolin monk. No, really. That's what I wrote in the letter.
And a few days after sending it I got a call from the Dublin offices. Unfortunately, the phone call was one to inform me that there is no real need for Welsh-speaking skillz at the moment. But the thing I loved is that Google actually responded. No one else has. A number of actual jobs I've applied for haven't even responded. That Google would be considerate enough to read my letter and respond to it made me wish even more I could work for them.

The day Jenn and I went to a royal wedding

2011-05-01T15:55:00.000+01:00

For some reason, despite doing so on Twitter and Facebook, I feel somewhat averse to promoting my daily vlog on this website. But Jenn and I had such a great time on the day of Wills and Kate's wedding, I just want to draw a little extra attention to the video from that day:

Inside The Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T11:12:00.005+01:00

Originally published on Click2Houston.com

LONDON -- According to some estimates, almost one-third of the world's population will have watched all or some of the royal wedding today. Amongst the most hard-core of those watchers were the 600,000 people who filled local parks to watch on giant television screens, and lined the wedding procession route. Here's a report from inside that crowd.

06:30 - Sunrise has been rather cold and gray but that seems to have had no effect on the jubilant mood of the crowd. Many hundreds have been here through the night, camping out along the procession route. Setting up a tent and spending the night on a London street may seem a bit extreme, but campers were rewarded last night by a surprise visit from Prince William and his brother, Prince Harry.

07:30 - There are some nervous eyes looking toward the sky as the occasional drop of rain finds its way to a reveller's forehead or nose. It feels unfortunate considering the incredibly good weather London has been experiencing over the past week. But a BBC weather forecaster has just promised the crowd a break in the clouds just in time for the wedding ceremony. A cold wind is keeping people moving around, or perhaps that's just excitement. Outbursts of singing are becoming increasingly common.

08:30 - Already the parks and procession route are filling up. Meanwhile the first of the wedding guests are beginning to stream into Westminster Abbey. For those of us watching on the enormous television screen in Hyde Park, it is a case of trying to spot someone famous. Others are working on developing their own fame; news media from around the world are everywhere. If you've ever wanted to be filmed wearing a silly hat, this is your best hope.

09:30 - It is a party atmosphere, reminiscent of Britain's famous rock festivals, but with the attendees being far better behaved. Britain's police forces -- some 6,000 officers are on the streets -- are to be commended for their friendliness and goodwill in dealing with the hundreds of thousands out for the day.

10:30 - Our plan to move from Hyde Park to Green Park, along the wedding procession route, has failed miserably. Green Park, St. James Park and Trafalgar Square have all been closed. These massive public areas are full to capacity. Hyde Park is still taking people in. The throng of people now watching the giant TV screens extends at least 1/4 a mile.

11:30 - The wedding is under way. Each time the camera shows Kate the crowd goes wild. Many women are dressed in bridal gowns, men dressed in tuxedoes and top hats. Union Jack flags are seemingly requisite.

12:30 - The wedding is done. Will and Kate are man and wife. We have sung "God Save the Queen" no less than six times. Other patriotic songs can be heard among the crowds, as well as the sound of cans of alcoholic beverages being opened. It is time to party. People in Hyde Park are either attempting to disperse or -- more wisely -- settling into picnics.

13:30 - The family appear on the balcony of Buckingham Palace, drawing wild cheers from all watching. The quick kisses between Prince William and Princess Catherine (we have been informed that "Kate" is no longer acceptable) are met with flag waving and screaming. The flyover by a WWII bomber is a particular treat. A woman nearby screamed, "I love Britain," and had to sit down.

14:00 - It has become a full-on party in Hyde Park. More than 120,000 are singing along and dancing to a live band. The sun has come out and it's a good bet this scene is repeating itself in parks, street parties and houses all across the country. For one day, one moment, this country -- so uncomfortable usually with displays of national pride -- is taking a little pleasure in itself. The monarchy is safe. God save the queen, and the prince and future princess who will one day follow her. For now, however, there is a conga line forming...

Royal Wedding Inescapable In Britain

2011-04-27T11:07:00.001+01:00

Originally published on Click2Houston.com

LONDON -- Ask a typical Briton his or her opinion of the impending royal wedding and you will get a well-rehearsed eye roll or quick huff of breath.

The media coverage drenching the most-talked-about wedding in a generation has long since saturated this country. People have had enough. The event is inescapable.

Still, in the month before the wedding, in this country that usually shies away from displays of patriotism, the Union Jack has increasingly been found everywhere and on everything. Pubs and bars advertise drink specials, encouraging patrons to watch the event on big-screen televisions. Prince William's and Kate Middleton's images are found on every imaginable surface, be it tea mugs or toilet lids.

The image of Kate, particularly, is requisite in the daily newspapers. One could more easily imagine a tabloid choosing to eschew words rather than a picture of the princess-to-be.
There is no ducking the wedding. At least not for those still in the country. Thanks to a trifecta of public holidays landing on or near the wedding, an estimated 2 million Britons will be abroad when William and Kate take their vows. But even they will find it difficult to escape worldwide interest in the event.

London, of course, is built for this sort of thing. Few places in the world are better equipped to handle such a large public gathering. But even in London terms, this is a massive event; roughly one-third of the world's population is expected to watch all or some of the wedding, by some estimates. Organizers are taking it very seriously. Police have already warned that disruptions will not be tolerated. Those hoping to demonstrate republican or anti-royal sentiment will not be allowed near the procession nor its audience.

Outside Westminster Abbey, where the wedding will take place, huge stands have been erected for the world's press. One stand immediately outside the cathedral is built to hold several hundred people. Elsewhere, inside and out, dozens of cameras have been stationed to capture every conceivable angle of the ceremony.

In London's Hyde Park and Trafalgar Square, both near the route of the wedding procession, huge television screens have been erected for the thousands upon thousands of well-wishers expected to turn out in hopes of seeing the happy couple as they pass by. Meanwhile, both national and local government websites are awash with detailed information on the what, where and when of the event, with festivities set to begin officially at 7 a.m. local time.

Helpfully, the UK's public services website, Directgov, offers this advice: "Visitors are advised to dress for the weather but to get in the wedding mood and wear a hat."

A fancy hat may not be enough for some people. A number of visitors have said they are planning to arrive dressed in their very best -- many promising tuxedos and elaborate gowns. Others may look a little less presentable on the day, but with good reason: several hundred people plan to camp out along the procession route the night before, to ensure their prime view of the happy couple.

Britain's residents may still insist upon rolling their eyes at talk of the royal wedding, but quite clearly the country is wedding mad. There is talk of rain in the forecast, but it is unlikely to keep onlookers away -- even those who claim not to be interested.

Will And Kate's Unlikely Island Home

2011-04-26T11:00:00.003+01:00

Originally published on Click2Houston.com

BEAUMARIS, Wales -- Far away from the heaving, cheering crowds and pageantry of Prince William and Kate Middleton's wedding day is the tiny windswept island of Anglesey (pronounced: "Angle Sea"), in northwest Wales. For a while, at least, the couple will call the island home while William completes his current tour of duty.

He is stationed at Royal Air Force base Valley, on the island's western coast, serving as a search and rescue pilot. He has already taken part in a number of rescues both on sea and in nearby mountainous terrain. His presence on the island has not gone unnoticed, and that notoriety is only set to increase as he and Kate step further into the limelight via their royal duties.

There is a certain irony in the couple that will most likely be Britain's future king and queen calling Anglesey home. The island has always taken pride in being just that little bit different from the rest of the British archipelago. Almost 2,000 years ago, it was one of the last strongholds against Roman invaders. According to legend, the Romans killed all the men and cut the women's tongues out to keep them from telling children of their ancestry.

Today, it is one of the furnaces of Welsh-language culture. Despite the majority of Welsh speakers living in the southern areas of Wales, the bulk of the language's authors and poets come from Anglesey and the immediately surrounding areas of north Wales.

Being a Welsh speaker often goes hand in hand with being a Welsh separatist. Roughly 70 percent of Anglesey's population are Welsh speakers. The island's representative in Wales' government is Ieuan Wyn Jones, head of Plaid Cymru -- a political party whose members have long sought to break from the United Kingdom and make Wales an independent country.

Owain Môn was born and raised on Anglesey and is so fiercely proud of his roots that he uses the old Welsh tradition of adopting one's region as a surname. His name more or less translates to: "Owain of Anglesey." He is, perhaps unsurprisingly, not particularly interested in the royal wedding. And he questions any benefit the presence of William and Kate might bring.

"Let's say that it's good for Anglesey financially," says Owain. "To what end? A couple extra Yank tourists show up; so what? How long will that last? It's hardly building a sustainable future, is it? And the people they might bring, what good are they? They don't come to see what's actually here. They don't respect my culture."

Owain's viewpoint is relatively common in the region, but it is a viewpoint most prefer to keep to themselves. People of Anglesey have a tradition of showing a certain tolerance toward things they disagree with. A visitor might not even be aware of locals' complacent dislike of William and Kate. That would be especially true if he or she spoke to someone in the tourist trade.

"It can't hurt, can it? If people want to come here in hopes of spotting [William and Kate], they're very welcome," says John Rigby, landlord of the Sailor's Return pub.

Nodding toward a shop across the road that has bedecked its storefront with Union Jack banners, he notes that business owners in his village have seen the wedding as an opportunity.

"We've got some bunting up already," he says. "I suspect there will be more [decoration] on the day."

The couple's direct effect on tourism, however, may be difficult to gauge. Several ferries a day run from Anglesey to Ireland, making Anglesey already-well-traveled territory. Indeed, in the days immediately before the royal wedding it was an escape route for many of those not interested in celebrating.

Thanks to the official holiday days resulting from the royal wedding and May Day, upward of 2 million Britons are expected to be abroad when William and Kate take their vows. Among them are John and Debbie Shields, from England's Midlands region.

"We're going over to Ireland to stay with her sister. We'll be there the whole time, thank God," says John. "I have no interest in the wedding. I will be sitting in the back garden enjoying a pint, thank you."

Debbie is less cynical, saying she plans to watch the wedding on television.

"It's a bit of fun, isn't it?" she says. "And it's historic. I'm interested to see what everyone is wearing."

The couple travel frequently to Ireland, usually spending a night on Anglesey before catching a morning ferry. Asked whether they think the presence of William and Kate will have an effect, they are unsure.

"I would hope they wouldn't bring too many more people," says Debbie. "It's already quite bad in the summers."

"I'm not sure William and Kate will mean that much," says John. "With the good weather we've been having, that blinking Gadhafi could buy a summer home here and people would still come."

Eight things I loved about March

2011-04-05T16:04:00.000+01:00

~8~ Jenn: One of the frequent lessons of the internets is that a fellow should be cautious when effusing romantic about his girlfriend. Words sometimes last longer than the emotions that formed them and often the person writing them is the only one who actually cares. There is the question of relevance. I am quite obviously an open-source type; so much of what I write and do comes from being open about myself and my life. But does anyone really need to know so much about the dark-haired girl who makes me swoon? Why does it matter how highly I think of a person? And in promulgating such aspects of my life, aren't I making a decision for someone else -- deciding for them that they, too, will make their lives available for all to see?
So, I've not really spoken much about Jenn on the blog (in part because I've not really spoken much about anything on the blog lately). I've simply enjoyed being in her company, enjoyed that she is in my life and that I am in hers. But sometimes I really want to brag. So, I will say here simply that Jenn is awesome.

~8~ My birthday I turned 35 years old on 20 March. The night before, Jenn invited me over and promised to cook for me. When I arrived at her flat I discovered she had stealthily arranged for my friends Jen and Dave to come out from London to surprise me. My birthday celebrations, then, began with my eyes welling up with tears of joy.
My friends were only able to stay the night, in Cardiff for less than 24 hours. After a big breakfast in the first-day-of-spring sun, I drove them to the train station. Then Jenn and I headed west to St. David's, where we spent a few days being silly and lazy and exploring the Pembrokeshire coast. The whole multi-day birthday experience was topped off when Jenn decided it would be a good idea for us to drink gin and tonic in a bubble bath. It was, unquestionably, one of the high points of my life.
In this picture taken on my birthday, you'll note I'm wearing the same shirt as exactly one year before, when I went out to Dublin to stay with Donal and Isobel. It is apparently my birthday shirt. Or the shirt of good birthdays. Though, I suspect my clothing has nothing to do with it; I am simply blessed with good friends.

~8~ Pancake Day: Mardis gras isn't quite as exciting in the Soggy Nations as it is in, say New Orleans. Rather than downing hurricanes and lifting our shirts for plastic beads we simply sit around and eat pancakes. Shrove Tuesday in Britain, therefore, is known as Pancake Day. As is the case with so many British things, pancakes over here are made oh-so-slightly differently than those found in the Land of Freedom. British pancakes are thinner, usually served only with lemon and sugar rather than the accoutrements usually seen in the U.S.
But (primarily because I don't know how to make any other style) Jenn and I celebrated with American-style pancakes. The highlight of the evening was when Jenn tried maple syrup for the first time, inspiring euphoric fits of laughter and the exclamation: "Oh! Why have we been dicking about with lemon and sugar?"

~8~ Vloggery: You might have noticed that in all the above items, I linked to sections of my daily vlog. Strangely inspired by a loud Mormon family from Idaho I've been recording a vlog since December. Those of you playing along at home will know what a vlog is, because they've been around for years. But, remember that I live in Wales; they're still suspicious of email over here. The other day I ran into a guy who had never heard of vlogging, so for his ilk I'll explain that a "vlog" is a video blog: an online diary entry via audio-visual medium. Throughout the day I carry around a camera about the size of a mobile phone, keeping note of whatever happens to be taking place in my life. Usually it's not all that amazing, but perhaps therein lies the appeal. To be honest, I can't really come up with concrete answers as to whether a vlog is all that special nor whether it should be watched. I know simply that I record one every day and strangely enjoy it.
Up until late March I was doing my vlog in Welsh, but then I realised: I have only two friends who speak Welsh. My family and the overwhelming majority of the people I care about are English speakers. So, now I record everything "en inglés," as the Norwegians say. Requisite self-promotion goes here: You can find my vlog on YouTube at www.youtube.com/user/ChrisCopeful.

~8~ Southerndown: I vlogged that day, as well, of course. Not too long ago, Jenn and I drove out to the western edge of the Vale of Glamorgan, a regional term that I'm sure means nothing to you if you're not from Wales. Basically, the Vale of Glamorgan is the sticky-outy bit on the southern edge of Wales. Admittedly, "the southern edge of Wales" is a regional term that probably means nothing to you if you're not from Wales. Just imagine that I live in an enchanted and faraway land, full of castles and trolls. Some of the faraway land is really shit, and some of it is really amazing. Southerndown is one of the parts that are really amazing.
And one of the amazing things about it is that it doesn't feel like Wales. I don't mean that in a negative way, but simply in the sense that Jenn and I woke up in Penarth, drove 30 minutes and found ourselves in a landscape that felt so much different than the one we had woken up in. Britain often surprises a person in this way, so frequently packing such uniquely different things into tiny tiny spaces.

~8~ Remembering that I like Britain: Over the past few weeks I've been writing a number of articles for my erstwhile benevolent employer, relating to life on the Island of Rain and various aspects of that life as pertain to the royal family. This is silliness, of course -- similar, perhaps, to Britons who go to America and obsess about cowboys. But writing these articles has spurred me to remember that I did actually want to move here almost five years ago. I wasn't forced; I worked incredibly hard toward the goal of calling Britain home and daydreamed about it for years before making it happen. My experience within the tiny, conjugated Welsh-speaking culture has not turned out the way I'd have liked, but such is life. And that insular little world is far from indicative of Britain as a whole. And on the whole, this soggy archipelago is somewhere I still want to be.

~8~ Wonders of the Universe: One of the reasons, of course, to love Britain is the BBC. And the BBC is loveable because it produces programmes like "Wonders of the Universe," a series on physics and what we know about the universe. Each Sunday in March, Jenn and I would try to ensure we were in front of the TV just in time to watch Brian Cox walk around exotic locations in unflattering T-shirts and explain that the universe operates in such a way that one may need to lie down for a while upon contemplating it. You just don't get this kind of television in America.

~8~ Professor Elemental: You may have already heard of Professor Elemental, the steampunk-esque "chap-hop" performer who raps about tea and fighting trousers; he's been around for a few years. The basic premise of Professor Elemental is that of a Victorian gentleman who raps. Which is funny in concept and often quite funny in application. I mean, what's not to like about using, "I don't like your tweed, sir," as a diss?
As I say, I had heard of him quite a while ago. But Jenn had not heard of him until this month. So, the thing I've loved this month has been Jenn's amusement. Inspired by Professor Elemental, Jenn has taken to occasionally launching into her own monologues, adopting the persona of a heavy-drinking wealthy woman of the same era. Here's a section I remember from a roughly 10-minute bit she did in the car the other day:
"Ah, yes. Our brothers, the French. Do they know how to live? Yes. Yes, I say they do. Do they know how to wash? No. Most certainly not. Filthy, filthy people. Why, I saw one of them relieving himself in a public space. I was aghast, I tell you. Jeffery had to bring me some water. And a bit of sherry. Mmm. sherry always helps."

Life In Britain: A Little Mist Must Fall

2011-04-04T10:38:00.001+01:00

Originally published on Click2Houston.com

LONDON - Contrary to popular belief, it does not always rain here. In fact, by American standards it hardly rains at all. The great heavy storms that drench the Midwest and at times pelt the U.S. coasts are rare in Britain. The last time I heard thunder here was in summer 2006.

In Britain, it mists. Sometimes the mist is fine, like the sprays at Disney World that cool beleaguered tourists. Sometimes the mist is heavy, like jets at a car wash. The months stretching from October to March are almost nothing but mist. Miserable, soul-destroying, bone-chilling, ceaseless mist only occasionally broken up by snow.

It is perfect weather for sitting inside, and often true to the stereotype, many Britons find refuge in pubs. The definition of what exactly constitutes a pub is loose. In some cases, pubs resemble American sports bars; others are more like old churches. But there is always drink, and there is always talk.

The British are exceptionally good talkers. It is a product of their centuries spent in public houses, using the combined body heat of others to stave off the effects of perpetual cold mist. Stuck for months on end in these confined spaces, the British have honed the art of discussing anything and everything at length.

The discussions are not always based in fact. Sweeping generalizations, wives' tales, third-hand wisdom and weak summaries of things overheard are common. A night spent in the pub could easily lead to a week of fact-checking if anyone bothered to do it. But again, the company is good.

In the spring and summer, the mist clears, sometimes giving way to real rain. But sometimes there is sun, and those are the times Britons live for. When the sun shines on the British archipelago, it does so in a way that one never experiences in America. The sky feels closer. The grass grows greener. Pub conversations spill out into beer gardens. The lawns of city parks become a quilt of picnics. All that mist makes the sun shine brighter, and suddenly, Britain becomes the most wonderful place in the world.

Britain is full of contradictions. It is an idiosyncratic little island that once ruled the world, where one facet of life coexists with its opposite.

The British, for example, are in love with bureaucracy and order -- everything in this country requires three forms and a passport photo. Yet they delight in ridiculing their authority figures.

On television, blows to the skull, whether by foot or chair or headbutt, are edited out of professional wrestling. Not proper. But there are multiple free channels featuring nothing but topless women encouraging you to call them.

Britons complain endlessly about the outdated and inefficient ways in which they approach almost every task, but they'll complain loudest when someone suggests making a change.

They drive on the left but walk on the right. McDonald's franchises can be found next to the ruins of Roman fortresses.

For an American living in Britain, it can be dizzying. British culture has so many things in common with the United States that some Americans refer to this corner of Europe as "the 51st state." Pub legend has it that former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher once did the same.

But Britain is not America. They do things differently here; it is a different place. Sometimes the variances are hard to grasp, like a mist, but they are there, and they are often what makes living here worthwhile.

God Save The Queen, For Now

2011-03-31T09:31:00.000+01:00

Originally published on Click2Houston.com

LONDON -- Officially, Queen Elizabeth II is in charge of this little island. In the British system of government, the monarch is the highest executive authority, in the way that the president is the highest executive authority of the United States.

But in practice, the modern British monarch has only the power of a bully pulpit. For the most part, Elizabeth II is a face to put on the money, a name to put on official documents, a nice lady to welcome foreign dignitaries.

How the queen's subjects feel about her often depends on their interpretation of the monarch's role: God-appointed power, or charming titular head of state?

The chasm between what the monarchy is today and what the monarchy was in the past lends itself to confusion even among regular Britons. Despite the royal family's omnipresence in the tabloids, everyday citizens tend not to know much about the monarchy's place and role in modern society. Ask a person about the royal family, and you'll more than likely receive an emotional response or grandiose fabrication about their eating swans or being in charge of elite assassination squads.

"When I was younger, I used to be a hard-core left winger. I adopted every 'anti' position that I could find," confesses university lecturer Dyfrig Jones. "Over time I've worked my way back to the political center, but if there is one thing that takes me back to my youth, it's the royal family."

Jones bases his contempt of the royal family on ideological grounds. Their presence, he said, shows respect to an outdated and unfair way of looking at the world.

"How deeply is servitude ingrained into our national psyche that we would give up a second of our time to think about the lives of these leeches that draw huge personal wealth from the taxes that we pay?" he asks.

The issue of tax money is one that comes up frequently in arguments about the monarchy. The royal household is allocated £7.9 million ($12.7 million) a year by the government to help cover the salaries and pensions of its more than 300 members of staff. Add in costs of police protection and so on, and the annual cost of a queen runs a little more. In the 2009-10 financial year, the monarchy cost the British public £38.2 million (roughly $61.4 million).

But some would argue that is value for money. In the same financial year, it is estimated that Elizabeth II brought in more than £100 million ($160 million) to the British public purse. That figure takes into account charity work, official functions and the land and property cared for as part of the Crown Estate. The amount of international tourism money brought in by the royal family is harder to measure, but it is generally accepted to be a factor in many people's decision to visit the country.

The Crown Estate is a collection of land and property, ancient buildings and art, owned and maintained by the royal family. These items are generally open to the public to view and visit. Business consultant Siân Dafydd said this portfolio is a reason she's content to see the royal family as a part of modern Britain.

"I wouldn't trust the government right now to have kept these works of art and architecture and heritage in the current climate," she says, referring to a recent furor over government plans to sell off sections of national forest.

"[The government] would have sold them off to the odd millionaire who'd have shut the doors or made hotels. As guardians of this property and land, I've no objections to the royals."

Ensuring that the public stays objection-free is thought to be one of the primary concerns for the royal family. With no real power over the country, the monarchy's future rests in the hands of the public mood. To that end, Prince William and Catherine Middleton have been a tremendous boost.

But in this country that is so famously resistant to change, the monarchy also has a place simply because it has always had a place. And many Britons carry a fondness toward the monarchy because it is something that helps them stand out in the world.

"It's one of the things that make Britain a little bit different. What is wrong with being old-fashioned?" said Anne, a waitress in Cardiff. "I enjoy having the queen on my money, reminding me that Britain used to be considered, and still can be, great."

An Idiot's History Of The British Monarchy

2011-03-28T16:04:00.000+01:00

Originally published on Click2Houston.com

LONDON -- In the simplest of terms, Elizabeth Windsor is better known to the world as Queen Elizabeth II because some guy got shot in the eye with an arrow. Don't worry, she had nothing to do with that particularly gruesome act. It happened almost 900 years before she was born.

The unfortunate recipient of that arrow was a man named Harold, who was once king of much of the area now known as England. In 1066 AD, a French bloke known to his friends as William the Bastard came across the channel, crushed Harold's army and picked up the far more appealing title of William the Conqueror. And that's more or less where Britain's monarchy begins, making it one of the oldest royal institutions in Europe.

That said, the line connecting William the Conqueror to modern-day Prince William of Wales is anything but straight. In fact, things were pretty blurry right at the start, with a number of people claiming the title of sovereign. And none were able to claim to be in charge of the entire island of Britain.

The first real attempt at such a thing was made by Edward I (1272-1307): the bad guy in the film "Braveheart." He managed to conquer the notoriously contentious Welsh but spent so much money doing so he was then unable to defeat Mel Gibson. Or, well, something like that.

Roughly 200 years later, the old issue of who was actually in charge boiled over to the extent that a fight broke out. That fight, known as the War of the Roses, lasted for roughly 30 years (1455-1485) and ended when Henry VIII's dad got married.

Henry VIII is easily one of the most famous kings, not only in the history of Britain but in the history of the world. During his 38-year reign (1509-1547), he went from being young, sexy and talented to being old, fat and scary. He was the Elvis of his day, but with far more torture and killing. All his foibles aside, however, Henry VIII's reign helped England, and by extension, Britain, start to develop its own unique personality.

That personality was further developed and expanded by his daughter, Elizabeth I (1558-1603). The guy who took over after her, James I (1603-1625) strengthened the concept of Britain even further by being the first king of both Scotland and England: the first sovereign of a United Kingdom.

In the following centuries, although the kings and queens of Britain could now claim reign over wider and wider areas -- famously, the sun never set on the British Empire of Queen Victoria (1837-1901) -- their actual power gradually ebbed away. By the time George VI (1936-1952) was thrust into the job, the primary role of monarch was to serve as a national figurehead. As we know from the move "The King's Speech," one of the biggest challenges George VI faced was putting words together. A monarch was now expected to be a role model, someone for Britons to look up to and aspire to be like. Thankfully, George VI had Captain Barbossa on his side. Or, well, something like that.

Since 1952, Queen Elizabeth II has admirably fulfilled the nuanced responsibilities of her role. What Britain is and what it means to be British are ideas that have shifted dramatically during Elizabeth's reign. She and the royal household famously suffered a public relations embarrassment in the wake of Princess Diana's death in 1997, but she has since adapted and is now seen by many as a sort of national grandmother.

Questions abound for what sort of reign Prince Charles will experience. His sons, William and Harry, are far better at dealing with constant media and public attention than he is. Whether Charles has the savvy and patience to excel as a modern monarch remains to be seen.

The role of monarch has changed immensely since the days of William the Conqueror, but perhaps one facet of the job is still the same. In that battle in which Harold took an arrow to the eye, William's men almost lost the day because they thought their leader, too, had been killed. Things only turned in William's favor when he threw off his helmet to reveal he was still in the fight. The role of monarch, then, has always been to be lead -- whether it be with sword or with words.