When we get to cheat

John Thompson had his arms ripped off by a piece of farm machinery when he was 18 years old.

That sort of thing happens in North Dakota. Go to the diners and bars and churches of the Peace Garden State, look at the worn hands of old men and you will see fingers missing. Sometimes the whole hand. Sometimes more. The fabric of the universe is woven together with unfairness and sometimes the simple act of trying to feed your family will cost a piece of you.

John's arms were ripped off just below the shoulder and he was knocked unconscious. His dog brought him back, licking his face, whining and barking. Confused, blood pouring from his body, John rocked himself up and onto his feet. 

"I didn't want to lay there and die," he later told a newspaper.

He dizzily made his way 150 yards to the house and managed to open the door with a series of kicks. He fell inside, found a pencil with which to clench in his teeth and dialled 911. He calmly explained to the person on the other end what had happened, asked if they wouldn't mind sending an ambulance, then went to sit in the bathtub, so he wouldn't get blood on his mother's new carpet.

It was January, which is a bitterly cold and awful time to be in North Dakota, unless, perhaps, you've just had your arms ripped off. The cold and snow helped to preserve his arms. Because of it, all three items -- John, his left arm, and his right arm -- arrived the hospital in about the best condition one could expect for things which shouldn't ever be separated.

The state of North Dakota, of course, is conveniently located next to the state of Minnesota, which, fortunately for John, is home to all kinds of amazing medical research. John and his arms were quickly transported there and it was collectively decided by family and doctors: Hey, what the hell -- let's try strapping these things back on and see what happens.

The story made national news. I was 13 years old at the time, living in a Minneapolis suburb, and John's story was to be found on every newscast, every night, for several days. Over and over they'd show an airbrushed high school yearbook photo of a pimple-faced, scrawny boy with one of the most embarrassing mullets you've ever seen, posing next to his dog. A local daytime talk show promised to have an expert on to discuss John's case and I faked illness to be able to stay home and watch it.

Eventually, he was there in front of the cameras, painfully shy and awkward, his arms in slings and his hands purple and puffy, but amazingly and miraculously intact. He quietly apologised to his mother for getting any blood on the carpet and promised to clean it up as soon as he could, and smiled a quiet little smile while the whole room laughed and cheered and cameras clicked and whirred.

Several months later, he was asked to sing the National Anthem at a Twins baseball game. He came and stood in front of thousands of people and the shyness on his face suggested he might have preferred to just have his arms ripped off again rather than suffer all this attention. He warbled through the anthem and I found myself crying as I watched. 

That was 20 years ago. His story has stuck with me ever since. I found myself thinking about him again this morning.

I am a cynical person. I often blame my years working in journalism, but I don't know if that's actually true. Maybe I am just a miserable person. And when I look at the world around me, I see running through it, as I say, unfairness and cruelty. These things are constants -- they are inevitabilities. Bad stuff is going to happen. When another baby is mauled to death by a pit bull, when another child drowns, when another young mother is brutally murdered, when another father is killed by a drunken driver, when another grandmother dies of neglect, I find myself frustratingly unaffected. It is sad, but not surprising. Terrible things are waiting for all of us.

John's story has stuck with me because it feels as if he cheated. His arms were ripped off, but then someone put them back on so he could wave his middle finger in the face of fate. And when one of us somehow gets away with such a thing -- even just one of us -- it gives you hope. It makes me think: Maybe I, too, could win that lottery, could somehow pull off a stunning upset against the incontrovertibility of misery. Chilean miners, Ernest Shackleton walking 32 miles over mountains, and John Thompson getting his arms back are things that help me get out of bed in the morning.

But when good things happen to me, I get worried. I think: maybe that was it; maybe that was my last triumph; maybe I won't get to cheat again.

Eight things I loved about January

~8~ Reading: I mentioned in a previous post that I've been reading quite a bit more lately, thanks to the fact my parents gave me a Kindle for Christmas. There's something silly about the fact I wrote a book for Kindle more than a year ago but did not actually own one of the devices until just recently. After initially thinking e-readers were an awful idea (when my mother first asked me about them roughly a decade ago) I have now become so in their favour that I feel exasperated by those who express opposition to the technology.

I'm not one to think that the beloved old paper-bound book will ever cease to exist, but I don't hold any ridiculous emotional attachment to a book's smell or feel or taste or whatever the hell it is that e-book detractors lament the absence of. To me, a book is not a physical experience. If I want to touch and feel something, I prefer it to be a lady. The words are all that really matter to me, so I am happy for them to exist on a small device that fits easily into my backpack. I realise I may be in a minority on this in particular, but I have always thoroughly disliked the actual feel of books.
"Turning pages has always felt creepy," I mentioned to Jenn recently.
She just laughed at me.
Like a lot of people with e-readers, I find myself now reading more as a result of owning one. I don't quite understand why this is. I suppose one reason is that I am able to prop the reader up and continue reading whilst eating a meal. I had never figured a good way to eat whilst reading a physical book. I had trouble keeping the book on the right page without the assistance of some sort of weight, then, once I balanced everything perfectly, turning the page would require putting down the sandwich/barbecue rib/fried dolphin/etc. I was eating, wiping my hands, turning the page, and re-positioning everything all over again.
Now I need only keep a pinky clean to be able to advance the story. Hooray progress.
Admittedly, there are some drawbacks: an e-reader will come out worse if thrown from the top of a house or if left in the polar regions; an e-reader makes a less functional place marker at a coffee shop (a thief is unlikely to take your physical copy of Barbara Kingsolver's Lacuna, but would be happy to walk off with a Kindle); and some vane, self-involved part of me laments that I am not able to put the books I've read onto a shelf so as to impress house guests. But perhaps rows and rows of books written by professional wrestlers wouldn't be all that impressive anyway.

~8~ Writing: My recent increase in literary input seems to have had a positive effect on my output. In January, slowly -- frustratingly slowly -- I found myself tapping out more words. I have begun to work in earnest on a book titled Tales of a Toffee-Covered Llama. You may have noticed, as well, a slight uptick in the number of blog posts.
I am frustrated by my slowness, though -- frustrated by the fact I am not as prolific as I used to be (nor, I feel, as witty).
But it is something.
I've suffered a kind of on-off comfortable writer's block since summer 2010, so it is not surprising I am this out of practise, that the ideas and phrases don't form as quickly as I know they can, and as I feel they should. In the moments I am honest with myself, I can admit I am still trying to pull my feet from that swamp. But in all other moments I feel frustrated; I get afraid I've lost my talent.
Still, it is something.
I am writing, and that is more like the person I want myself to be.

~8~ 'Rithmetic: I'm having to use some old-school misspelling to stick to the alliterative theme of this post. And by "arithmetic" what I actually mean is "finance." And it's not really something that I'm loving. But, January was a month in which I started to get a slight grasp on my currently woeful financial situation. The biggest step toward that was scrapping my car. That means I no longer have access to most of Wales, but it also means no longer carrying the burden of insurance, tax, MOT, maintenance and petrol. As I write this, I have just £6 in my current account but it is still early in the month -- my pittance from Welsh teaching has yet to arrive. So, I am assuming, hoping, that eventually this course of action will be of some benefit. In particular, I am hoping to see some kind of benefit in time to get Jenn a birthday present.

~8~ Resume: The reason I am in such financial dire straits, of course, is that I remain without full-time employment. The effect of this is overwhelming; I am being suffocated by a sense of uselessness, which makes me in turns despondent and bitterly angry. Frustratingly, I know the only way to break loose of all this misery is to get work, and the best way to get work is to not allow myself to be consumed by the misery.
Actually, let me clarify: It is not work that I want, but money. If I had money, there are plenty of things I could and would do to keep my mind, body and spirit busy. But I don't have money, so I need work. The fact that I cannot find work -- that I am able-bodied, quick-minded, hard-working, possess two university degrees and nigh 20 years experience, but am still unemployed -- is like an emotional cancer.
I will be honest with you that I have lost faith in myself. But, unfortunately, a lack of self-belief does nothing to stave hunger. I still need to eat; I still get cold when exposed to Britain's predictably shitty climate. And since repeated attempts to will myself to death have failed I am left with only the option of continuing to try. In January, then, I have pushed myself additionally to find work. I am applying for jobs across a large geographic swathe, stretching from Swansea to Bath, and have set a rule for myself that I must apply for at least one job a week.
Thus far it has accomplished nothing and with each week that passes I feel more despondent. So, to say that this is something I loved about January is a lie. But I have, at least, the hollow pride of knowing that I'm trying.

~8~ Wrestling: Amid my seemingly constant state of depression I find myself finding solace in the world of professional wrestling. Particularly, I enjoy listening to Colt Cabana's weekly podcast. Colt is a wrestler who has long been a staple of the independent circuit, bouncing around from city to city, country to country, performing in anything from arenas to barrooms. It's something you can't help but admire. This is what he wants to do and he is pushing and pushing to make it happen.
The career of professional wrestling is a strange one, to say the least. In his book, A Lion's Tale, WWE wrestler Chris Jericho points out that professional wrestling was borne of carnival sideshows in the 1800s and, despite all the world's progress and all the changes in how the performances are done, it still holds to that tradition. It does so especially in business dealings. Wrestlers are constantly lied to to by promoters -- swindled, used and overworked. But even when things go right, the wrestler's job is to get the crap beaten out of him. Yes, the outcome is pre-determined, but there's no way to throw yourself to the ground over and over and have it not hurt.
So, physically, emotionally and financially Colt (and any other wrestler) has to struggle endlessly. The only way you can avoid struggle in wrestling is to quit wrestling. I admire that.
I mentioned in my previous post that I've emotionally divorced myself from the Welsh-language experience. Having accepted that coming to Wales was a major fuck up, I can't now help but feel a certain level of frustration as I try to build my life toward something that I can actually appreciate. But in following the tales of wrestlers I feel a kind of comfort and kinship. Surely, Colt must find himself at times thinking: "What the hell is the point of this?" I can relate to that: the sense of deep anger and frustration at one's "dream" turning out badly. But, additionally, I can compare the two situations and think: "Well, at least I'm not getting the shit beat out of me."

~8~ Ridgeways walk: One of the reasons it upsets me so much to be sans car is that accessing many of the parts of Britain that are worth seeing, the parts that are open and "natural" and allow me to not feel so sick with confinement, is really hard. That challenge is exacerbated by the fact Jenn rarely ever has a day off. So, the trains and buses one would suggest as an alternative are nugatory because using them would eat up all the time we have for any given activity. It all feels sickeningly unfair, but it is the situation that exists.
We are doing our best to combat it, though -- investing time into staring at maps and trying to work out walks that could be done with minimal travelling. One of the best ones so far has been a walk we did across the northern edge of Cardiff's city limits. We were able to take the train from Penarth to Lisvane and Thornhill station then stumble our way through mud and forest down to the station at Taff's Well. It was not exactly trekking in Colorado, but I enjoyed it.

~8~ Running: Can you tell that I'm angry? My deep and increasing bitterness can't even be held back for a simple blog post in which I am supposed to be highlighting the positives of my life. I was worse before January. In December I allowed my swingy-uppy-downy broken brain to get the best of me to such an extent that I stopped working out. Which, of course, only served to increase my sadness exponentially. In January, however, I managed to get myself out of the house a few times and go running. I still have not really found a route that I enjoy in P-Town, one where I can simply shut off my brain and not feel nervous about people or cars, and I think that makes it difficult for me to build motivation. In running literally I like to feel that I am running metaphorically, that I am getting away from the weirdness and the cruelty. Doing that is tricky in Penarth. You have to keep your brain constantly on as you dodge cars and teenagers and self-involved dog owners and uneven surfaces.
But annoyances of not running are far worse, so I've been making myself do it.
Additionally, I've switched gyms, which is kind of fun. Without the car my previous gym had become frustratingly inconvenient. I did not manage to visit it at all in the month of January. On the last day of the month, I cancelled my old membership and enrolled at a gym that I can walk to.

~8~ Reichenbach Fall: The second series of "Sherlock" came and went in January. I enjoyed two out of the three movie-length episodes, feeling the one about H.O.U.N.D. was a bit weak. Ammends were made, however, with the cliffhanger mystery of how Sherlock had managed to fake his own death. Additionally there is the question of what happened to Moriarty; did he, too, fake his death? There was no mention of him in the aftermath of events.

Resolute

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.