FEBRUARY 23: WALES 47, ITALY 8
AND so it continues - we trashed Italy 47-8 in Cardiff today (a game my dad and sis went to, so expect some pics in the near future) and England did us a favour by beating the French 24-13, leaving Wales the only undefeated team in the Six Nations and in line for a possible Triple Crown and Grand Slam. Of course we have Ireland in Ireland on March 8, a team we've always had difficulty beating - especially away - so I'm not getting my hopes up about winning the titles just yet. But it's good to be over halfway through the tournament and doing so well.
EV IS in San Diego for the weekend so I've spent a quiet day putting my book collection on Library Thing, a social site for book fanatics. This is the first social site I've got involved in and I'm glad I did. Typing in the titles of all my books was a pain in the arse for two reasons: a) it took ages and 2) I discovered I only own 237 books. As I've been in the States for four years, that works out to about 60 a year or 1.13 a week, which is pretty pathetic. It's also shown me that I have the best part of 20 books I still haven't read, a few of which have been sitting on my shelves since summer 2004.
If you want to take a look at my collection then it's here, or you can just search for planetmut.
FEBRUARY 21
THROUGHOUT my life one thing has remained constant. No, not my weight problem - I'm talking about books. My dad would read bedtime stories to me when I was a little kid. (I phoned the parents after I'd finished this update to find out what dad used to read me. It was a kid's comic called Little Star and my favourite character was Baby Crockett). I am convinced that it was from his taking the time to read to me that led to my lifetime love of books and reading, often for the sake of it. Reading is one of those things that, when people ask what I like to do, I often forget to mention. After all, I don't tell people I like breathing and reading is just as natural and important to me.
One of the things I remember about growing up was wanting to read all the time. I used to read the ingredients on the back of cornflake boxes, my sister's comics (honest - it was called Twinkle), devoured shedloads of Mr Men and Kevin the Kitten books, got dad to buy me books about monsters and UFOs which scared the crap out of me, worked my way through kid's encyclopedias, plagiarised a book about ancient Egypt for a homework assignment when I was 10 (and got an A), then moved on to newspapers, mags, more comics... When I was eight an aunt sent me three Secret Seven books and I was hooked, although I never got in to the Famous Five. From there I graduated to The Hardy Boys and collected the lot - never realising they were mainly set in the 1930s and even though Franklin W. Dixon was the name on the cover, they were written by several different authors over a period of 50 years.
One of my absolute stand-out book-related memories happened in 1981 or '82. My mum returned from either a jumble sale or a Blue Peter Bring and Buy sale and handed me a paperback with words to the effect of "This looks like your cup of tea". I took it and, not realising I was looking at the back, read two words that were printed in large, friendly letters: DON'T PANIC. My mother, who wouldn't have known Douglas Adams from a tube of Smarties, had got me The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I remember enjoying it even though about 90% went straight over my head. Twenty-six years later I still have that copy. That 1979 Pan first-edition paperback is now battered, bent, torn, covered in coffee rings and held together by sellotape and I read it at least once a year. It's probably the best 40p my mum has ever spent.
Later I began to "specialise". I my teens I got into horror and went through Stephen King, James Herbert, Ramsay Campbell and Clive Barker and the classics - Lovecraft, Poe, Bierce, as well as countless horror anthologies. Spy thrillers introduced me to John Le Carré, Frederick Forsyth, Craig Thomas, Gerald Seymour and Len Deighton - somewhere in my parents' house is the copy of SS-GB I liberated from Llandrindod Wells High School library in about 1984. Adrian Mole had me and my friends pissing ourselves laughing and I bloody nearly died of laughter when reading Spike Milligan's war diaries.
Thinking of Llandod high school, I remember a substitute teacher sending us in fives to the school library to pick a book to read during class. I chose Christine by Stephen King. The teacher had a go at me for picking it - "Why did you get a book that big?" "Well, it looked interesting," I said. He pointed out that I had no chance of reading it in the hour or so the class lasted. The stupid twat; so what? I would have thought that the fact a 13- or 14-year-old was willing to tackle a 600-page novel would be the important thing.
Stephen King became a tradition in our house; at least his books did. Every Christmas I'd be given his latest paperback, usually a year after it had come out in hardback. One Christmas Eve - 1989, I think - I got back from Levy's house pissed out of my mind at about two in the morning. I mean smashed - it took me five minutes just to get the key in the lock of the front door. Creeping into the living room I spotted the pressies lying under the tree and decided that as technically it was Christmas Day, it would be OK if I opened one. I found a paperback-sized parcel, bent it a bit to make sure it was a book, and ripped the paper off. It was King's Misery. After having a final ciggie in the garage I went to bed, taking the book with me; six hours later and sober as a judge I finished it. I literally could not put it down.
I finally got around to buying the rest of the Hitch-Hiker books at the rate of one a week when I was 16 and was massively let down by So Long and Thanks for All the Fish, although that was nothing compared to the utter crap that was Mostly Harmless in 1992. The Hobbit blew me away when I was 13, although I didn't read The Lord of the Rings until I was 25 - luckily before the movies came out, meaning I already have mental images of the stories and will never read it picturing Orlando Sodding Bloom as Legolas.
Of course you can't do English Lit at GCSE or A-level without getting in the shit for reading stuff that's considered lowbrow. My seemingly never-ending diet of horror and spy novels exasperated my teachers and their annoyance just spurred me on to read more of them. While A-level English got me into Nineteen Eighty-Four, A Clockwork Orange, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, Animal Farm and Orwell in general it also did a bloody good job of putting me off "classic" novels. Tess of the d'Urbevilles was a book I hated to the extent of tearing off the covers and using them to disguise whichever King or Deighton I was reading at the time. Christ, I loathed that book. Hated it. It is probably the only book I could happily burn. It is unmitigated shit. After finishing my A-level exam I drop-kicked the book over the fence into the tennis courts. Shakespeare I liked but I've no real desire to read it now I don't have to. As I tried pointing out to one of my teachers a few years later, it doesn't matter how classic something is - if I (or anyone else) don't like it then I'm not going to read/listen to/watch it. The Beatles, for example, were one of the greatest bands ever to exist but there's no way they're getting within a light year of my iPod. And the fact that Thomas Hardy's novels blow goats doesn't help either.
I actually stopped reading fiction for a long time in about 2001 while working on the Wales on Sunday sportsdesk. WoS frequently sold off review copies of books to fund the paper's annual Christmas dinner/piss-up. From them I picked up books on every subject - Nazi Germany, the discovery of DNA, England's efforts in the 1970 World Cup, 18th-century British aristocracy, drugs, the McLibel trial and the Sex Pistols. Then came biographies, travel and adventure writing, more World War II (mostly the Eastern Front), Tudor history (mainly Elizabeth I), Arctic and Antarctic exploration and my epic 2007 blitz through all 32 Discworld novels at the rate of two a week for four months. Recently I've got back into fiction with the superb Arkady Renko novels and Robert Harris's Fatherland and Enigma, to name just a few. Although I should say re-buying as when I moved to the US I had to get rid of nearly all my books, which by that point numbered about 3,000. I sold many to a second-hand place in Hereford, more went in car boot sales and even more were given to charity. But I'm set on building that collection up again. As I point out to Ev, it's not that I have too many books, it's more that we don't have enough space for them. Stop buying books? I'm sure I will - when I stop breathing.
FEBRUARY 15
MIKE handed me the above sketch at work today. It is, apparently, two men walking abreast.
FEBRUARY 12
AND so the diet begins, although to be accurate it actually began yesterday. Monday's food intake consisted of a bowl of cereal, two apples, two pears and two bananas. Of course by the time I got home I was starving so I rather spoiled things by microwaving the leftover pasta and shovelling it down my face. Today I took three small bread rolls with ham and cheese as well as the bag o' fruit pictured above, but still came home hungry - only tonight I couldn't be arsed cooking anything so had a bowl of cereal.
One of the things about my post-smoking weight gain that's so sodding annoying is that the amount of food I eat for meals hasn't gone up or changed, it's the bloody snacking that's done it. Whereas before if I was waiting for a late file or for a page to be read I'd go for a fag, now I'm heading for the vending machine or - worse still - Lisa's bowl of free choccies (or The Receptacle of Everlasting Sadness, Failure and Eternal Fattydom, as I'm training myself to think of it.) So although I can't prevent the hours of boredom waiting for stuff I can help the snacking, hence the big bag o' fruit.
Another thing that's contributed to my going from *cough*-inch jeans to *atchoo!*-inch jeans is eating late at night. I know there's a basic rule about eating after eight or something, but at one point I was getting home at nigh on midnight and knocking up beans on toast. Now, I can't control what time I get home at night as I'm basically dependent on another bunch of people doing their jobs before I can do mine but I can control the old calorie intake and I'm basically looking at an eating cut-off point of 8.30pm. And again I'll be using fruit as a chocolate substitute so hopefully that'll help keep the calories down.
"Aaah," I hear you both say, "what about exercise, you lazy sod?" Well to be honest I was hoping you wouldn't mention that but now it's been brought up I'd just like to be snarky and point out that I was getting a bloody sight more exercise going up and down two flights of stairs every time I went for a fag at work... <deep breath> But you are right, I really should get more exercise. Trouble is I prefer to go walking at night as it's cooler (summer arrived yesterday, with temperatures hitting 85 degrees) but I get home too late. So the jury's still out on the whole exercise thing and, as it's 1.30am, so am I. Night!
FEBRUARY 9: WALES 30, SCOTLAND 15
NO PHONE calls this morning as our game against Scotland kicked off at 6am California time, but dad did call at halftime to tell me a) that we were winning 10-6 and b) both teams were diabolical. Diabolical or not, we went on to win 30-15 and as the only undefeated British team left in the tournament we could bring home the Triple Crown if we beat Ireland on March 8, although frankly we'll be hard-pressed to do that. We should take Italy easily enough on February 23, and finally it's what could be the Six Nations (and Grand Slam) decider against France in Cardiff on March 15 - a game me, Ev, dad and Lou are going to. Lovely.
AND I've been jolted into starting (another) diet by the fact I had to buy a new bigger pair of jeans at Target today. Ev has pointed out that after giving up ciggies I was bound to put on weight, but as that was eight months ago I can't keep using it as an excuse. The new jeans are a size that starts with "f" and ends in "hell", are made from 100% failure and stitched with shame, and I'm planning on them becoming too big for me in 60 days. Trouble is, in 32 days we're off to the UK where doubtless many fried brekkies, cod 'n' chips, trips to the Chinese/Indian and plenty of pints of beer await, let alone the junk food we'll eat while hiking around London for two days. Shit.
Of course the other thing I have to get used to is not lighting up every 20 minutes. As years 1-21 of my smoking life were spent in the UK this should be interesting. While I've managed to disassociate smoking from everything I do here in the States, I have yet to do anything at home without a ciggie. One particular worry is the pub, as I have never, ever been out on the piss without at least two packs of Marlboros about my person. I've almost never had a coffee at my parents' house without sparking up and I've definitely never left the Chinese without reaching for the Marlbies. So it should be an interesting trip, especially when we're down the Prince of Wales and I lose it just after the third pint.
FEBRUARY 3
BACK in January 2006 we went to The Huntington Library, which is not only a library but also has an art gallery and beautiful botanical gardens. Why am I telling you this? 'Cos I just found a folder full of photos I took and thought it would make an easy update. Enjoy!
FEBRUARY 2: ENGLAND 19, WALES 26
WE JUST beat our old enemy and ex-so-called "World Champions" England at Twickenham for the first time in 20 years. I need to lie down for a bit.
WELL I didn't so much lie down for a bit as fall asleep for two hours. It's now 12 hours after the end of the game. What a day. From being 16-6 down at halftime we came back to beat the English 26-19. I don't know what Warren Gatland said to the Welsh team at halftime, but it worked - we came out for the second half and played like a different team. And the England defence going to pieces faster than a suicide bomber didn't do us any harm either. Next week we have Scotland at home in Cardiff, a game we should win - but, being a Wales fan, I know we could just as easily lose. But I think we'll win. Or not, as the case may be.
AND I suppose I owe a small apology to Ev, as to be fair the U2-3D movie was pretty bloody spectacular. Basically it's as close to being at a U2 concert as you can be without actually being at a U2 concert. The 3D system used is mind-blowing; several times I felt like I could reach out and touch the band members and during the audience point-of-view shots I thought the raised arms in front of me belonged to the people in the cinema seats below me. The sound system is near-perfect and completely immerses you in the film. To give it the credit it deserves it's not a film, it's an experience.
FEBRUARY 1
LIKE me, I'm sure many of you are gearing up for this weekend's main sporting attraction - a battle between two teams with a history of antagonism going back years. A game of clashing players and drunken fans. A game where an oddly-shaped ball is maneuvered up and down a field, the aim being to get it across the opposing team's line. A game where I, and hundreds and thousands of others, will be left a screaming mess by the end.
No, not the bloody Superbowl. I'm talking about the Six Nations, which kicks off at 8.30am California time (4.30pm in God's country) when Wales take on England. The alarm is set, the wake-up call from the parents is arranged, the BBC Radio Wales webpage is bookmarked, and I'm all set to listen to my beloved team get the shit kicked out of them.
And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, I'm taking Ev to see the new U2-3D movie. Ev is a big fan of U2 whereas I gave up on them in 1991 because they went shit. Although the thought of seeing His Holiness The Reincarnation of Jesus Christ, Personal Assistant to God and Saviour of the Universe (otherwise known as Bono) and the other three in 3D on an IMAX screen is slowly filling me with horror, Ev can't wait. Besides, it was this or Atonement, and if sacrificing my common sense and taste means I don't have to see walking scarecrow Keira Knightley, it's worth it.
