On Books: Including My Daughter's Hatred For Literature And The New 1984

Hello there. Hope you're feeling well today.

So I'm driving my daughter to school yesterday morning. She's fifteen and already taking exams as seems to be the way nowadays. The exam she took was for English literature. As I chatted about this exam to her she made this to me stunning statement.

"I hate literature".

It mentally stopped me in my tracks (not physically as I was driving). She doesn't like literature? Am I a bad parent? Am I the last in a generation to actually want to read a book? Will librarians and booksellers want to throw the book at me?

Further interrogation however suggested something more complex. She said she "enjoyed" Of Mice and Men" by John Steinbeck. I wouldn't say it was a book to be "enjoyed" but she liked it so fair enough.

She also (like me) was a fan of An Inspector Calls by J B Priestley. Fine....

No it turned out that what she actually "hated" was poetry.....well that's alright then.

I have mentioned before in this blog that the biggest gap in my reading knowledge is poetry. Though there are exceptions taken as a whole I've no real interest. Caused mainly by the fact that as a teenager I didn't understand how the price of a slim volume of poetry was roughly the same as a novel so I went for the bigger book instead. Consequently, with exceptions, I feel as if I'm a bad reader of poetry because to me it doesn't seem worth the effort.

Like father like daughter it appears.

She went on to mention two poets specifically. The first was Dylan Thomas. I've mentioned previously from the bits I've heard (though not gone round to checking this) that I suspect he is the sort of poet better listened to than read.

Her real dislike though was towards Daniel Abse. Roughly her opinion of him was "a Cardiff guy who whinges about Wales".

Now my daughter has an advantage over me regarding Mr Abse, as I've never read any of his poems. I have however years ago read a book of essays and I certainly don't recall any whingery.

The relative unpopularity of poetry is interesting. Because if you think about the world of television I grew up in and the byte sized world of the internet that is daughter's domain, you would think that the instant do it quickly world we live in would be more suited to the poem. But apparently not.

Because of my mother being unwell my reading has been haphazard in the last few weeks. Indeed I've had to return the Annie Prolux book unread to the library (trust me that instantly borrowing back would be an admin nightmare for Sully library). I've also though been reading a book that my wife had bought me for Christmas when she asked me what I'd wanted to read. Thinking of the Backlisted podcast I went for this.

Derek Raymond - A State Of Denmark

Forget about the fact that it was published in the seventies (after all 1984 is still a powerful read even though 1984 has long gone). It's a book that has suddenly found it's moment. A novel that describes an England (note not Scotland or Wales) under a dictatorship.

The key to this story is this. The England that this book describes does not exist. But in the aftermath of the Brexit vote it's not impossible. Jackboot politics fuelled by jackboot media exists. I'm not going to spoil it by explaining the plot but after you read this you'll understand.

It may not be the greatest book you'll ever read. But since the Brexit referendum it becomes one of the most important as it conjures up a vision that we may find ourselves sleepwalking into.

Until the next time.

The Hunt For A Christmas Day Restaurant (Part 1).....Or So I Thought

Hello there. Hope you're feeling well today.

Well it's been an interesting day to wake up and discover that the USA has voted for a president where apparently the only immigrants that will be welcomed will be bricklayers. We in Britain who didn't vote Brexit commiserate with those of you in America who didn't vote Trump as you join us in the dark age.

But that is for January, the immediate problem is Christmas.

Yes I know what I said about Christmas in November but the wife has said that she doesn't want to cook the dinner on December 25th, which is fair enough. She normally takes this burden on (and produces a truly outstanding result) and so couldn't argue with her on this.

The trouble is, before any of you say why I don't man up and do the dinner myself, is that even if I was [insert TV cook here] which I am most certainly not......I'm going to be working on Christmas day morning.

Now I know that my wife would eventually do the meal if I just left the situation as it stands at present. But I don't want that, which is why today I started the hunt for a restaurant open on Christmas day.

So the first stop was the nearby village of Laleston. If you're a regular to this blog you may remember the last time this place was mentioned was in the summer when I visited the summer fete after a trip to the rubbish tip dirty with ripped jeans and bought a copy of J B Priestley plays and a volume of Michael Palin diaries......as you do. This time I was more decently dressed.

A nice place this

With A Proper Looking Church

It's not immune to austerity though below is a picture of a pub/restaurant that was apparently run by a winner of Masterchef. It has been closed for over a year.

Sad This

I was there to have a look at the local pub/restaurant The Mackworth Arms whose food was recommended to me. It was two thirty in the afternoon....and it was closed. How on earth does a pub close in the afternoon? I looked at the window. There was a Christmas menu but not a Christmas Day menu. I don't think they're open on Christmas Day. Same thing for the Spanish restaurant next door. 

I went to the hotel nearby. They are closed on Christmas Day. A hotel closed? How is that possible?

So I planned to go to Cowbridge tomorrow and have a look at some places nearby, I say I planned because when the wife came home after seeing a friend she's told me that some friends on their own this Christmas will be coming round...and she'll be cooking !!!

Husbands really can't win. Especially when you try your best.

Until the next time.

Of Books Borrowed And Bought

Hello there. Hope you're feeling well today.

As night yesterday (Monday) fell my wife suddenly noticed the pile of books on the coffee table (which in this house should be called a tea table but I digress).

"What are they?" she asked.

Clearly darkness and impending sleep had clouded the obvious in her brain. I was happy to help.

"They're books I've bought today".

"Well there's no shelf room left"

She is actually wrong. There is shelf room. And when the shelves are full then I will create more room. That is what collectors do.

As it happened for other reasons I had not actively sought out books for a while. The last Penguin paperback I bought was the collection of J B Priestley plays, and that was only because the nearby village was holding a fete. The last non Penguin/Pelican I'd bought was The American by Martin Booth which as I've explained in an earlier post is worth the read. It was time to buy more.

Things seemed to coalesce themselves into buying books on Monday. I needed to go to Porthcawl library anyway. My daughter in her "I'm a teenager and it's a summer holiday so don't wake me up" mode didn't actually get out of bed until 10:45am (so a trip to Neath/Ebbw Vale etc was pointless). Porthcawl it was then. Lunch,shopping buying books and then the library. Such is the glamorous life this family leads I was surprised that we were not tailed by paparazzi.

The weather in Porthcawl amounted to acceptable this summer. That is to say cool and cloudy but dry. We had lunch on the seafront. I gazed at the relatively calm sea. My daughter just ate her sausage rolls. Bored you could tell. Suspect that true appreciation of what at first glance seems like a nothing view happens when you're older.

Anyway after lunch we went to the best charity shop in Porthcawl for books (Porthcawl Animal Welfare Society - PAWS) which has a whole floor devoted to them. I was in my element. Unfortunately I was with a daughter who wasn't in hers. Quickly she suggested every Penguin paperback she could see. It appeared to be helpful but in fact was to get me out of the place as quickly as possible. There would be no time to make a considered decision. I'm the adult.Knew it was a bit selfish of me to be here in this shop whilst she stood around watching Dad indulge his hobby as she just hung around so decided to choose promptly.

So five books were quickly picked. They were as follows:

1717 - Jamaica Inn - Daphne Du Maurier

This is the only pre ISBN numbered book amongst the five. I've only ever read one other book of hers before (not a famous one) but it had such an effect on me can't even remember it's title.

Jill Tweedie - Eating Children

This orange spined Penguin is on the face of it the most intriguing of all the books I bought. Written by the late Guardian writer this is an autobiography about her troubled childhood. 

Now in the spirit (as explained in an earlier post) of my position as the slight hypocrite comes the next book.

Penguin Plays - Four English Comedies

This is as shown a collection of English Comedic plays by Ben Johnson,William Congreve,Oliver Goldsmith and Richard Sheridan. 

Albert Camus - The Plague

You know all true readers will say that there are certain writers that they have not got round to reading purely because life interferes and/or there is already a pile of the great unread to go through. For me Albert Camus is one of those writers. I'm happy I got this book.

And finally.

Dirk Bogarde - Great Meadow 

Towards the end of his life Dirk Bogarde became just as known for his writing as he was for his acting. This is part of his autobiographical series of books.

Five books for just £2. As they would say in Cardiff. Barrgain,

Before we went home we went to the library so that I can pick a football book. This was the one I chose.

Alan Stubbs - How Football Changed My Life

Alan Stubbs, ex manager of Hibernian and now manager of Rotherham was also a useful player in his own right. This is his autobiography (written before his managerial career) which also includes his battles with cancer. Suspect it'll be worth a read.

I enjoyed getting these books. Both as a reader and a collector.

Until the next time.

In Which I Realise I'm A Slight Hypocrite

Hello there. Hope you're feeling well today.

It started so simply. There was a news report about the sales of the script of the new Harry Potter play by J K Rowling. I tweeted my incomprehension at how there can be sales of the play before it has actually been performed.

Some people agreed with me, others didn't. But then it all went a little wider. I tweeted that I didn't understand why people bought books containing scripts for plays in the first place for their own pleasure. Essentially what I was thinking was that reading a script makes you miss the nuances of the people involved. You don't get a sense of production,direction and of course acting through reading a play on it's own. However classic the text.

And again. the issue is those people who buy these scripts for their own pleasure, I mistakenly said that this never happens, which is of course wrong. Still the proportion of people who would buy a script when there is the option of a novel, or a biography must be extremely small.Harry Potter being of course an exception by being Harry Potter. As I see it the vast majority of people who buy scripts are either people in the theatre whether amateur or professional or students studying for exams for which they will hate the playwright for ever after should he/she fail.

The responses to that view were equally mixed and basically the matter rested by the good old throwback of agreeing to disagree. Each held to their own positions I of course having the correct one and those who disagreed with me being odd.

But later on that day (and you know what's coming next) I was looking at my bookshelves when suddenly it dawned on me.

I too had books containing scripts of plays

They are, Electra by Sophocles (which I've read and was bored by), a number by that well known Norwegian funny man Ibsen and one containing three plays by J B Priestley (which, if you read this blog regularly you might remember, was bought at a local village fete straight after I'd gone to the local tip so I was smelling of grass and wearing ripped jeans).

One of the "offending" books

The thing that links why I bought these books is that they of course all Penguin paperbacks. Either pre ISBN vintage or those with coloured spines both of which I collect. That is what attracted me to buying them. The power of collecting took over my natural antipathy,

Will I read those books I haven't yet read? Yes I will. Will I buy and read more of these books if they're vintage Penguins? Yes I will. Will I buy these type of books otherwise? Definitely not.

So that's what I am ladies and gentlemen a hypocrite. Albeit a slight one.

Until the next time.

People Of Laleston: The Dirty,Smelly Ripped Jeaned Man Who Bought Two Books At Your Fete Was Me...Sorry

Hello there. Hope you're feeling well today.

So I wake up early in the morning. My day is mapped out. Mow that jungle outside,go to the undercover tip that is Thygeston, watch three matches from Euro 2016. Few days are so easily planned.

The first thing to do though  is to get an internet stream ready so that the wife can watch the second rugby test between New Zealand and Wales. At the same time she wanted the television left on so she'd see the return of the British astronaut Tim Peake from that space station doing whatever it is astronauts do to justify not giving it to the poor in the world.

My wife: Woman,Welsh, Multitasker.

So whilst she does this I, being a man concentrate on just one task being the grass. Interrupted just the once when my daughter comes out shouting "It's amazin".

I look confused.

"Tim Peake's landed".

All that gets from me is a shrug. Partly for the reason sarcastically given above, but also because I don't understand all the media attention for the second Briton in space. Not as if he's gone to Mars. Anyway Brexit or no Brexit it's going to be a long time before another UK citizen gets up there again so am not interested.

Otherwise the mowing is done. It takes a while but it's done. Less obstacles now except that my wife decided to put the washing out hence I had to avoid sheets, towels and assorted garments hitting my face. Being mugged by lemony freshness. Still it's done.

Black bags full of garden was placed into the mighty Kia and off I went to Thygeston. 12:30. Key time was 2pm as that's when the first match, Belgium v Republic of Ireland started.

Now on the short journey to the tip I have to pass the village of Laleston. A pleasant affluent place though not immune from austerity. It's pub being boarded up for years now. It's most prominent landmark is the local church...which today had a fete. I've been there before and knew there would be a book stall. So the decision was made. Do the tip and when finished make a quick trip to the church.

It was one o'clock. One hour to football.

So remember I'd just finished mowing the grass and had been to the tip.I was at that moment at my most desirable. My hair felt it had a few South Walian insects in it. Was dirty and smelling of dead garden. Wearing a yellow faded Pittsburgh Steeler T shirt decorated with the evergreen grass of Bridgend. Garden jeans. in the fashionably ripped style borne of the unfashionableness of age. Sure I exuded the pinnacle of male sexuality. I would have to repel any advances. I'm married and anyway there were three football matches to watch.

This was the sight the middle aged woman behind the bookstall beheld as I approached the book stall. She would just have to control herself.

"How much are the books?" I asked.

"Three paperbacks for a £1 or two hardbacks for a pound" came the response.

Looking at what was available knew I was going to be difficult, Because there were only two books I wanted to buy.Of course one of them was a hardback and the other was a paperback. Enquring of the price brought about a discussion between the middle aged woman and her friend and her friend. What the word is for a group of such ladies I don't know.

Eventually a price of 80p was agreed upon. Fine.  A pound was produced.

"Sorry" she said in an apologetic tone that only women in a church environment can muster "we don't have any change."

Yeah right.

But I didn't have the time or the inclination to argue so gave the pound and walked away.

The two books I bought were as follows:

J B Priestley - Time and the Conways and Other Plays

This is in the light green spined Penguin Twentieth Century Classics series. One of the plays is An Inspector Calls/ I remember once many years ago in East London being alone at home on a Friday afternoon being taken by radio adaptation of it. And when I mean taken I mean stopping whatever I was doing in the kitchen and just sitting down to listen to it. That's the power it had.

The other book, an absolute brick of a hardback was:

Well it speaks for itself

The only reason why I bought this book was only the day before I'd watched an interview he gave at the Hay festival promoting the third volume. This of course is the first.

So these two books for a pound. Bargain. Or as they say in Cardiff Barrgain, I mentioned this detour and purchases to the wife on my return. Let's say she was unimpressed.

Half past one: A quick wash of body and hair, so that any insects were evicted then football took over the rest of the day.

Belgium beat Republic of Ireland 3-0. With Lukaku scoring two. Causing me to think that there are two Lukaku's playing alternate games. One rubbish and the other world class. Which all means I don't fancy their chances against Sweden.

Iceland drew with Hungary 1-1. Good , They both have been the successful underdogs so far. Fingers crossed.

Finally the red swarm of Portugal drew with Austria 0-0. Portugal did everything but score. That included Ronaldo hitting the post from a penalty, My theory is simple. Portugal have been cursed by an old gypsy woman.

Austria were a dull team. A good thing. After all history has taught us we should always be wary of lively Austrians.

So again to the Lalestonians wherever you are now apologies for my appearence

Until the next time,