Megadeth and Japan

I read Dave Mustaine's autobiography on the flight to Osaka. It's packaged to resemble Slash's memoir, which is much filthier than what the man from Megadeth comes up with: there's reference to lots of sex, but there's not the explicit account Slash gives of what happens when you open the door on James Hetfield mid-groupie.

Mustaine doesn't come across as the most wonderful person: egotistical and convinced of his own perfection. This was something I already expected. What I'd not realised was how young he was when Megadeth began, and became a hugely successful band: in all the photos, he looks about 15, grimacing and baring his weedy chest for the photographers. The King Prawn, as he was christened by a British rock journalist.

Having read the whole book, we got to Osaka as the sun rose, and couldn't check in for six hours, so we bumbled from coffee shop to coffee shop, before visiting the marathon check-in, which is (as with all marathons except for Tromso) a big hall full of people shouting about which sorts of socks are the best.

In Osaka, they have a smoking area at the marathon expo, which is a nice touch. Those Japanese sure love their cigarettes.

Having got my number and my t-shirt, we headed back to the hotel, now almost blind from sleep deprivation, only to find that even at 1:30, they wouldn't bend on the 2pm check-in time. My wife looked ready to melt down; I tried diplomacy and took her to the hotel cafe to eat potato crisps until it was time for us to go upstairs and pass out in our hotel bed.

Waking later, feeling groggy and crapulent, we wandered the area around Umeda station like lost souls, until we chanced on Echi Ponte Vecchio, a fantastic Italian restaurant where I carbed up on pasta and pizza. Now all that's left this evening is to lay out my race kit and sit in the cinema.