National Treasures

After enjoying (very much as I had expected to) the opening episode of Mark Kermode's Secrets of Cinema, I was delighted to note that Kermode had co-authored the series with the seriously good but less telegenic Kim Newman. OG hereby nominates both as national treasures. Both are deadly serious about film but wear their learning lightly without ever patronising or over-simplifying. I feel this generosity of spirit in their work rather personally because of my own dispiriting experience when I briefly studied Film on my second degree. Private grief is generally best kept that way, but I have to say with feeling that the wretched man who taught me left me depressed and belittled. I'm well over it by now but the cloud over my memories of an otherwise happy time remains. My problem? Very possibly but education doesn't have to be that way.

The Kermode/Newmwn series can be found via Secrets of Cinema

A Long Weekend

My lawn here is a motley of little green and rather more burnt straw and still no sign of meaningful rain. All of which made for a contrast in Anglesey where it rained (not torrentially but with feeling) last Friday while we waited in for the man who was measuring for some new blinds. As with so much else on the island we were taken aback by the relative cheapness of the service - a particular contrast with the London outposts of our property empire, that is to say the flats belonging to Daughters One and Two.

DN2 trained it up to Anglesey to join us for weekend and a jolly nice time was had by all in pleasant temperatures. An appetite-stimulating walk on the beach at Newborough was followed by an appetite-satisfying dinner at the Tavern on the Bay at Red Wharf Bay. Black pudding starter, fish stew and cheese board for the Big Fat Pig. Sirloin steak for the Groupie, swordfish for DN2. All highly commendable and washed down with Chablis. Good times.

There are plenty of worse places to eat

DN2 accompanied us back to home and left early for London this morning. We had come back from the island early enough for one of the Pig's signature barbecues. Barbecue is possibly my only marketable life skill.

Molinari celebrates landing Pig's online bet

Sorry I didn't share my hot tip for the Open golf. Pig has remotely trousered his winnings on the phlegmatic Signor Molinari. Just occasionally I get these things right.   

Football's Gone Away

It was all rather lovely whilst it lasted but now it's official - we're not going to win the World Cup. Statistically speaking it must be highly unlikely that we will reach another semi-final in my lifetime. Oh well, back to the day job - oh yes that's right I haven't got one - lazy Pig.

The positives: Southgate has the team playing a possession based game, or rather he did have until the second half of the Croatia match. All credit to the Croats who deployed a high pressing game and eventually condemned England to having Pickford lump long balls up the pitch. Harry Kane had a poor match - had he taken one of those chances when we were still 1-0 up you have to doubt that Croatia could have recovered. Another positive - so far as one can tell our hooligans never made it to Russia or if they did they decided (wisely) that Putin's police were best not provoked. Kieran Trippier and Harry Maguire also huge positives. Biggest of the lot, Gareth Southgate himself - a decent bloke not (yet) brought to his knees by the job. So now attention can turn quite properly to the best sporting event north of Cheltenham - the Open golf next week.

Big Fat Pig has lost a few pounds and is still managing to get some exercise notwithstanding the oppressive weather (my poor old lawn). Yesterday he did an hour on the Precious Bike including two unlikely ascents of Mont Worcester. He is girding his loins in readiness for attempts on the Col de Hillwood Common and, most daunting of all, Mont Hillwood. This morning he ran for over four miles. He's coming home, he's coming home, Fat Pig's coming home - try it, this actually fits the tune.

So what do you do in the immediate aftermath of the last semi-final you expect to live to see your country grace? Easy you slosh yourself a glass of sauvignon blanc (ripe and fruity) and watch an episode of the brilliantly bonkers Toast of London. And yes I can hear you Clem Fandango.
   

The Night Manager

I avoided the television adaptation of le Carre's The Night Manager because I had not yet read the book and I like le Carre - I have on these pages previously showered praise on A Perfect Spy which I deem a near perfectly crafted novel. The pencil note inside the front cover tells me that I paid 50p for the very dog-eared copy I have just finished reading. Money very well-spent. Not quite up there with A Perfect Spy but definitely in the bloody good category. Le Carre's disenchantment with the tatty morals of modern England is on full display and who's to say he is wrong.

We are honourable people, he thought, remembering Goodhew. Honourable English people with self-irony and a sense of decency, people with a street spirit and a good heart. What the hell's gone wrong with us?

Football's Coming Home?

The question mark in the title is important, preserving as it does my self-diagnosed status as detached and sceptical commentator.

Thus far I have avoided the World Cup in these mental peregrinations and I must confess that I had not watched any match in its entirety until England met Colombia, preferring highlights and/or repeat showings. The denouement of that Colombia game was almost too painful to watch particularly once Henderson had missed his penalty. Yesterday's victory over Sweden was easier on the nerves although I don't quite buy into the total dominance narrative that seems to have found favour - no match that you win 2-0 and in which your keeper makes three fabulous saves can be a procession. So now I am all up for the semi-final - dare I watch it other than on my own, that having been the 'lucky' formula for the two knock-out matches thus far? To paraphrase Ray Prosser - it's only a game, well what the f*** do we have goals for?

My mate Donald Trump will be in this country later this week. I have seriously toyed with the idea of joining a peaceful demonstration against the wanton vulgarity of his presidency but I'm afraid the thought of breaking bread with the daft left has put me off.  Anyway it's too hot for demonstrating. On which front (weather front - geddit?) my precious lawn is burnt to straw but, always look on the bright side, the weeds have retreated completely and I can postpone the need to buy a new mower, perhaps getting one last season out of the old faithful - a man can attach the same emotion to his first petrol mower as to his first car.

The heat makes of me a sluggard - I can function well in the perishing cold but extreme heat gets the better of me. Nonetheless I have had to abandon my usually effective plan of waiting for cooling rain and instead set out for a run in the broiling weather yesterday morning. To the usual and absurd get-up of lycra and Oakleys I added a cap. Only shuffled a couple of miles but must admit I feel the better for it.

In addition to the football I have also enjoyed the Irish Open golf from the magnificent looking links at Ballyliffin. Seaside golf, either playing or spectating, can't be beaten. Oh to be in Northumberland hacking up the course at Goswick, the day ended by a walk on the sands at Bamburgh.

Days Of Wonder

I know you like me to keep you up to date with what is wrong with the world, keep you posted on endemic assininity. But you might also have gathered that planet earth is so beset by shitiness that it has become tiresome to highlight it - so good news, I'm not going to bother. Instead I'm pleased to report on some good days under the broiling English sun.

The QMT (Question Mark Trophy - it's a long story) tour took our particular brand of shoddy golf to Bridgnorth Golf Club. An excellent venue even if BH was dissatisfied with his breakfast egg, angst exacerbated by a wooden bench later collapsing under his welter weight. All of this organised superbly by my brother Bill, with AK winning the fabled trophy. As for Big Fat Pig, well I played very badly but had a great time and didn't fall into any ditches - which judging by my own disreputable standards is a triumph. As for the course, definitely recommended with its four dauntingly hilly holes on one side of the road and the remainder chokingly tree-lined on the other. Bosting track as they say in Bloxwich.

After two sleep-deprived nights (the first drinking on tour, the second providing a lift home to the Groupie who was at an awards dinner - she's so important) it was a tired Pig who headed to that London on Saturday to join both daughters in celebrating the thirtieth birthday of Daughter Number One. This took the form of an excellent lunch at The Ivy Cafe on Marylebone Lane. Only one tiny complaint - my bloody mary lacked oomph but this was a minor blemish. Food excellent, main drink (the house champagne) the same, and service even better.. Definitely recommended. Bosting caff as they say in Bloxwich.

Next on the agenda is a flying visit to the country estate where some surplus furniture is being collected. I will be travelling in the Precious Jag subject to the imminent fitting of a new battery. I shall wear my Oakleys. Quel dude as they say in Bloxwich.

Nice to note by the way that a hero of this blog, Cris Froome, has been exonerated of doping charges. This will not prevent the jealous French from attacking him during the Tour de France. Plus ca change.