Good Stuff, Bad Stuff, Loads Of Stuff In Fact

Four days have now passed since the miracle at Headingley which saw Ben Stokes, by a combination of megatalent and towering will, lift an otherwise hapless England cricket team across the line to victory. Watch again the last hour of that match and then try to tell me that Twenty20 is other than a tasteless frippery.

cricket, bloody hell

That was good stuff. Bad stuff was the demise of Bury FC. Worse has been the quality (more markedly the lack of it) of debate that Bury's expulsion from the Football League has inspired. Even the usually sane, albeit hyperbolic, Jim White on TalkSport had lost the plot in the immediate aftermath. The questions no one has been asking and which need to be posed are these: What is it that dictates that we absolutely must have ninety-two functioning fully professional football clubs in this country? What other country has, per capita, a similar number of such clubs? Why should the insolvency of a football club be administered by any standard other than that applying in all other industries (bar banking I suppose I ought cynically to add)? I do not deny that football has a particuar problem in being invaded by shyster investors but the crisis of football is all about greed at the top of the mountain and envious chancers looking to scale the immoral peaks.

Brexit, bloody sodding Brexit. Boris Johnson's proroguing (alright I know it's technically the Queen) of parliament has got the Remainer luvvies all of a tizzy. There is sham outrage and pious bollocks about this signalling some death of democracy. Oh good grief, grow up. Parliament will miss perhaps five days of potential debate on a topic it has already wasted three years of fannying about upon. I am no fan of Boris but the outrage arises because just for once a Prime Minister has outflanked the Remainers, a group who have become used to getting their own way in the face of nothing more daunting than Theresa May's crass, appeasing ineptitude. If you're on the same side of an argument as Jeremy Corbyn, Gina Miller, two dozen Anglican bishops and, worst of all, John Bercow, you might just be wrong.  

Two More Films. Good Ones

Roger Ebert the late and great film critic said this of Scorsese's early Mean Streets:

Great films leave their mark not only on their audiences, but on films that follow. In countless ways right down to the detail of modern tv crime shows, "Mean Streets" is one of the source points of modern movies.

The Big Fat Pig (that's me folks - although I have been for a guilty run this morning) is certainly in no position to disagree with Ebert, so he won't. In Mean Streets we see in detail the lives of everyday New York hoodlums, ranging from the misplaced morality of Harvey Keitel's lead to the nihilistic man-child of De Niro's Johnny - the latter a place-holder for Joe Pesci's piece de resistance in Scorsese's later masterpiece Goodfellas. At less than two hours the movie displays a self-discipline from which, dare we suggest it, Tarantino (in the news at the moment for Once Upon A Time In Hollywood) might learn - 8.5/10.

Spotlight has none of Scorsese's cinematographic style but is another important film. Ostensibly one might think it a film about the scandal of sex abuse by catholic priests in Boston, but that is only part of the story. It is also a lament for the lingering death (at the hands of the internet and a twenty-four hour news cycle) of old-fashioned investigative print journalism. An ensemble piece, it is the journalistic procedures it portrays that dominate the piece rather than the stars although we should take particular note of Stanley Tucci's bit part as a principled lawyer. Pointedly unhysterical and never voyeuristic. 8.5/10. 

 

Fahrenheit 11/9

Fahrenheit 11/9 is Michael Moore's furious polemic against Donald Trump. Thus, much as I do not share Moore's politics, I find myself applauding the venom with which he upbraids The Donald and his loathsome cronies. Yes, the dubbing of a Trump speech onto pictures of Hitler probably does not advance the quality of debate, but behind all this is the quite proper fury and mystification at this ever having happened in what styles itself a liberal democracy.

Moore gives Bernie Sanders and his childish politics too easy a ride but Trump is the right target. In addition and refreshingly Moore pricks the bubble of Obama veneration and gives the Clintons a good bashing on his way through. This film should be taken with a largish pinch of salt but it very much should be seen. Ignore the illogical jump it makes in its middle (it gets close to the point when it denigrates the electoral college but then veers off elsewhere) and just feel the outrage. Despite its glaring faults, 8.5/10.

But Is It Cricket?

Steve Smith (whose potential greatness it is foolhardy to question - check the stats) was felled at the weekend by a vicious short-pitched delivery from England's new hero Jofra Archer. Smith took his eyes off the ball and copped it on the neck. His collapse was frightening and it has now been confirmed that he will have to miss the upcoming Headingley test. In  a gruesome way this is very good news for England.

What are we to make of the species of bowling that can produce such results? We have to live with it I would suggest - sport can be, almost must be, dangerous. I think we also have to acknowledge that an unintended consequence of the safety culture that quite properly promoted the wearing of helmets has been the deleterious effect on batting techniques against the short-pitched ball.

When I blogged about the fist test at Edgbaston I condoned the booing of Smith as humorous albeit probably counter-productive. However there is a world of difference between coarse humour and the booing of a stricken warrior departing the scene of his downfall. Smith has been an egregious cheat, still is a phenomenal cricketer. The two sides of the coin need to be considered together.

So, yes it is cricket and I'm sorry if that sounds glib.

In Search Of The Lost Plot

Now don't get me wrong, I am not one of those Eng Lit types who is sniffy about J.K.Rowling - quite the opposite in fact. I'm a huge admirer, as any wannabe (and failed, let's be blunt) writer should be. What then to make of the mess of a movie that is Fantastic Beasts: the Crimes of Grindelwald? I can only repeat the sentiment I expressed about the later Harry Potter novels, specifically that Rowling's huge success seemed to have rendered her too important for meaningful editing. Her grasp of character remains in place and her invented world is capacious but in the Grindelwald instalment at least the text is overpopulated and drowns the plot. What we get is an extended scene-setter for later episodes to come. The special effects are superb and you keep watching in the hope that somehow it will all become clear. It is all good fun in its limited way but ultimate reaction must be one of confusion. A pity because Eddie Redmayne and Ben Fogler give good accounts of themselves. I think there was a theme of the blurred lines that separate good from evil and some less than subtle hints of the rise of fascism - both undoubtedly important topics but these get lost (at least for this spectator) in the gloopy porridge of the plot. 6/10 - could do better. 

What Have I Done To Deserve This?

I think I've posed this question before but sod it, this is my blog and I'll cry if I want to. And look at me daringly ending a sentence with a preposition - oh no it's not - of course it's an infinite marker in this usage.

So what's winding up the Big Fat Pig today? Well here I am, finding myself a citizen-subject of a country in which within the space of a couple of days arch-berk Jeremy Corbyn, arch-joke Harriet Harman, and arch-windbag Ken Clarke have all expressed their willingness 'to serve' as caretaker Prime Minister as Boris steers us knowingly over what most people think is a cliff but others believe is the tiniest of tiny steps. It tells you how little I think of this trio of selfless volunteers that I believe all are less well-suited to the premiership than the amoral Boris. Don't start me on Philip Hammond and Nancy Pelosi - two exemplars of a self-regarding righteousness that might almost put La Harman to shame. Let's just say this Phil: don't presume to tell me why I voted as I did you patronising twat. Let's just say this Nancy: I saw the IRA collection tins in Boston bars in the eighties that helped fund the bombing of innocents in cities like my own beloved Birmingham and it made me sick. And before you write in, yes I am a catholic.

But there are reasons to be cheerful. DN2 is in transit back to Brum for the weekend and she will be joined by DN1 tomorrow. We can all share the celebration of The Groupie's latest commercial triumph - she came back from That London yesterday having endured a sale process that has dragged on for three quarters of a year. Saying I am proud does it all less than justice.

While the Groupie was in the Big Smoke I watched, with no great expectations, Solo - a Star Wars Story. Here's the thing, it's good fun. It's really a western set in outer space and it overstays its welcome by perhaps twenty minutes but, as I said, it's good fun, certainly better than the first three volumes of the core Star Wars. 7/10. So, reasons to be cheerful. Oh and I forgot to say that I stocked up on wine yesterday and a sophisticated Chianti will be calling me a little later.

In Bruges

My short visit to the country estate (and for any new readers, don't worry I'm attempting humour - it's a bungalow) was marked not only by trying to find a solution to the gull-nesting problem but more pleasingly by watching two excellent films. I've already told you about American Gangster and next in line was In Bruges.

This is a tautly told morality tale cum black comedy with fine turns from Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson as hitmen and Ralph Fiennes as their deranged but oddly moral boss. Any film that manages to include this summation of a haphazard orgy, 'Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf', deserves my vote. Another 8.5/10.

American Gangster

American Gangster is a fine film. Ostensibly a gangster film it in fact presents one of the most intelligent dissections of free market capitalism to have been committed to celluloid.

The ever excellent Denzel Washington is the gangster - murderous but oddly civilised. Just as good is Russell Crowe as the incorruptible cop who eventually brings Washington down.

This is superior film-making, on nodding acquaintance with The Godfather and (a lesser film) Serpico. 8.5/10.

It Took Less Than A Month

... and already we're crap at cricket again. We had a bloody good stab at losing to Ireland in their first test match at Lord's and not content with that then proceeded to have a totally successful stab at losing to Australia ... from a seemingly impregnable position. Half way through day one at a predictably raucous Edgbaston, Australia were trying manfully to rescue themselves from the rubble of their first innings - they were 122 for 8. Read that again - 122 for 8. The Aussies were revived by the brilliance of Steve Smith and eventually they despatched England thanks to yet more Smith excellence (a century in each innings) and the staggering uselessness of England's second innings batting - on which score has an international sportsman ever behaved as unprofessionally as Jason Roy? Luckily the day which unquestionably belonged to England was day two and that was the day that your correspondent was sunning himself in the Hollies Stand, that repository of coarse wit and wisdom. Great fun.

Bradmanesque?

Steve Smith presents us with a problem of course. He is beyond question a great (as distinguished from merely very good) batsman - the statistical evidence is incontrovertible. He is also the man who was captain of his country when he assented to an egregious piece of cheating and then cried in front of the cameras when he got caught. The answer to the Smith problem is obvious however: one should both boo him as pantomime villain and stand to applaud his almost (almost I say, let's not get carried away) Bradmanesque accumulation of runs. Mind you, there has to be a suspicion that the booing merely serves to motivate this run machine, in which case we should perhaps adopt a steely silence or possibly that most English of weapons - a painfully polite and condescending ripple of applause.

So apart from a jolly good day at the cricket, what else has the Big Fat Pig been up to? Well, every morning he checks the interweb thing for news of what Trump has been up to. I find him eerily fascinating and still cannot quite believe that I live in a world that has allowed this to happen. Apart from that I have a tiresomely painful right knee which is so the doc tells me merely displaying wear and tear consequent upon overuse. Go not gentle into that dark night Pig. And we've got bloody gulls (flying rats) nesting on the roof of the country residence. They are of course protected so it will presumably cost an arm and a leg to safeguard our property.