A Singularly Pointless Anecdote

That is how my well-thumbed copy of Halliwell's describes Ridley Scott's directorial debut, The Duellists. That is a bit too strong a denigration and we should note that Halliwell does accord the movie one lonely star - a mark of noteworthiness in the Halliwell system that grants stars only to the minority of pictures. No doubt the star was in acknowledgement of the film's indisputable cinematographic qualities. In addition, the fight sequences (largely confined to the sequence of ludicrous and barbaric duels fought between Keith Carradine and Harvey Keitel) are bloody and gripping.

The tale (it is based on Joseph Conrad's fictionalised retelling of a true story of French military madness) is simple - the psychotic Keitel takes every opportunity that presents itself to kill his fellow officer Carradine. The ctach is that he has to do so under the ritualistic codes of duelling, hence the episodic structure. What we have is toxic masculinity gone wild. As I say, the Keitel character is psychotic, but the Carradine portrayal is of a man in reluctant thrall to the same toxic nobility. A trifling anecdote maybe, but not a pointless one. 61/100.    

Back On The Chain Gang

Which, by the way, is the title of my favourite Pretenders' song, not that this has anything to do with what I was going to say. No, what I want to talk about is Big Fat Pig's return to the streets of Four Oaks. Those new running shoes I told you about have passed their first test, indeed two tests. Two passages of my favoured route and no calf strain to complain of. In addition I have been out on the Precious Bike on each of the last two Sundays. Nothing gargantuan but plenty of middling climbs to make the thighs burn. What with my twice-weekly golf (I have joined the Senior Section at Royal Pype Hayes to add to the Monday outings with old rugby mates) I am feeling quite chipper about my physical condition. 

Here's something that bothers me - the England cricket team. They have revolutionised their approach to test cricket and quite properly hoovered-up some praise for their exciting approach. But these are the facts: by their hubris they gifted the Ashes to Australia and last week they lost catastrophically to India in a match they could quite plausibly have drawn. Since when has a defeat been a more desirable result than a draw? Unprofessional - and I don't care if they come charging out of the blocks this week and demolish India in the fourth test, my point still stands. It's sport, not professional wrestling. Making a classically gifted batsman like Joe Root look like a pissed-up pub player is no achievement at all. 

Usually at this time of year I would be girding my loins for the annual pilgrimage to the races at Cheltenham. Not this time. Never again I suspect. Too crowded, too corporate. This is a sadness but hardly a new phenomenon. It is precisely the same thing at Twickenham. God, never mind the running and cycling, this middle-aged-man-in lycra is knocking on the door of miserable old git country. Doesn't mean he's wrong though!

The Coup

John Updike's prose is poetic. I'm afraid I have no clue at to whether his poetry is prosiac, since I must confess I have never read any. So what of The Coup his 1978 attempt at an African comedy? It is, I suppose, a wry post-modern companion piece to Waugh's Black Mischief. But not nearly as good - not for this reader anyway. Don't get me wrong it is dauntingly beautiful in its composition but so dense that the comedy struggles to get out from under the taut wrapping of the prose. It plays artfully with point of view but, and here I suspect we have the key, it is at its most engaging when we flashback to the narrator/dictator's American college years. Updike's educated ennui with his own country shines through. A wholly admirable novel but not a page-turner. I doubt that Updike would be even remotely bothered by this middle-brow estimation. My instict upon finishing the book was to reach for Waugh's Unconditional Surrender, one of my late Father's favourite's, my well-thumbed copy of which I keep near at hand. Now that is mastery.  

Reasons To Be Cheerful

It has been quite a while since I can recall being so consistently content. I am sure there will be dark dog days but I have to say that the medicine is working. All of which is a tad surprising when you consider what a mess the world seems to be in. You don't need me to tell you but, in no particular order, Trump continues to thrive, Starmer prevaricates, Sunak flounders, the Middle East wallows in warfare, environmentalists gleefully inform us that fun should be outlawed. I could go on - stick with the project long enough and I no doubt will. 

But despite all of this, Big Fat Pig has decided to be happy. And shall I tell you the main reason why? Well yes I shall. Family - mine is bloody wonderful. But beyond blood ties there is the wider family - my school, my friends, my university, the rugby club. As the world at large goes to hell in a handcart, all these continue merrily on their way. I don't know anyone who seriously doubts that the world picture is bleak, but I have nothing but love for all of those who determinedly plough on with selective optimism.

It's about time I inflict upon you some views on the evidence of the first couple of weeks of the Six Nations. Let's start with England. They scraped past Italy (actually that match was not as close as the final score suggested) and past a predictably fired-up Wales. The doom-mongers have not been slow to condemn what they have seen but I think there are some reasons for optimism. Borthwick is a cautious coach but his revamped coaching staff are trying to bed-in a new defensive scheme. I like this but would have to concede that it is pretty alarming when it goes wrong. I don't think the situation is aided when Borthwick persists with Elliot Daly on the wing. Yes, I know he's got a cannon left boot and pace, but he is and always has been a defensive liability. And, by the way, if I'd been refereeing the Italy match I'd have sent him off for that trip on his opposite number. Heinous offence and bloody dangerous.

Scotland are England's next opponents and I marginally favour the Scots, provided, of course, that it is the Scotland from the first half of their match against Wales who turn up and not the disjointed rabble who ceded the second half to a neophyte Welsh team. If, as one suspects he will do, Borthwick brings back Tuilagi, it will be worth the price of admission just to watch Tuilaga and the excellent Tuipulotu career into each other.

France. Wherefor France? They got manhandled by the brilliant Irish in their opening game and then were supine against Scotland. As for the disallowed Scotland try at the conclusion of the match - the video official bottled it, plain and simple. All of which was rather a pity for the on-field official, Nic Berry, who had, in all other respects, a fine game. This was in stark contrast to James Doleman who handled the England v Wales fixture. He was uniformly dreadful albeit in an impeccably unbiased manner.

What to say of Ireland, other than that they appear streets ahead of all others. As for Italy, please let them win a game, not that I would stake anything on it.

I've got a new pair of running shoes. Tomorrow I will risk the dodgy calf muscles and give them their first outing. Report to follow.