A New Survey Of Universal Knowledge

For those of you who give a stuff, here is my explanation of this year's OG advent calendar. You might recall that I am rather proud of our complete edition (24 volumes plus a two volume dictionary) of the 1959 Encyclopaedia Britannica. Books do furnish a room. I am even more chuffed that we paid the princely sum of £1 for the whole lot - admittedly I had to drive (I think it was somewhere in Essex) to collect them but a bargain nonetheless.

1959 is quite an apt date for this survey of knowledge. I was born in 1960 so the handsome red-bound edition is a nice approximation of the state of knowledge at the date of my birth. Gagarin had not yet been launched into space; within my first decade man would walk on the moon; the microchip would ventually revolutionise life in unforeseeable ways. It has been quite a ride.

 

  

 

The Overgraduate may be vain (after all, like a preening boxer, he refers to himself in the third person) but he will not pretend to a new survey of universal knowledge (the proclamation fronting each volume of Britannica), rather there will be a partial and digressive dip into page 63 of each of the twenty-four volumes of that 1959 edition. The reason for the number 63 will be disclosed only at entry number 24. If you too have a 1959 edition you might be able to anticipate what is to come. Hopefully you will be wrong!

The Magic Number

As I have said, and in the spirit of Sesame Street, this year's advent calendar will be brought to you by the number 63. As will become more apparent in subsequent blogs, this number was not the starting point for this year's theme, but has rather been cast upon me by that best of all authors - fate. 

Fate has a nice way with it. At least I like to think it has. My favourite number is 8, a legacy of my best position on the rugby field. However (and I am not making this up) my second favourite is 63. I'll exlain. At junior school we were vividly encouraged to master our multiplication tables, up to the twelve-times-table. I've often wondered why we stopped at twelve but I suppose it might have something to do with our pre-decimalisation monetary system or perhaps it was thought that young brains might explode at the thought of multiples of thirteen. Whatever, I responded diligently to the task of memorising my tables. The Headmaster (Mr. Jackson) used to burst into lessons and ask some poor random a question. To my mind the hardest multiple to master was 7 x 9. Whch is of course 63. It has stuck with me.

All of which has nothing to do with advent but is a nice coincidence. And if we encounter a further rather monumental coincidence then the lucky amongst you will be able to predict each calendart entry. I do realise that no one really can be that bothered, but this keeps me off the streets and is good for society.

The Pig's Big Book Of Knowledge

Do you know what, two people in London actually asked me, at the weekend, what will be the topic of this year's Overgraduate Advent Calendar. This sounds impressive and speaks well of this blog's reach. I have to disabuse you of any taint of admiration and tell you that the two in question were Daughter Number 1 and her husband. Worse still, you might well judge that they were humouring me. But for those of you still reading (for which thankyou) today's entry is by way of a teaser. This year's calendar will be brought to you by the number 63. And just to emphasise the point here is a stock image of that very number.

I very much hope that this has whetted your appetite. If so, please tell your friends.

In The Bleak Midwinter

Actually by the OG measure of seasonality, it is not yet even winter - by my reckoning that comes on 1 December. Nonetheless we awoke here at Casa Piggy to a blanket of snow. Thus the Pig is not playing golf today. Just as well because he is not friends with his driver at present. 'Twas ever thus.

The Lower Grounds at Casa Piggy

 So anyway, you have all no doubt been wondering why Big Fat Pig has been silent after a flurry of posts during Groupie and Pig's brief holday at Plas Piggy. Sorry about that. Just to fill you in, the last day of our stay was spent walking from Wylfa Head to Cemaes, the walk including a stop-off for a pint at the turning point. Lovely. We than had a very good pub meal back in Benllech at the Breeze Hill, under new management, marked by a particularly fine example of that prize side, onion rings.

We watched three films during our holiday, nothing to get overly excited about but decent holiday fare. In ascending order of merit, we first have The Mirror Crack'd, a workmanlike Christie adaptation laden with stars but lacking in pizzazz. I have to be in a certain relaxed frame of mind for Agatha Christie on either film or television. I have no interest in identifying/guessing the culprit, but rather want the text to wash over me. 55/100.  

Next best is Blunt a television film from an age when the BBC could afford more ambitious projects.This retails (yet again) the Philby/Burgess/Maclean/Blunt spy scandal, concentrating in particular on the relationship between Burgess (played by an excellent Anthony Hopkins) and Blunt (the equally meritorious Ian Richardson). In particular Hopkins conveys a convincing picture of Burgess as hugely well-educated but prize shit. 61/100. 

Finally we have the 1974 film of Murder on the Orient Express. This is the one decorated by Albert Finney arrestingly hamming it up as Hercules Poirot, whilst surrounded by a cast of more restrained co-stars. Poirot is worthy of caricature so Finney just about gets away with it. The pace occasionally drops to the pedestrian but the period detail is consitently well-done. 68/100. 

And now the snow is melting. Back to November drabness. Soon be Christmas.

Yesterday I Have Mostly Been:

Visiting Bodnant Garden. This is a wondrous place and as good a reason as you might find to justify the National Trust policy of taking over a great garden even if the adjoining great house does not come with it. I believe this policy may have been instituted with Bodnant as its first example. The Groupie and I walked extensively and enjoyed a picnic lunch at the Far End of the garden. 

Eating - anchovies on toast. A particular favourite.

Drinking - Chianti.

Feeling - good about life.   

Yesterday I Have Mostly Been:

Worrying - about my stiff knee; about Trump's clear victory in the US election. Shame on the Democratic Party for finding no better candidate than Kamala Harris. But the sun is shining on the Great Orme as I write this and I will expend my energy on things I can control.

Walking - along the coast path at Trearddur Bay, probably the nicest village on Ynys Mon. I was, of course, with the Groupie, so life can hardly get better.

Eating - at the Sea Shanty in Trearddur Bay. Monster portions at bargain prices with swift, unobtrusive service. Washed down with a pint of Golden Gate IPA. Altogether most satisfactory.

Reading - The Mabinogion. Still.

Yesterday I Have Mostly Been:

Running slowly - before breakfast and ruing my stiff knee, the latest manifestation of my old age. To add to the knee, it's bloody hilly here at Plas Piggy.

Visiting Caernarfon - the castle may be a symbol of oppression but you have to say it's a rather magnificent symbol. Nice pint in the bar of The Black Boy and a bowl of chips shared with the Groupie.

Listening to - Gil Scott-Heron, Pieces of a Man. Nice.

Reading - The Mabinogion. In English translation, sorry about that.

Film's Most Charismatic Actor?

I refer to Marlon Brando and I turn for evidence not to his famous turn in The Godfather (one of my favourite movies but one where Brando goes a tad over the top) but to two monochromatic performances in 1953 and 1954 respectively. The second of these even has learned nominations as the greatest cinematic performance of all time.

Julius Caesar was the first Shakespeare I ever studied seriously (O Level) and it has a chapter to itself in my doctoral thesis. The play is not, I have decided the 'broken-backed thing' derided by some critics. Yes Caesar gets bumped-off barely halfway through the text, but the play fair rattles along and gives us, particularly in Brutus and Antony, plenty of politico-drama to get our teeth into. The 1953 film is loyal to the text and James Mason makes a persuasively priggish Brutus. I am never quite sure about John Gielgud (this, I accept is probably my problem) but he enunciates Cassius's lines beautifully. It is, however, Brando who muscles his way to the foreferont as Antony. A highly resepctable adaptation. 70/100. 

Brando's work in On the Waterfront is on an altogether higher plane. This is a magnificent film, ornamented with a slew of notable method-acting tours-de-force - take your pick from Rod Steiger, Karl Malden or Lee J. Cobb, but you will eventually be brought back to Brando as Terry Molloy. It is a gift of a part but what Brando does with it is breath-taking. The movie lasts barely more than ninety minutes but satisfies on every level. 93/100.