The Pensiveness Of The Long-Distance Runner

My recent aims with my running have been to attempt an improved time on my measured short course one weekend and to add duration the next. I have had a few setbacks, just the usual crap, calf strains etc, but the past three weeks have been good. On the faster runs I am not so daft as to think that the sixty-six year old Pig can run as fast as his younger self but I am measuring up to the post sixty-five records I keep. As for the longer runs, you might recall my target to get back up to an hour on the road by late Spring. I managed that and then the injuries came along. So now I am working my way back up. Today's target was fifty-five minutes. I find this the most difficult target because it feels like you are wimping out on going for an hour. Anyway I managed it and touched that elusive feeling - the runner's high.

I have to distract myself when I am running. If I do not do so, I become mired in the sheer monotony of what I am doing. I gave myself a number of things to think about today - early on I cultivated a hatred for the dog that went for me without any admonition or apology from his owner. C*** - and that's just the dog. Better thoughts soon intervened. I had a brief conversation with one of the elderly householders on  my route. He always makes an effort to greet me. This is nice. I envisaged a perfect fairway wood shot that I am hoping to deploy in my next game of golf. This is nice. And then I turned to thinking how I was going to create for you, dear reader, a perfect summation of all that Trump has been up to in the past few weeks. I failed. Venal and mendacious, he is a scar on the face of humankind. This is not nice. So I finished my run by humming Joe Walsh to myself - life's been good to me so far.     

A Modest Proposal

Today I channel my very own inner Jonathan Swift. Before we start, a dim thought; would Swift have been a blogger? Of course he would.

Anyway, this latest idea of mine has been thoroughly road-tested. It went through a meticulously assembled focus group, specifically the group of ex-rugby-players seated around a table at Royal Pype Hayes Golf Club yesterday evening after our weekly thrash. 

Today's guest editor

Important background. Casa Piggy (where the groupie and the Pig live) is, modesty must not prevent me admitting, in a fairly salubrious area. It is larger than your average homestead though not, I would venture, obscenely so. It is nice. We are lucky. We are on the edge of the countryside - the point where green belt and suburbia collide - at least for now. If you go to the top of our road and turn right you will pass some right old gin palaces before you descend into agricultural land. On the road that passes the fields there is an unmetalled lay-by. In that lay-by some unspeakable low-life has abandoned a fridge. This is a frequent occurrence. Fly-tipping. We are only ten minutes away from one of the City of Birmingham's excellent public tips. Take it there you unforgivable wanker. The saddest part of all of this is that it is now so commonplace that it almost passes notice.

So here is my modest proposal. A select few in society (chosen by me - we could start with the seven of us sat around that table yesterday) would be issued with firearms and single bullets. We would be authorised to shoot and kill any perpetrators of fly-tipping, pour encourager les autres. After each summary execution we would report the locus of the event and the City would clear up the fridge and also the body. A new bullet would be issued.

I am no more serious than was Swift with his own modest proposal but, bloody hell, this stuff can make you mad. By sheer coincidence I today read the revised Terms of Use of blogger.com - this includes the prohibition of revelling in or encouraging violence. I take the readers of this blog to be people of inestimable discernment (as any fule kno) but just in case I have missed in my aim - this is a joke , and like all the best jokes it reveals a serious point. And it does make a nice change from me banging on about Trump.    

Played quite well yesterday in case you're interested and this morning I went for a run down the lane towards the fridge. I'm feeling jolly chipper - now where's that gun?    

Things I Hold Dear

From an early age I have been a sports obsessive - player and spectator. I still play golf (frustratingly badly and I'm afraid there is no false modesty at play in this) and I still run and cycle for fitness. However late middle-age (I suppose I ought to admit that it is really early old-age) affords more room for spectating. I ought to add that I also still enjoy reading good sports journalism and books. All of which brings me to some recent realisations that the land I eventually leave behind (I'm in no hurry) risks being very different from the one I inherited from my forebears.

Association football is the great and beautiful beast that threatens to swallow the sporting landscape whole. We have the continuing saga of Manchester City and their legion of uber-expensive lawyers trying to wriggle off the hook of the dubious Financial Fair Play Regulations. Regardless, the beast lurches on breathing fire and burning cash. 

Cricket may just about me my favourite game to watch and I think it spawns the very best writing on sport. One of my most cherished possessions is the 1960 Wisden, given to me on my fiftieth  birthday by two dearest friends - 1960 was the year of my birth. It records first-class cricket in the age before the birth of one-day cricket. It records a civilisation gone with the wind. And yes I know that things had to change but something seen on television today brought home to me that test cricket, that magnificent yet frustrating animal, is dying on its feet. Today is the first day of the South Africa v Australia test at Durban. There is hardly a soul in the ground. Sad, sad, sad. I fear a world peopled by 'franchise players' trailing their coffins around the shrinking world at the behest of television and playing nothing more spiritually sustaining than glorified pub cricket. 

My greatest love as a player was rugby union. The game has been savaged by professionalism. the fifteen man code, at its monied levels, has become a twenty-three men per side cauldron of collision. Meanwhile the amateur game is tragically diminished. I can foresee a not too distant future where the amateur game hardly exists. This pains me but I have no solution to offer. The world is becoming a lesser place.

And all of this in the week when the greatest nation on the modern Earth (it just about still is despite Trumpian privations) announces that it will stream the execution of a murderer for public consumption. That atrocity does, I suppose, put my sporting woes in context.    

There Ought To Be Rules About This Sort Of Stuff

I know it's silly but I do wrestle with my mind's meanderings on what constitutes a great film. For today I will say that as a minimum qualification it must be a first-class piece of work, that is to say that it must score at least seventy out of one hundred on the OG ratings - yes this is all about me - why else write a blog? That much is simple but lots of very good films qualify by this route, films that I would not call great. My current prejudice is to demand re-watchability as an additional signifier of greatness.

What got me thinking about this (it may be pathetic but it's better than worrying myself to death about that cultural vandal Trump) was watching Winchester 73 the other day. Anthony Mann is overshadowed by John Ford in the pantheon of Western directors (or dare we call them auteurs) but the five such films that he made with James Stewart are important. Winchester 73 is concise, taut and brilliant - film noir meets the Western. 86/100.

By that grading I am suggesting that Winchester 73 is, by some comfortable distance, a first-class piece of film-making. Rewatchable? Decidedly. 

All of which brings me to the title of this post. I am suggesting that aggrieved Hollywood stars might assert that there ought to be a limit on how many truly great films any one actor can be in. Stewart is in four I can reel off: The Philadelphia Story; It's a Wonderful Life; Winchester 73; The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. And yes I know I am wilfully striking out the four he made with Hitchcock, the Hitch not being quite my cup of tea.

Winchester 73 - great film.

A Funny Old Week

It may not always be apparent but I'm a sensitive soul, a fact that made what happened on Wednesday all the harder to take. No names, no pack-drill, but I found myself roundly attacked and, this being the bit that really hurts, my morals and my intellect were questioned. As I say, I'm a sensitive soul and such things wound me. That is putting it mildly - by Wednesday evening I was feeling as low as I have been for a long time. But it transpires that it really is darkest before the dawn.

The Groupie was, as ever, marvellous and I permitted myself a couple of glasses of the good weekend red as a solace. Even so I was not exactly full of the joys of Spring as I made an early start on Thursday to play for Pype Hayes Seniors against Marston Lakes Golf Club. After four hours of better-ball match play the Pig and his partner (IC - much better golfer than the Pig) emerged triumphant by 2 and 1. The result does not matter, it was the company of nice people that lifted me. No side, no agendas, just civilised fun. Thank you to IC and to the two Johns who opposed us.

Golf as therapy. Yesterday got even better. I played again yesterday morning - this time a quarter-final knockout against our estimable captain and fellow left-hander, PS. Poor old P had to give me a generous batch of shots and I eventually prevailed on the 18th after a career six-iron set up a clinching par on that final green. We had played a ding-dong match but were round in a shade under three hours in autumnal sunshine. Life is good. As the Groupie so wisely reminded me on Wednesday evening - don't let the bastards get you down. 

I'm Sorry Dave

'I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that'. Plenty of keyboard warriors will have got there before me I know, but those words spoken by the supercomputer HAL 9000 in 2001: a Space Odyssey do now look brilliantly prescient. 2001 is a film I've spent plenty of time slagging-off in the past but it is, whether this weary writer likes it or not, the lodestone to which all sci-fi movies are compared. The HAL quotation is getting plenty of air-time at the moment as the eager beavers of Silicon Valley suddenly come to the realisation that shoving genies back into bottles is bloody hard work. There we have the dilemma of Artificial Intelligence in a nutshell. But don't worry, that prize tosser Donald Trump says that the AI scare is a 'hoax'. So that's ok then.

On my favourite (well nearly) subject of Trump, what follows is Stephen Greenblatt's estimation of Shakespeare's Coriolanus. Who does this remind you of:

Here we are dealing instead with an overgrown child's narcissism, insecurity, cruelty and folly, all unchecked by any adult's supervision and restraint. The adult who should have helped the child achieve maturity has either been completely missing, or if present at all, has reinforced the child's worst qualities.

There is a difference. Coriolanus, I would argue, has redeeming features, not least stupendous martial valour. No bone spurs. Coriolanus is killed by his erstwhile allies - last night Steve Bannon and Bernie Sanders shared a platform to advocate for curbs on AI. To jump to another realm of the Bard - misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. 

On a brighter note, I ran four miles this morning. So when the end of the world is nigh, at least I can run away from it.

   

I'm Back

A good few weeks have passed since I last loaded my prejudices upon you - thank you for your patience and, for that matter, for ever reading this drivel. It helps keep me sane.

The cause of my absence was the health of the materfamilias. She is much better, thanks for asking, but has now taken up permanent residence at Casa Piggy. The big move was last weekend which led to some comical bad driving of the hire van by your correspondent the Pig. Van and contents(with the exception of one lamp shade) survived unscathed. We are all now settling into the new normal. Part of that normal will hopefully be some decent regular exercise for the Pig. I did attempt one run in August but contrived to agitate my delicate right calf muscle after only seven minutes of exertion. I was a good boy and only sulked for a day or so. Getting old is a right sod.

Pig at the wheel

Well, today I struck out again on the mean streets of Four Oaks and managed a gentle 5k. I feel well and unreasonably virtuous. A particular pleasure was being greeted cheerfully by one of the residents of Dunton Close who was kind enough to say that he was glad I was well and that he had noticed my absence. People can be really nice - I sometimes forget that.

Pig out for a run

    

Musings On Romcoms

The Groupie and the Pig have been apart for much of the last month - this for reasons connected to the health of the Pig's materfamilias (pleased to report she's much better thank you). Anyway, last weekend the Pig's estimable brother (I only have the one) was on Mum-watch, so the Groupie and I watched Notting Hill. I've said this before but I rate this film as better than two of Richard Curtis's more trumpeted offerings, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and Love Actually. Notting Hill is wry, as amusing as it is implausible (the charm easily defeats the implausibility) and sent this punter off to his bed in a right good mood. You have to admit as well that Hugh Grant very efficiently cornered the market for foppish charm. 70/100.

Pig On Tour

Well, not so much a tour as a two venue vacation. The Groupie has taken a richly-deserved week off work and we started by staying with Daughter Number One (and her husband CL) in Wanstead, which as any fule kno is in the north of That London. DN1 and spouse have a house there which can accommodate visiting parents notwithstanding that they also have two cats who, for reasons too complicated to relate, have to be kept apart. Long and short of it - we had a cracking time. Two world-class galleries attended and much dining-out undertaken. First up was Tate Britain. The Pig has to confess that despite being at university in That London he never made it as far as the Tate. Big mistake. It's excellent. Highlights: 1) Hockney's A Bigger Splash; 2) the Turner Bequest - loads of the Pig's favourite artist, most notably Snow Storm, a picture apparently panned by contemporary critics but, to the Pig's untutored eye, an undeniable masterpiece. Picture appended along with photographic evidence of the Pig admiring the Hockney.

Pig and Splash

The other gallery was the National Portrait Gallery - this one being within easier walking distance of KCL and therefore a familiar haunt of the Pig when he couldn't face afternoon lectures. We also took a diversion into Foyles bookshop, another place where I used to loiter when I should really have been studying. Lazy Pig. 

We ate out three times and all venues were more than passable but one stood out as excellent - The Port House on the Strand. A fabulous Iberian atmosphere and delicious tapas. Two bottle of cava and a glass of port each to round things off. I should explain that DN1 and CL were with us so the consumption of two bottles is excusable. The Pig recommends this to all fellow pigs out there - the Port House 

From That London to Ynys Mon for the rest of the week. Two excellent walks, firstly from Amlwch Port towards Point Lynas and, this afternoon, along Traeth llydan to Rhosneigr. Stunning. Putting modesty aside, the Pig should say that the walk was made all the more enjoyable by having been for a run prior to breakfast. Pig Glorioso.

Rhosneigr hoving into view

 

 

An Illustrated Definition of Sociopathy

 Antisocial personality disorder, sometimes called sociopathy, is a mental health condition in which a person consistently shows no regard for right and wrong and ignores the rights and feelings of others. People with antisocial personality disorder tend to purposely make others angry or upset and manipulate or treat others harshly or with cruel indifference. They lack remorse or do not regret their behaviour.

Commander-in Cheat

His mate

Californians Forgiven

BFP/OG/CC is/are rather vulgar, a fact that makes it odd that he should have dismissed Californian wines from his high estimation. I apologise to the winemakers of that arresting state for I have just finished my first bottle of Lodi's Three Finger Jack Old Vine Zinfandel. Delicious and subtler than reputation generally expects of California. I discovered it on the tasting table at Majestic. Excellent with blue cheese, richly alcoholic and a viable alternative to a bottle of port. Having said all of this, you should remember that BFP (dis)credits himself with having the palate of a stray dog. I leave you to try it for yourself.  

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXIX

Hello, Chortley Chuckles here. As the latest arrival into the schizophrenic world of The Overgraduate, I am delighted to curate this the latest contribution to the thread that recognises brilliance. And all of this comes on top of a rather brilliant day I had on Friday. My only regret is that it was a solitary day as I am in Ynys Mon on my own, as is my wont when the Open Championship is to be watched. Many moons ago, before we were fortunate enough to own Plas Piggy, I used to sequester myself away in Bert's (he was my father-in-law) house and watch the whole day of the BBC coverage. These days, commercial imperatives have asserted themselves and the coverage is to be found on Sky. Oh well. And one does have to admit that the Sky coverage is technically adroit even if my old curmudgeonly self finds fault with some of the commentators. Can someone please explain to Nick Dougherty the difference between definite and indefinite articles - his usage is affected and annoying to us pedants. I also find Wayne Riley's sad need to be loved rather pitiful - you find yourself wanting to put an arm around his shoulder and tell him he's doing just fine.

Anyway, are brilliant.

Sir Garfield Sobers, who died this week. It is tempting to amend the designation and say that he was brilliant, but no, that would be wrong. Sobers' all-round brilliance is a thing for the ages. By a distance the greatest all-rounder ever to have graced cricket. This opinion brooks no argument. My first ever visit to Edgbaston was when Dad took us to see him play for Notts against Warwickshire. I later learned that my dear friend ICW was also there that day, taken by his own father for the exact same reason.

David Hockney, another recent death. Also is brilliant. There are quite a few documentaries doing the rounds on streaming services - he comes across as engaging and, most importantly, hugely gifted. In later life he became mildly obsessed by painting large canvases. Chortley Chuckles has a liking for such things - this may be because Chortley is rather vulgar. Hey ho.

The Open Championship, particularly the first two days. Love it.

Related to the above - links golf. There is nothing quite like it, particularly in the parched conditions of a hot summer as we are currently enjoying/enduring. A large part of that brilliant day I had on Friday was spent on the practice ground at Clwb Golff Ynys Mon. So wrapped up in my practice was I that I decided against actually playing the course and instead went into the bar and was gratified to find that I had thirty quid of credit on my membership card. Guinness and scratchings. Brilliant, all of it.

Ynys Mon itself. I thought this for the umpteenth time as I drove back from the golf club, taking a circuitous route around the top of the island. We are blessed.

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXVIII

When you've been going through a lean patch (inspiration-wise in my case) what you can do is re-release some of your old hits, jazzed-up a bit. Seems to have worked for Taylor Swift, with whom I have never before been compared, not even by Chortley Chuckles.

Definitely not the Overgraduate

So returns the Are Brilliant thread, itself (as you may well have spotted) a limp regurgitation of a catchphrase from The Fast Show, Now there's a nice irony because The Fast Show is/was brilliant.

Definitely not Chortley Chuckles

Are brilliant ...

Beverley and East Riding Golf Club. Blasted moorland, cows wandering around, sunshine and a strong wind. This is how golf should be.

Howley Hall Golf Club. A Mackenzie course. parkland but with space to breathe and a second hole played to a green hidden behind an old wall. This, contrarily, is also how golf should be. Howley Hall and Beverley in combination cost us less than sixty quid. It's not grim up North.

The Rugby League Magic Weekend. The culmination of our Northern adventure. £41 for seven matches. Great sport. Good food. Even better company. The OG trinity was accompanied by TW, AO, BH, JS and TS. Brilliant.

Hill Dickinson

The Hill Dickinson Stadium where the aforesaid rugby took place. A model for new stadia on the just-less-than-gargantuan scale. How can a firm of solicitors afford the naming rights on the place? It wasn't like that in my day. 

Quiche. Heatwaves demand this.

 

Wagner/Polanski/Allen

The weather has been bloody boiling - successive days in the 30s and no respite on the horizon. OG/BFP/CC has been away from his desk and since his desk is at the top of Casa Piggy where the heat gathers, this gives a partial excuse for abandoning his/their public correspondence. Sorry about that - you must be in a state of grave yearning. I could bring the laptop downstairs and work there but this desk is my favourite prop. Pathetic isn't it because as that master of mischief (Lord of Misrule as GL so ably referred to him in his eulogy) Ian Marchant kept reminding me, the first thing that a writer must do (even a crap one like me) is bloody well write. So here comes something dredged up from my lousy memory.

Big Fat Lazy Pig in the sun

Those of you who have been paying attention (believe it or not I encountered one such last week) will know that Overgradutae/Big Fat Pig/Chortley Chuckles together constitute this writer's unholy trinity. Some of you knowing my less than modest grip on life might have prepared yourselves for the OG to compare himself to the three cancelled artists listed in the title of this piece. Well, stand down, even CC isn't that self-involved. No, what brought this infamous trio to mind was reflecting on watching Hannah and her Sisters again (see this blog 27 June). I can offer no answer to the old conundrum of whether we must tie an artist's oeuvre to his/her morals and censor our enjoyment of them. I will say only this: I love driving my precious Jag with Wagner blaring on the stereo; Chinatown is possibly the greatest colour attempt at film noir; Woody Allen is indisputably very funny. I am weak.   

Powerful Dialogue

The Groupie and the Pig are making their way through The West Wing for the umpteenth time. It seems strange to be back in a time when pagers were still a thing and mobile phones were not so powerful, but the basic brilliance of the show still stands. It may be my advanced age and my carefully nurtured cynicism but I occasionally get weary at the perfectly formed liberal diatribes that pass for dialogue, but just when one wonders if Aaron Sorkin is not perhaps the genius one had thought him, he reels you back into the game (the thinking game I think we should call it) by puncturing the self-righteousness of the major characters. If you want to know what I mean then check out episodes 1 and 2 of Series 3. Toby and Josh are in full and seemingly unchecked arrogant spate until a minor character (Doug, a political consultant) finally cracks and lacerates them with a dose of angry realpolitik. Well done Doug and, of course, well done Aaron. A serious show about serious matters. A great game to play is to watch The West Wing and then to switch to CNN to witness the evil, witless drivel that emanates from the Trump White House (and, I'm afraid to say, from the bulk of the compromised GOP) - if it wasn't so important it would be funny.

Whilst I'm on the topic of television, we've found another show that we like. It rather more than tips its hat to the tropes of film noir and it is, of course, no secret that Big Fat Pig loves a good film noir. The show is Sugar. We're only a couple of episodes in but it all looks very promising.

Moving on - from television to film. The cancellation of Woody Allen is a topic on which I don't have strong opinions beyond the vague unease that, no matter the state of the criminal law, there are some things you don't do when in loco parentis. But Allen remains one of my favourite film-makers, one who deserves the over-applied label of 'auteur'. We watched Hannah and her Sisters last night. An excellent movie with superb dialogue (better than Sorkin). 86/100.

       

The Pig Is Falling Apart ... But Not As Quickly As He Had Feared

I was at Plas Piggy over the weekend, doing some thinking and writing. Nothing very creative, just some stuff (technical term) for the King Edward VI Foundation. As ever the island proved a starter for my writing muscles. God, I love that place. Just to make things better, the flying vermin seagulls aren't yet bouncing around on the roof. I know they are nesting (apparently they are monogamous and return to the same nest for up to twenty years) but the chicks and noise haven't started yet. Small mercies.

Which is not what I am going to tell you about. No, my latest little melodrama commenced as I drove the precious Bigster back to Casa Piggy on Sunday - an enjoyable journey listening to Leonard Cohen on Spotify. The only thing that discomforted good old Chortley Chuckles was a growing awareness of a large floater in the left eye - a sort of spider's web hampering my vision. It didn't take long on the old interweb thing to diagnose myself as having a detached retina. Thus was Chortley (Knuckles was left at home) subject to a mild panic. So he joined the queue at the Birmingham Eye Hospital at 8.30 yesterday morning. It opens at 9.00. I was thirteenth in the queue. All was efficient and everyone (except two over-lively children) was on their best behaviour. I was triaged (I assume that's s verb) swiftly and then saw first a nurse and then a doctor within two hours. All thorough, all reassuring. When it works like this the NHS really is a thing of wonder.

PVD

Upshot? Chortley the manic depressive now has another diagnosis to drag around with him - Posterior Vitreous Detachment (PVD). This is much less serious than a detached retina although the symptoms are similar. Basically the jelly behind the eye has detached itself from the back of the eye. Apparently my brain will adapt and learn to live with it although this may take a few months. Phew. Just another signifier of getting old.

They had put some drops in my eyes for the examination by the doctor and warned that my vision would be blurred for several hours. They weren't kidding. I'd had the good sense not to drive (train and taxi in) but it was only when I exited the hospital that I realised I couldn't read my phone well enough to order an Uber. Thus Chortley embarked on one of his tragicomic routines. He phoned the Groupie but she (as Chortley should have remembered) was working and also waiting in for the carpet fitter (Groupie's office - it looks great). No matter, Chortley Chuckles was feeling quite chipper (he had been more scared of the possible diagnosis than he had admitted to himself) and so decided to get a bus into Town and then to get a train. He started towards where he thought the hospital entrance/exit could be found. He got this wrong and was soon in a building site. He turned his blurry eyes back to the hospital and then a blinding (see what I did there - puntastic) idea came to the boy Chuckles. From the dissolute past of rugby Saturday nights, the Chuckles memory dredged up the phone number of that saviour of many a weekend - Star Cars of Erdington. They got him home.  

Phew What A Scorcher!

BFP was quite clever when he arrived at the golf club this morning, at least he thought he was. He parked in the lee of a tree because even at 7.45 it was what we meteorologists call bloody hot. The resultant shade would keep the precious Bigster as cool as might be possible. Not if the sun goes the opposite way to that you had imagined. So when BFP came off the course at midday, feeling not a little sweaty and knackered (the Pig always carries his bag - it's point of principle), he opened the boot and was greeted by a wall of captured heat. When he clambered into the driver's seat his legs and back burned. The Pig is a fool.

What of the golf? Well, acceptable since you ask. Not stellar but acceptable. Let's leave it at that and move on.

That bloody hotness. Record-breaking apparently - the old records for May heat dating from 1944. Does this prove anthropogenic global-warning or is it just an outlier? The Pig doesn't know. Probably he should. He drives a hybrid but would not seriously consider going fully electric until the refuelling infrastructure is up to scratch. But which, comes first, the chicken or the egg?

And here's another thing that's bothering me. If the Pig fleeced his employer of £400k, one thing that is certain is that the Groupie would notice pretty quickly, particularly if both Pig and Groupie had the same employer. So what's wrong with Nicola Sturgeon. All this proves is that, as we have known all along, the Groupie is a lot sharper than La Sturgeon. 

    

Weird World

It's a bloody good job that I inhabit the same skin as Chortley Chuckles and am ensconced in marital bliss with the Groupie. The great triumvirate (that's OG, BFP and CC in case you haven't been paying attention) finds itself wound up in the paradox of modern living, wherein the good things are very good and the bad are frankly dreadful. As we (the triumvirate - for today I am all three at once) sit here typing we are listening to Maddy Prior's heavenly voice. This is a good thing. On the wall are various movie posters and an Aston Old Edwardians club shield. These are good things. Fresh in Pig's memory is yesterday's golf when he actually played quite well. This is a good thing. Rather than play again this morning (my shoes are letting in water and there was a drizzly fug) the Pig went for a gentle run in the rain and felt the better for it. This is a good thing. The OG then took to his keyboard and ordered a new pair of golf shoes (rather an overdue purchase), a new golf bag (zip bust on the old one), and some golf balls (didn't lose any yesterday but supplies are looking a tad thin). Such retail therapy is a good thing.

So we feel quite well. A state of mind that makes me feel a little guilty because the world outside Casa Piggy is going to hell in a handcart. The Labour Party seems intent on self-evisceration as a quite unlovely cast of characters hovers over the near-carcass of the mass of inadequacy that is Keir Starmer, each member betraying a revolting ambition and a lack of political morals. The Conservative Party, well what can we say about them? You're right - nothing. They are a quivering mass of nothingness. Lurking in the shadows is the curious beast of Reform - an inchoate sub-moral sliminess. The Greens? If you're going to tell me that Zac Polanski is a potential PM, well, sorry, you need your bumps feeling. Anarcho-syndicalism anyone? 

The triumviarate is bipolar - does that mean there's six of us? It's getting crowded in here. 

Eating Out And Coming Down

That well known trinity of OG, BFP, and CC has returned to leafy Sutton Coldfield after what can only be described as a magnificent week on Mon with the Groupie. None of us (meaning Overgraduate, Big Fat Pig and Chortley Chuckles) can recall being happier. We had a great time. Back home and there is a slight sensation of let-down but we did have a very fine Chinese take-away on the evening of our return and that helps - indeed there is still enough left for my supper tonight.

Conwy Marina

We ate out twice last week and both were noteworthy, cementing the conclusion that pub food is these days really very good. After our visit to Bodnant we called in at Conwy Marina and had a meal at The Mulberry, which sits at the edge of the marina. I was slow to twig that the pub name is on account of the D-Day Mulberry Harbours being developed and tested at Conwy. My meal was by way of a nautical pun, the 'Big Buoy' burger - it had a portion of most burgerish things within and even BFP was satisfied.   

The Breeze Hill

Our last night was even better. We wandered up the hill from Plas Piggy to our local, the Breeze Hill. A good test of any pub kitchen is whether they can handle a request for a steak done medium-rare. The Breeze Hill can. The Pig was very satisfied. and the side-order of onion rings was epic. The Pig is a connoisseur when it comes to onion rings and these were large in number and quality. Decent beer as well.

Introducing A New Persona

You will know me as the Overgraduate (OG) or possibly as Big Fat Pig (BFP) but today I want to introduce you to another of my split personalities. Chortley Chuckles has emerged from my subconscious and will now take his place in these ramblings. He was beckoned to the front of my mind when the Groupie amiably commented that she liked the way I laugh at my own jokes - a sort of chortle cum chuckle. Thus was Chortley Chuckles brought to life. He is a down-at-heel entertainer. He entertains all ages but his act for children also comprises his unseen but faithful dog Knuckles. Thus he has a theme song, its precise tune known only to OG, BFP, and to Chortley himself - the refrain runs 'Chortley Chuckles with his prize dog Knuckles'. This line is by way of an oblique tribute to the briliance of Clive James' haunting chorus, 'I have the only cure for life, and the cure for life is joy, I'm the crying man that everyone calls laughing boy'. 

Chortley Chuckles and his prize dog Knuckles

If you encounter Chortley Chuckles (CC) please be gentle with him - as with many clowns there is a serious man hidden beneath.