Tempus Fugit - And Takes Automotive Technology Along For The Ride

As you will know if you have been with me on this blog's meanderings for the past decade and a half, I own my Precious Jag - a beautiful Jaguar XK8 that spends most of its life sleeping idly in the garage. It may be a small and stupid thing but it is, for me, a piece of automotiive pornography. It is getting on for thirty years old and runs beautifully. 

Overgraduate with his Canyonero

But enough of such mild boastfulness because today I am saying goodbye to the more prosaic car that has been my main vehicle for eleven years. It is a Kia Sorento, it has done a shade under one hundred thousand miles and has been hardly any trouble. I shall miss it - the Canyonero as Daughters numbered One and Two and I dubbed it - you have to be a Simpsons devotee to get the reference.

 

Krusty with his Kia

 

And let me tell you how to measure automotive sophistication/progress. The Precious Jag has a CD player which I had to have specially fitted. Canyonero came with a CD player as standard and also has a bafflingly unreliable digital radio which I had to buy as an extra. Canyonero has been superseded by a Dacia Bigster (terrible name I know but a lot of car for the money) and that has an efficient digital radio and Android Autoplay so that I can listen to Spotify via my (also new as it happens) phone. No CD player in sight - so last century!

I like the new car  and here's a thing - it's a hybrid. Will that be defunct by the time I next change cars? 

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXVIII

It must be my age because here I go again repeating myself. However as a small tide of wisdom laps at my weary feet, I have to concede that certain things are worth repeating, especially if they relate to sanity (mine not yours).  

My own experience of manic depression is that you are never rid of it. It lurks and some days it stands up and slaps you in the face. In my particular case it is the depressive side of the coin that has to be watched out for most often, though, just to keep my poor minders on their toes, the manic stuff comes ranting out of the shadows when you least expect it.

All of which is a way of saying that for no reason at all I found myself feeling shit this weekend. Thanks to my medical and spiritual minders (chief amongst these the Groupie) I have got much better at dealing with these incursions into my well-being. Which in turn brings me back to the subjects of this blog - most of them things I have touched on before. 

OG's precious mower

The precious petrol mower has been serviced by the estimable people at Hughie Willett Machinery. On the basis that good service should be applauded I recommend Willett - Hughie Willett . The precious mower is cutting beautifully and the act of cutting the lawn dipels depression. 

OG's precious bike

This one will not surprise you - after a moderately major crash last Summer (see blog 5 August 2024) I am at last back on the precious bike. Having head-butted the highway as part of my crash, I have done as advised and thrown out the old helmet (which bore the brunt of my arrested decent) and bought a new one. I also had the bike thoroughly gone-over by Sutton Runner and they have done a bang-up job. New brakes, cables and chain and she's running like a dream. It is good to be back in the saddle and the knee that I tried so hard to ruin in my crash, is very much better. Running will be the ultimate test. One step at a time Pig. Bike repairs at Sutton Runner 

OG's precious Jag

Last of all and the most expensive item in my holy trinity of precious objects - the Jag. I took this out for a run in the countryside yesterday. The misfire that had plagued the car for several years has been cured by the good souls at Mere Green Motors and the full thrill of motoring has been returned to me. They also service my workhorse Kia Sorento (eleven years old and seemingly bomb-proof) and I cannot recommend them too highly. In a nice old-fashioned touch they don't seem to have a website! Don't let that put you off, they are seriously good at what they do and don't overcharge. 

So, in conclusion, (not that you would) don't worry about me, I'm feeling better already.

Flat Track Bullies Redeemed, As Is The Snowflake Generation (For Now) ... Oh And More Films

My reference to the snowflake generation is made in the context of those flat track bullies, better known as the England cricket team. Only a few minutes ago they completed their return to national approval by soundly beating New Zealand so that they are guaranteed a semi-final place, most probably against India, the very side they beat on Sunday to announce their resurrection. Prior to that victory they (most particularly Jonny Bairstow, bless his cotton socks) had reacted in true snowflake manner to the justified criticism that had come their way after two supine defeats. The poor little loves would have it that they were unlucky against Australia and how dare anyone (especially that nasty Michael Vaughan - what would he know about cricket) criticise their game plans. What tosh boys - you were murdered by the Aussies and you copped nothing more than you deserved from the commentariat. May you now blaze a trail of glory to lift the World Cup. The Overgraduate is firmly behind you but fair criticism comes with any trade, so man up.

Operation Finale dramatises the capture and removal to Israel of Adolf Eichmann. It is a worthy film somehow lacking in real drama, but nonetheless notable for Ben Kingsley's calm portrayal of Eichmann - an essay on the general banality of evil and its suave interludes of charisma. An important story but regrettably not an important film. 6.5/10. 

In similar vein another perfectly passable piece of cinema but not a great one. Christopher Robin is what we might deem a nice Sunday afternoon film - that indeed is when the Groupie and I watched it. A downtrodden (by the exigencies of his employment) Christopher Robin is revisited by Pooh (if this makes no sense to you then you are lucky because you still have ahead of you the joy of reading the Winnie the Pooh books - arguably the funniest things in the English language) and an adventure ensues both in and out of the Hundred Acre Wood. By the end a more than passable amount of fun has been had and the eponymous hero has learnt a lesson that he might have learnt much earlier if he had watched Mary Poppins. 7/10.

The sun is shining on our little land today, a fact I celebrated by taking the Precious Jag for a spin while wearing the Precious Oakleys. They do, quite naturally, make one a better driver.

This Morning I Shot An Elephant In My Pyjamas ...

I don't know what he was doing in my pyjamas. It could only be Groucho Marx, in this instance as a supposedly intrepid explorer in Animal Crackers. Great fun which I rewatched with my dear old Dad yesterday morning. Not perfect of course (the film not me you fool) and I suppose incorrect on the modern scale, but the greatest fun. At this distance in time (it is eighty-nine years old) it probably comes down to whether or not you like the Marx Brothers, or indeed whether you have even heard of them. Their very presence predisposes me to mirth so 8/10.

A very different kettle of fish, The Godfather Part III, was today's fare as I took a break from reading up on Darwin and Huxley. I could explain why I am reading about these distinguished Victorians but I have to concede that my reasons are pretty obscure and you know I like you to be entertained, so we'll wait for a day when I feel disposed to dress it all up. So Godfather Part III - any good? Taken on its own, yes it is, but in the context of its two predecessors (both of which are right up there with the very best of all time) it disappoints. The narrative drive gets lost around the middle and the climax is then cinematically botched. Sofia Coppola is, I'm afraid, woefully miscast as Mary Corleone. Coppola has of course since redeemed herself several times over as a director. 7/10 but definitely one for completists to acknowledge and enjoy.

Now then, a little quiz for those of you who have read me before - on which three mechanical devices does the Overgraduate bestow the sobriquet 'Precious'? That's right there is the Precious Jag (now into its third decade and beautiful to behold as ever), then there is the Precious Bike (neglected of late but  I'll soon put that right if the sun persists), and finally there is the Precious Mower - petrol of course and self-propelled. Well the original Mower is dead, long live the new Mower. Quieter than its predecessor and on the initial evidence a better cutter, let me introduce you to the Honda Izy HRG466. May it give me service even half as good as the old one which came with us to this house and had a near twenty year career.

And one final announcement - today's blog is brought to you with the more than acceptable assistance of Paul Jaboulet Aine Syrah 2017. As we experts say, yum yum.

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.

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXIV

Running up hills - actually this is hell whilst you do it but the aftermath floods your mind with unwarranted righteousness, even if the hills in question have all but finished you physically.

Benllech beach - ran on it before I tackled those pesky hills. In the off-season, as now, the sand is at its cleanest peak and you can run in near solitude. Endorphin city.

Canyonero (it's a Simpsons reference - look it up). This car has served us well and still it basks in the glory of its seven year warranty. Now that's great marketing.

Llyn Padarn, around which magnificent water we walked today. Yes, all the way around and me fresh from a run as well. Made up for the mess of food I ate yesterday.

Guinness and a portion of chips, with which I rewarded myself at the end of the walk. The Groupie went slightly more upmarket - sauvignon blanc and chips.

Llyn Ogwen, still bound in ice and which we took a scenic diversion to drive past on the way back from Llanberis.

My mood. Top draw deluxe. And next week is Cheltenham. Life is good.

Big Fat Pig Breaks His Bike

Keen readers will recall that my garage contains not one but two objects of my affection. The prime example is the Precious Jag, but one should not overlook the Precious Bike, my Cannondale CAAD 8.

Well today was a bad day for the PB. I had taken it for a spin and was feeling the self-righteous burn as I churned out of Worcester Lane onto the familiar slight incline. I dropped it down a cog and was greeted by the sound of shearing metal. Now I'm no expert but even I could immediately see that the rear derailleur was utterly bollocksed - Big Fat Pig (aka the Overgraduate) had bost the Precious Bike. I walked the sorry machine home and phoned an engineer. He was doing his shopping at Mere Green so made a quick detour to inspect the damage. He's coming to fix it on Friday. Good lad. Mind you, do you know how he described the PB? "Entry level"! That's me told. He did at least admire the PJ.

Lucky Generals

I'm having fun today, in fact yesterday evening as well. That evening was spent at Sunnybank Avenue watching a riotous (almost literally) game of floodlit rugby and then catching up with a lot of old friends.

Today starts with driving the Precious Jag to Anglesey (a solitary inspection visit), no traffic hold-ups and snow gleaming in distant Snowdonia. I find all well here at the country estate and then settle to watch another game of rather more elite rugby - England v Australia. Which brings me to lucky generals. Bonaparte wanted such generals and Eddie Jones seems to have found a similar quality in his players. The Sky pundits were purring over England's victory but it would be wrong to overloook the good fortune that underpinned a deceptive (37 - 21) scoreline. England got the rub of the refereeing green (does Jaco Peyper ever have a good game?) and were gifted two of their tries. All that aside, one has to say chapeau to the sheer bloody-mindedness and professionalism of Jones' team. It's all rather un-English. And most welcome.

A word also for Stephen Moore the Australian captain whose after-match interview was a model of bloodied and magnanimous modesty. Chapeau also.

We Are

And now I am bingeing on American College Football on ESPN. One of my teams (I favour quite a few because there's a lot to choose from and it's nice to have an interest in each conference) is Temple and they are presently demolishing Navy in the conference championship. Go Owls. These multiple preferences should not however disguise my prime loyalty: We Are Penn State. 

Are Brilliant ... Mark XX

The Jaguar AJ26 V8 4 litre. The big cat still purring nicely after all these years on the favourite run up to Anglesey. Still only 63000 miles on the clock and I got 28mpg today which makes it a little more excusable.

Heard on the radio as I journeyed today in the Precious Jag: Band on the Run by Paul McCartney and Wings. I had forgotten just what a fabulous song this is. In its multi-movement structure it actually prefigures the more celebrated Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. So here is a link to a YouTube version of the song - don't be fooled by the description of it as 'the original video' because it's nothing of the sort but, as someone else would say, the song remains the same.




And then, courtesy of the CD player which was a retro-fitted luxury when I acquired the PJ, I was reminded of this sad but beautifully concocted song by Gilbert O'Sullivan. Not in the Lennon/McCartney league by size and reliability of catalogue but O'Sullivan was responsible for a choice few brilliant pop compositions.



Finally, the Malbec grape which, skilfully fermented by those nice Argentinians, has kept me company as the country seat has been lifted from its winter chill (we have neglected it I am afraid to admit) this evening. Still only up to 15 degrees.

47 Days And The Law Of Diminishing Returns

Pol Roger is priced at about five times the cost of Undurraga. Is the champagne therefore four times better than its imitator? I seriously doubt it but I know which I prefer - when funds permit.

My Precious Jag cost me about half of what I might have shelled out for what one might deem an equivalent Aston Martin. Is the Aston therefore twice as good as the PJ? I seriously doubt it, but that would probably not have stopped me paying it had the resources been available.

The Fat Duck is an utterly brilliant experience. Is it therefore, say, twenty times as good as a decent pub meal? I seriously doubt it, but I'd recommend it to anyone.

When I run I feel outrageously virtuous, particularly when I clock over into recently unexplored territory - witness my ludicrous self-esteem when I managed eighty minutes on Monday. The trouble is that to achieve that elusive 'runner's high' you have to keep adding on minutes and/or distance. So this morning I ran for an hour and yet that gave me nowhere near the satisfaction that it did when I breached the hour only last week in Anglesey.

This dear reader is the Law of Diminishing Returns in operation. 

V8

I've been feeling a bit low today - discouraged by my own humanity/fallibility. Nothing too bad but a minor quake of pessimism. And so I took to the roads, first on foot for fifty exhausting minutes, and then for the same time in the precious Jag, having first had to jump start it out of its neglected slumber.

The soothing power of running and the energising power of the four litre V8. Marvellous self-indulgence.

Now I feel better and tomorrow is another day.

Kia Sorento - Interim Verdict. Plus Thoughts On Capital Food.

Our Kia Sorento (aka Canyonero - check out The Simpsons episode 193, The Last Temptation of Krust) is almost a year old and had its first service today. No problems, in fact no bill because I got five free (well I suppose I paid for them but not much) services as part of the deal. It is not a Range Rover but then again it is less than half the price of a similarly spec'd RR so who's complaining. It drives nicely and copes with any conditions I might care to throw at it. And they even sorted out the problem with the radio on service. Result. Recommended? Definitely - and a word for the dealers, Sutton Park Kia, who have been a pleasure to deal with.

It's taken me a few days to get round to recording it but we had a nice weekend in London. We did rather more eating out than is good for waistline or wallet and because it's what I do, I will give you my précis of the experience. I've expressed pleasure before about the Prince of Wales Feathers, the pub over the road from Helen's flat, so I won't do that again. But new destinations were: the Fig and Olive, Islington (Saturday night); Dishoom, King's Cross (Sunday breakfast); and the Phoenix in Cavendish Square (Sunday lunch).

Fig and Olive - crowded and lively. Service friendly if a little chaotic, first bottle of prosecco on the tepid side, but all redeemed by a fabulous main course shin of pork. 6.5/10. Fig and Olive

Washed down with a Bloody Mary

Dishoom - a modish 'Bombay Cafe'. This place was good - a tasty fusion bacon and egg naan roll with a side of chicken livers, a very creditable Bloody Mary and good coffee. 7.5/10. Dishoom

Phoenix - well I only had fries and dips (perfectly fine) but there was a nice atmosphere and the service was notably cheerful and efficient. Provisional 7/10. Phoenix     

A Work Of Art

The twentieth century was spoiled for new art forms - principally film and television which expanded the availability of both art and the tawdry . However I was reminded on Friday night of another twentieth century medium - the musical. We saw a touring production of West Side Story. Brilliant - operatic and balletic. A work of art.

Big Fat Pig's Other Car

It's been a good weekend as I recover from the bites of the Black Dog. West Side Story on Friday; a cycle ride on my lovely bike on Saturday; a drive to the health club today in my Precious Jag and a satisfactory thrash through the water to make me feel virtuous. Plus I got a cut into the lawn earlier today and the sun is shining. Tomorrow is work, boo hiss but then next weekend is Easter and we will be in Anglesey and the week after that it is the annual pilgrimage to Ireland to play bad golf in good company. Remember, don't let the bastards get you down.

Being Middle-Aged

I have before in this blog advertised my predilection for automotive pornography, most particularly The Jaguar XK8 (which relationship I have consummated), any Aston Martin and the Honda Goldwing. But I have to confess that I have most recently fallen for the siren call of the sensible purchase.

Big Fat Pig's Big Fat Car

Actually 'sensible' is probably not the wholly apposite word since no suburbanite whose children have grown-up and flown the nest needs a large four wheel drive. The category of car is determined by another  foible of my taste - I remember with affection the Land Rover Discoveries we used to have as Sharon's company cars. But once I had convinced myself that what I wanted was a f*** off Chelsea Tractor, my middle-aged sensibilities took over.  And so there stands on the gravel a great grey slab of Kia Sorento.

The thought processes were these - I want an SUV; the Kia has a seven year warranty; a big Range Rover is too expensive to buy and maintain (I spoke to people); the Kia has a seven year warranty; the Evoque is beautiful but not at heart a man's car; the Kia has a seven year warranty; Discoveries remain unreliable and we don't have the luxury of it being a company car; the Kia has a seven year warranty. And, of course, there is the seven year warranty. I find this one of the more compelling commercial offerings. The cars are either bomb-proof or the warranty is not worth the paper it's written on, and being a lawyer I've read the small-print.

So it was off to Sutton Park Kia (their proximity another selling point) for a test drive. I was prepared to be underwhelmed but the Sorento behaves impeccably enough. And there is the seven year warranty. The sales pitch from the dealer was neither neglectful nor overbearing. And there is ... well you get the picture.

So ten days into ownership what do we think? The high driving position is great and I look forward once again to being able to see the Menai Straits as I drive over the Britannia bridge. Fuel consumption isn't too damaging when you consider the size of the car. The interior is plain but acceptable. It has that new car smell. The reversing camera is much more useful than I had somehow imagined it might be. I would like an automatic boot release and close. The digital radio (an upgrade - the lack signifying that this car is really aimed at the American market) is fiddly but I'm getting there. For now I'm a happy camper but will keep you posted.  

It's Raining, It's Pouring, My Love Life Is ... None Of Your Damned Business Actually

It's tipping down or more exactly it's coming down only just beyond the horizontal so strong are the winds. The cover has blown off the barbecue twice today and I have had to venture out to retrieve the situation.

But despite the ghastly weather a middle-aged man's thoughts turn to mid March and the Cheltenham Festival. Now less than four weeks to go until the roar that greets the first race. I will be going for the first three days and a smile adorns my face just typing about it. Get on!

It's been a busy old time and I've enjoyed the last two weekends in Anglesey. The first I went with JRS for a highly convivial few days of beer and sport. We partook of the former and watched the latter. We did have our golf clubs with us but the weather dissuaded us from using them and instead we confined our exercise to walking round to the Ship Inn at Red Wharf Bay for Sunday lunch. We managed to fit that in around watching three games of international rugby, two live rubbers in the Davis Cup and a disappointingly one-sided Superbowl. A capital weekend. Thanks John.

I made another lunchtime appearance at the Ship last weekend but this time it was Saturday and I was with Sharon. The landlord paid me the compliment of remembering my face. We even went back to Red Wharf Bay on Sunday but this time gave the Old Boathouse a go. Most excellent fish pie and a fair enough bottle of Sauvignon blanc. It's a hard life.

My vague prognostications on the Six Nations are looking mildly wise. France have improved, England are competent but don't score enough points when in the red zone, Ireland are zealous and well-prepared, and Wales came an almighty cropper in Dublin last week. Utterly predictably Mike Phillips got into a scuffle. Poor little soul.

My thoughts are turning to purchasing a new car now that Sharon no longer has a company car. It must be my age because I am most interested in value for money and fuel efficiency. However, fear not, the Overgraduate will not be divesting himself of the precious Jag. It shall remain a weekend indulgence.

Reasons To Be Cheerful

The last forty-eight hours have conspired to be kind to me. An initial piece of ill luck set in train a sequence of pleasant events.

The ill luck first. Wet road, huge pothole, flat tyre. I was able to limp the car home and did what any sensible bloke in my situation would do - called the AA - why bark if you own a dog? They were as good as, nay better than, their advertising promises - with me in half an hour and the spare fitted with a minimum of fuss. Very reassuring.

As is the modern way the spare tyre is a weedy little thing which you are advised to get swapped off the vehicle pronto. So yesterday morning I went down to National Tyres at Mere Green whose praises some of you may recall I have sung before. Once again, good as gold, sound advice and swift fitting. Tidy.

All of which left me well disposed towards the tawdry business of earning a living, so much so that I worked until after eight to make up the time lost to fixing the car. I ate well but not too lavishly, took early to my bed and read Waugh's A Handful of Dust. Cracking.

I slept well and was up in good time to dress for my pre-exercise health check at the gym. I passed with surprisingly flying colours, in particular excelling in my lung capacity. Buoyed by this news I swam twenty-five lengths rather splashily and then took to the sauna. The only casualty of all this was my watch which has steamed up. Waterproof my arse.

Feeling on a bit of a roll and ignoring the snow now falling I headed to the Belfry where I thrashed not entirely unconvincingly at ninety golf balls. Perhaps this is the year when The Overgraduate finally masters golf. Is it bollocks.

So all in all I'm feeling rather chipper. Which is nice

This is that time of year when I usually inflict upon you my predictions for the Six Nations rugby but, you know what, I'm uncommonly light on opinions this time. It would be nice to think that England will excel but in the absence of the injured Corbisiero I harbour doubts about the front row. I still cling to the notion that France should be better and that Wales aren't as good as their more blinkered fans would have us believe. Yes I know they provided the nucleus of last summer's victorious Lions but one has to remember that the Australia they beat were, in technical terms, absolute pants. Ireland have a very sound new coach and would be my idea of a decent outside bet, but what do I know.

Back to the gym tomorrow morning to be given my personal workout programme. Viva Iron Dave.

Titus Andronicus And Professional Wrestling

I drove on clear roads at relatively high pace in my precious Jag from home to Stratford-upon-Avon. I walked between the raindrops toward the theatre but deviated to buy a bag of chips which I then ate as I walked by the river. I disposed of the chip paper responsibly. Thus fortified I entered the Royal Shakespeare Theatre and enjoyed a glass of white in the bar before I took up my standing position in the Swan auditorium - my ticket had cost all of £5. The programme contained an article by the matchless Jonathan Bate and the show in question was my old favourite Titus Andronicus. Professor Bate has these wise words,

Critics in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries could not cope with such incongruity. Its affront to stylistic decorum  was thought to be on a par with the play's shocking lack of respect for the principle of poetic justice, in which the evil are punished and the good. are duly rewarded. In our time, though, we have become sceptical about easy divisions between good and evil, black and white. 

Perhaps this modern scepticism explains the success not only of this RSC revival but also the National Theatre's recent revisiting of the misanthropic Timon of Athens. Two under-performed plays which catch the disenchanted Cameroon zeitgeist. And this thought leads me, as these things often do, to professional wrestling and the works of Roland Barthes. All of this was brought into plain sight on television this morning as I watched Daniel Bryan launch himself over the ropes onto the conveniently assembled Shield before springing back into the ring to pin Randy Orton.

Then these same people wax indignant because wrestling is a stage-managed sport (which ought, by the way, to mitigate its ignominy). The public is completely uninterested in knowing whether the contest is rigged or not, and rightly so; it abandons itself to the primary virtue of the spectacle, which is to abolish all motives and all consequences: what matters is not what it thinks but what it sees. (Barthes, Mythologies, 1957, trans Lavers 1984)

So, put plainly I enjoyed this Titus thanks to a cocktail of a fast car, some fast food, some English criticism, some French philosophy and some American grapple. It's good to be back.

Bloody Raining Again

Which has nothing to do with this blog but I just thought I'd lament the awful weather. Snow at least can have some romance to it, but the rain's just a sodding nuisance which makes golf an impossibility and means my boots get intolerably dirty when I referee. You have no idea how I suffer.

To business. There are eight items on my aide memoire slip of paper so off we jolly well go.

One. Truffle chips - that is to say fried potatoes drizzled with truffle oil. I had them (off someone else's plate - this greatly improves a food's taste)  at The Laughing Gravy in Southwark. I recommend the restaurant and the chips, the latter washed down by the respectable Valpolicella.

Two. Michael Portillo - have been enjoying his Great British Railway Journeys on BBC2. How is it that an ignominious exit from politics can make a man quite so much more likeable. He's really very good.

Ours is a much more fetching grey

Three. Range Rover Evoque. We now have one on the drive - a second portion of automotive porn to add to the garaged Jag. Seriously pleasurable to drive. Some have a fixation with speed, others with luxury. I rather like both. But please don't ask me to begin to explain what goes on under the bonnet. That is for others.

Four. Shropshire. I refereed at Bishop's Castle last weekend on a grand sunny day. A beautiful drive in the precious Jag.

Five. Mark Radcliffe. A much underrated broadcaster. Six. The Radio 2 Folk awards which I saw him introducing between coats of emulsion on Sunday.

Seven. The girl at the Co-Op in Benllech who tipped me off that Doritos were on special offer and saved me from buying the wrong chips to dunk in my humous between coats of emulsion.

Eight. High Noon. Serendipitously I found this being shown on Channel 4 yesterday afternoon just as I needed to stop to let coat number two dry. I had forgotten quite how bleak a film it is, Cooper's discarding of his Sheriff's tin star at the end speaking volumes. Also it is one of those films it is impossible to imagine being anything other than black and white. Tidy.

Advent 23

At the risk of upsetting my precious XK8 (nice and warm in the garage just as she deserves) today I share with you my favourite piece of automotive pornography. When I sell the film rights to the novel I haven't even written yet, this is what I'm going to buy myself. This is the Aston Martin DB9. This is design at its loveliest.