A Culinary Discovery

You all know me - I'm a world recognised connoisseur of fine food. You knew that didn't you? Well, that being so, how is it that only as I approach my sixty-second birthday (I know, it's kind of you to say so - that's clean living for you) have I discovered something as delicious as Chinese Takeaway Salt and Pepper Chips, also known as Salt and Chilli Chips. I was introduced to these on Saturday evening by Daughter Number 2 with whom we were staying in that Manchester. Bloody Hell, these things are magic. I swilled mine down with a Reserva Rioja, having had an earlier pint of Timothy Taylor at the pub. Life's been good to me so far.

It has finally caught up with us - the Groupie has gone down with Covid. She feels quite a bit ropey but is handling it better than I would. Thus far I am testing negative and hope to maintain that status to allow me to play golf with the lads tomorrow. Got to get your priorities right on these occasions.

DN2 was on good form at the weekend and we had a satisfying time getting her garden into shape. I can't get over-enthusiastic about gardening, preferring to let things get just out of hand so that you can wade in and enjoy the full fruits of the labour of tidying-up. I exclude lawn-mowing from this sentiment - because, as any fule kno, ownership of a petrol mower is one of the greatest things known to man. DN2 doesn't have a lawn but she does know how to handle a petrol mower because her doting father taught her this vital life skill when she was back home last year. Chip off the old block. DN1 (resident in that London) doesn't have a lawn either but she is a keen horticulturalist and lives with copious plantage. They do make you proud. Behold the only things greater than yourself.

 

More Rain, More Seaside

I'm back home at Casa Piggy after a pleasant enough drive back on the A55 - A525 route. I had been planning to take the classic A5 route but I found myself listening to an interesting documentary about Elvis Presley's 1968 comeback television special and didn't want to lose the radio signal. It was a good piece of cultural materialism, whatever that really means.  

I digress. Just a brief line to comment on England's Six Nations performance on Sunday. The good thing: Italy were kept scoreless; the bad thing: most everything else - imprecision masquerading as ambition. They should expect to be judged by high standards. On that basis this was, in academic terms, a solid 2:2, nothing more.

I had another bottle of that Malbec and stayed awake for the whole of the Super Bowl - a tight tussle that rewarded my patience. I could do without all the half-time shenanigans mind you. I made myself a hot-dog at that stage and took in some of the Winter Olympics. Also boring.

I've discovered a new food group that I like - the Ginsters Bombay Potato and Spinach Pasty. Vivid proof that vegetarianism isn't always good for you. I have been trying (mostly successfully) to avoid eating meat during the week (I don't drink alcohol either) because of my blood pressure. Not at all convinced that it does me any good but I do feel vaguely virtuous.

Sorry, I've just looked at the title I had given this piece - it was raining at the seaside.

The Curse Of Catenaccio But A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

Despite the time of year my lawn is looking pretty good. For once I have stuck to my little and often mantra as regards leaf sweeping and the result is rather pleasing. Mind you I've got twenty bags of wet leaves needing transport to the dump. So all in all, that's pretty good.

 I have a set course for my shorter runs of about three miles and I have started keeping track of my over-60's PB. I beat that PB by sixteen seconds yesterday. So all in all that's pretty good.

Eddie Jones is getting on my nerves. He has England playing the rugby equivalent of the dreaded old footballing Catenaccio - a system that takes as its key the bolting of the defensive door. Thus yesterday England beat a diminshed Welsh team in a stultifying encounter. Some ambition please. Oh and can someone teach Owen Farrell how to tackle properly. He has all the nerve required but constantly goes too high. It has already got him sent off once this year. An accident waiting to happen. So all in all, not so good.

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood - yes I know that's not how we spell 'neighbourhood' but it's an American film so we must allow them their way. This is a film which teeters on the precipice of saccharine sentimentality but performs a masterful balancing act to ensure that is does not topple over the cliff edge. Tom Hanks excellent as always and Matthew Rhys matching him all the way. Rather beautiful. 70/100. Groupie and I watched it last night after eating home-made (that is by the Groupie not by me) pizzas. Served alongside an organic Malbec for me - how woke is the Pig! So all in all, that's pretty good. 

The Bright Side

It seems we got out of Wales not a moment too soon. Not satisfied with the various travel bans the administration has now gone the whole hog and mandated a full lock-down for a fortnight starting on Friday. At least you can't accuse them of muddle - everyone knows where they stand and they better bloody well stay there. I wouldn't want to be a legislator just now. Here's an admission - the Pig has lost his usual unbearable certainty on any given topic. Not quite true of course - there are some things on which I haven't lost my voice, Trump prime amongst them. Even when the alternative is the tedious Joe Biden, Trump simply has to go. It is tempting to venture this opinion on the grounds that the democracy is at stake. I may in fact have done so - no I'm pretty sure I must have done. I'm sorry - democracy is as democracy does, the least bad way of running things. No, what is at stake is that elusive construct, the rule of law. A victory for Sleepy Joe will not deliver us entirely safely from harm - he will have to escape the clutches of his own pudding-brained left - but he is our best chance. And for those who wonder why I get so exercised about America, I repeat that I love the stupid, irritating place, just as I love the stupid, irritating United Kingdom. There is (as often) a line in Kipling that would sum up why America must remove itself from its present self-absorbed, self-harming malaise, but its use would be misconstrued so I won't do that. Just get a grip folks. Please.

How a calf muscle should look

Enough of that- I promised you the bright side. The news you've been waiting for: today, fully five weeks and two days since he was so tragically lamed, Big Fat Pig went for a run this morning. Thirty minutes (that's about three miles at Piggy pace) and although he is now stiffening up, the Pig feels all the better for his efforts. Sod Covid, sod Trump, sod political posturing, he's back.

More good news - tomorrow the Pig takes his golf game to Cavendish Golf Club, which, as any fule kno, is the Pig's favourite golfing destination.

Do you know what, the corny Christmas film channels are already broadcasting, have been for a couple of weeks. It's daft but I have decided to be charmed by it. It speaks of unusual optimism in a time of doubt. I know it's all probably driven by dire marketing ploys and a hunger for advertising revenues, but I am rising above it and so announce an elongated season of goodwill to all (well not all of course - see above). I've even got a good scheme for this year's Overgraduate advent calendar. My lips are sealed. 

My charitable mood towards the commercialisers of the birth of Our Lord, may have something to do with the scent of turkey soup dominating the kitchen. The Groupie is working her way through the contents of our freezers and that has included a turkey carcass. Her turkey soup is most excellent.

Putting The House To Bed

Big Fat Pig and the Groupie rushed to fit in a few days at the old country estate before the Welsh government threw the English out of Cymru, ostensibly on account of Covid although in the Pig's fevered imagination it is the product of unconscious racism - still, no one likes us, we don't care. The Pig's view on all of this is, not unnaturally, stoked up by the payment of double Council Tax for a property he now finds himself prohibited from even visiting. 

Wylfa Head

Enough whining. We had a lovely time. We even found a stretch of the Coastal Path we had not walked before - from Wylfa Head back to Cemaes. Cracking. Another rather muddy adventure took us down to Ynys y Fydlyn, this second walk being celebrated with drinks and a bowl of chips each at the Trecastell Hotel in Bull Bay. Sausages for tea, washed down with Romanian red. Tidy.

Ynys y Fydlyn

And so we have done with Plas Piggy (or should that be more modestly Ty Piggy - no, Pig doesn't really do modesty - admit it you've noticed) what the National Trust do - Plas Piggy is now asleep for the winter, eagerly awaiting the day when the powers that be let us return. Damn this virus and the ham-fisted legislative response to it.

 And I'll tell you what's nice - nice is when the house opposite chops down its horrid leylandii and unclutters your view of the Great Orme. 

And I'll tell you what else is nice - a free-flowing M6 that allows the journey to Mon to be done in well under three hours.

One final thing that's nice - Joe's Pizza swilled down with a ruby ale I got for Christmas and about which I'd forgotten. 

Worth looking up on Netflix - Jimmy McGovern's Broken - by turns tragic, affecting and finally redemptive. Actually rather more than worth looking up - it's a must see. 

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXVI

 It's been a while since the last 'Are Brilliant' so I thought I'd better revive it. Besides a change being as good as a rest it has been one of those good to be alive holiday weekends so the revival is timely.

Are brilliant: 

the Groupie. I'm here at the old country residence with her and that always makes me feel blessed.

Ynys Mon: we walked yesterday on the Menai Straits (well not actually on them but you know what I mean) and I marvelled at the perfect fusion of man and nature that is the sea and the two Menai bridges.

The Anglesey Coast Path - one hundred and twenty-five miles of grandeur.

Gregory's Girl, watched yesterday night and which is every bit as charming and downright funny as I had remembered.Out of the top draw. 88/100.

Sausages. Good sausages.

Malbec.

Welsh Chilli Chutney, a jar of which one of our visitors left in the fridge. Spicy, nice with cheddar.

Quiet Nights In

The country yesterday took its biggest step yet towards emerging blinking into the daylight of normality (I was toying with 'normalcy' there but decided that it is too transatlantic) - this giant leap for British mankind was the reopening of the pubs. The police were on full alert apparently. The Roberts family (we have Daughter Number 1 here with us this week) opted for a night in but we did greatly enjoy fish and chips ordered online (click and collect) and collected from the estimable Mere Green Chippy.

Last week we had re-watched Inception - the third time of asking for me. Visually stunning and with a thunderous score this is a tour-de-force from director Christopher Nolan. Due deference to DN1 is needed here and I must point out that Nolan read English at her alma mater University College London. We will generously forgive them both this defect. This is a film which is a feast for the eyes but one does also have to concentrate because the plot is labyrinthine - there is much play with levels of consciousness, dreams within dreams within dreams and onwards down as in a hall of mirrors. On third viewing I think it made more sense to me. Highly recommended. 81/100.

I mention our choice of viewing because yesterday evening (after the chips) we fired up the neglected big screen upstairs (when we bought it it was expensive state of the art, now it is unexceptional) and watched a very different movie, Greenbook. The fact that this won Best Picture at the Oscars might usually disconcert me but, no, this is a bloody good film. Its two stars, Viggo Mortensen and Mahershala Ali, are on brilliant form and, yes alright, it does sometimes tip into the sentimental but its message of racial tolerance and friendship is uplifting. Catch it if you can. 88/100. 

A Good Walk Spoiled

It's a funny time of day to be watching it but I have my eye on the BBC coverage of the last day of the Masters where forecast violent weather has them teeing off early in three balls and from two tees. Whatever next?

The glut of televised golf gives an opportunity to consider that now rare beast, BBC golf coverage and to compare it to the slick Sky product. The Beeb gets the nod, notwithstanding the excellence of Sky's Ewen Murray and Paul McGinley. The good work of those two is undone by the sincere but shallow Nick Dougherty, the horrible narcissism of Butch Harmon and the pathetic gurning of Robert Lee. Even Peter Alliss seems to have reined himself in a little on BBC though I stick to the view that he should be retired, forcibly if necessary.

Do you know what, the Big Fat Pig ran for just over the hour yesterday. He can hardly bloody walk today (particularly with a bit of gardening thrown in) but he feels righteous. He's having a glass of sauvignon blanc and some scones now. He is the Pig after all.

 

Advent 23

DN1 and DN2 are home for Christmas after a mildly chaotic exit from That London - won't bore you with the details but all's well that ends well and we definitely earned the reward of a Chinese banquet. I've even had some cold prawn toast for breakfast.

Our beach at Benllech

 Ynys Mon (Anglesey to you and me) has become very important to me, a place of peace and comfort. From the two historic bridges that link it to the mainland (a third is now planned), to the easy grandeur of Plas Newydd; from the coastal glory of Trearddur Bay to the craggy outlook of South Stack; from real ale at Red Wharf Bay to excellent fish and chips at the Golden Fry; from waking after a sound sleep to good coffee taken at the front window looking over to the Great Orme in the distance. Ynys Mon is where I feel closest to my personal gods.

Grumbling And Some Antidotes

I'll tell you what is true: Donald Trump is an idiot with peculiar skills; Jeremy Corbyn is an anti-semite but is so far lost in his wretchedness that he has no access to self-knowledge; criticism of the state of Israel is not per se racist; the Brexit process descends daily into a less and less amusing mess; I'm struggling to think of a current public figure who fills me with confidence. It's not just today that I feel all of these things - a little cloud of reflective misery follows me most of the time.

an antidote

Antidotes: I played golf at Cavendish Golf Club with my great mate Big Willy Mac last week and it seemed that God was in his Heaven and all was well in the world, most particularly as I parred the eighteenth before retiring to the bar for a Guinness and a bowl of chips; the next day I played twilight golf at Pype Hayes with three old rugby buddies - once again there was Guinness but no chips this time; Daughters Numbered One and Two are both home for the weekend so my family are all to hand; we had a curry last night and then watched Rain Man, a good film but not a great one - 7/10.

multiple antidotes

Life's been good to me so far.