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.

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.

 

Stripes: The First Rite Of Spring

It's a bizarre time to be alive. For the first time in my life (and let's face it, despite my boyish good looks, I'm no spring chicken) Europe is playing host to a trans-national war and, even scarier, one of the protagonists is quite possibly enough of a demented shit to push the nucleat button. I have decided that the best thing to do is to carry on as normal (or as near to normal as the life of the Pig allows) and I have even stopped watching the value of our investments yo-yoing up and down as the kids in the City keep pissing about. Mind you, if and when this horrible Ukraine situation is sorted, we will still have to deal with a problem that I have experienced before, that is to say the ruinous inflation our lords and masters have allowed to be stoked-up in the economy. I did warn them but quite clearly they are not amongst my readers.

So Spring has sprung. And the lawn back at Casa Piggy has got its first stripes of the year. Stripes give me feeling of remarkable well-being. And, lo and behold, I arrived here at Plas Piggy last night (here for a writing camp and to watch the Six Nations) to the pleasing sight of the lawns and the hedges here having been clipped for the first time this year by my faithful retainer (well actaully a bloke from Amlwch who's brilliant).

At the moment it's raining but, this being Wales, we are only ten minutes away from the first of two televised rugby matches tonight - a club match preceding Wales v France. I note with dismay that the magnificent Principality Stadium (so much better than Twickenham) is not expecetd to be full tonight for what should be a cracking match. That's what happens when you sell your soul to television. God, listen to me. So old.

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. 

A Not Unsatisfactory Day

Did you like the double negative? It's something David Gower favours in his cricket commentaries and although it can seem a trifle affected I think it's not unacceptable to mimic one's heroes.

The day to which I refer is the immediate past Saturday. I was on the first tee at Pype Hayes at 7.14 to play with BH and my little brother WJR. The weather forecast for the day had been pretty dire but along the lines of the sun shining on the righteous (I accept on reflection that any reference to BH, WJR and the Pig as righteous might be stretching it) it proved perfect golfing weather - not too hot and a gentle breeze to keep it interesting. As it happened I played a tad worse than earlier in the week but not so badly as to prompt despondency. The company was matchless and we got round in a little over three hours without ever having to wait over a shot and without causing anyone behind us to wait - would that it were always so.

After a socially distanced chat with the lads I was back home by half eleven and after a brief interval and a cup of not unimpressive coffee (Kenyan) I was out mowing the lawn with the not unprecious mower. Now here I have to confess an error - I don't know what flitted across my consciousness but I lost my sense of direction and cut an errant stripe. It doesn't look too bad but I, of course, can see it. Oh well it is nice to have goals, so next time I will get it right. The search for lawn perfection keeps me young.

Golf done, lawn mowed, I was soon able to treat myself to a not inelegant glass of 2016 Primitivo. Wine really does taste better if you make yourself wait until the weekend. If, dear reader, you have shares in Majestic Wine you might want to sell them now that the Pig is spending rather less there than had become habitual.

A day such as Saturday deserves to be rounded off by a good film. Well, Pig and the Groupie did not in all truth watch a good film but we did watch the not unentertaining Angel has Fallen. If you have seen either of the previous two entries from this stable, Olympus has Fallen, and London has Fallen, you will not be surprised to learn that the baddies make an attempt on the President's life and it falls to Gerard Butler single-handedly to bring them to account. Silly, violent, profane but not borne down by a sense of its own importance, I like films like this when I'm in the mood. Saturday was such a day. Oh and it has a slight but amusing final scene. 52/100.

So all in all and as I say, not unsatisfactory. 

The Church Of Stripeology

Alright I know 'stripeology' isn't a real word but it does nicely get at my affection for the results I can achieve with my precious petrol mower.

I'm no gardener but we had the garden designed and built a few years ago and the brief was that it should be very much low maintenance. Suzanne at Malkin Design did us proud. Some effort is of course needed to keep it presentable but I have to admit that we're pleased with the results. And of course my favourite bit is mowing the lawn. Photographic evidence attached.

Bloody hell I've only just turned sixty and here I am blogging about my sodding garden. In the background I am listening to Barbra Streisand. Time to man up and put on some Guns N' Roses. Welcome to my jungle.

All Political Careers End In Failure - But This Is Bloody Ridiculous

So Theresa May has finally admitted defeat and we shall soon have yet another Prime Minister. At her moment of resignation she was dignified and serious - have we ever found her otherwise? But we should not allow our instinctive sympathy for a kind soul to obscure the fact of her ineffectiveness. In my lifetime we have had some bloody awful Prime Ministers (Douglas-Home, Callaghan, Brown all spring to mind) and I'm certain that none of them was saddled with such malign mood music as May. Brexit is a shaming dog's dinner, the Conservative Party is an ungovernable dog's breakfast and, to cap it all, she let that turd Donald Trump hold her hand in public. Notwithstanding such unprepossessing circumstances, it has to be said that she has demonstrated an uncanny knack when faced with a fork in the political road for steering with utter conviction down the wrong way. In all of this she threatens to deliver us into the hands Corbyn and McDonnell, a gruesome pairing which should in any sensible world be unelectable. So, sorry Mrs May, I am not sorry to see you go. Brexit means Brexit indeed.

Much more importantly you will need to know that the Overgraduate has been suffering with that most debilitating of illnesses, the summer cold. I have been unspeakably brave about the whole thing as I'm sure the Groupie will confirm. I do just have to make it clear that this was not Man Flu - which as any fule kno is much, much worse.

Mission Impossible - Fallout - a film of sustained and explosive silliness. It has first Paris and then London being trashed in chases and shoot-outs before repairing to Kashmir for a climax that twins a helicopter chase with nuclear threat. Bloody silly. Bloody well done. 6.5/10. For people who like this sort of thing etc.

For a man who is an avid watcher of Gardeners' World Big Fat Pig is not a keen gardener. It seems to him that if you weed regularly this merely stimulates the bloody things to grow back even bigger. The Pig does of course like a well-kept lawn and is pleased to report that the new Precious Mower is doing a great job, both in standard mode and the alternative mulch mode which he uses when doing the Council's job and mowing the verge at the front of Casa Piggy. As for the institutional uselessness of Birmingham City Council, let's leave that for another day.

Remember you heard it here first: Brexit means never having to say you're sorry.



    

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.

The Last Cut

I think that's going to be it for this year. I cut the lawn today, more a matter of mulching and collecting the remaining leaves from the lawn than a serious manicure. If I say so myself, it looks pretty good - the patches killed by the summer heat have all now recovered and the whole suits its autumnal deep green.

Mind you the cutting was not without its mild sadness - my precious petrol mower has served me well for two decades and on three lawns, the old scabby affair in Streetly and both the original lawn here in Four Oaks and the beautiful new one that was laid when we had the garden re-done. My Christmas present to myself will be a nice new mower - not a sit-on, that would be de trop, but definitely a powerful petrol self-propelling model. Stripes a-go-go.

By the way I bet you're all salivating at the imminent prospect of the Overgraduate Advent Calendar. It will be all systems go on Saturday morning. This year's subject is ... I'll tell you later in the week. 

What's Not To Like?

A bracing walk with the Groupie around the Treborth Botanic Garden (under the care of Bangor University) and down to the Southern side of the Britannia Bridge. I love this coastline and its human interventions.

A benign intervention

Shopping at Waitrose - such a civilised store even if the parking bays in Menai Bridge are too narrow.

Late lunch/early dinner at the Panton Arms in Pentraeth. Excellent food (as ever), great service (as ever), washed down with Glaslyn Ale from the Purple Moose Brewery. The Groupie had hake and a glass of sauvignon blanc.

Paddington 2. I loved the first film and I think this sequel might even be better. Ben Whishaw as the voice of the lovable bear is a very fine actor (a brilliant Richard II) but he runs the risk (as per the Robin Williams example) of his greatest work being as the voice of an animation. Altogether a warm and uplifting movie, viewed at the end of a day when I already felt uplifted. 8/10. Slept the sleep of the innocent - quite something for a gnarled old lawyer.

Football's Coming Home?

The question mark in the title is important, preserving as it does my self-diagnosed status as detached and sceptical commentator.

Thus far I have avoided the World Cup in these mental peregrinations and I must confess that I had not watched any match in its entirety until England met Colombia, preferring highlights and/or repeat showings. The denouement of that Colombia game was almost too painful to watch particularly once Henderson had missed his penalty. Yesterday's victory over Sweden was easier on the nerves although I don't quite buy into the total dominance narrative that seems to have found favour - no match that you win 2-0 and in which your keeper makes three fabulous saves can be a procession. So now I am all up for the semi-final - dare I watch it other than on my own, that having been the 'lucky' formula for the two knock-out matches thus far? To paraphrase Ray Prosser - it's only a game, well what the f*** do we have goals for?

My mate Donald Trump will be in this country later this week. I have seriously toyed with the idea of joining a peaceful demonstration against the wanton vulgarity of his presidency but I'm afraid the thought of breaking bread with the daft left has put me off.  Anyway it's too hot for demonstrating. On which front (weather front - geddit?) my precious lawn is burnt to straw but, always look on the bright side, the weeds have retreated completely and I can postpone the need to buy a new mower, perhaps getting one last season out of the old faithful - a man can attach the same emotion to his first petrol mower as to his first car.

The heat makes of me a sluggard - I can function well in the perishing cold but extreme heat gets the better of me. Nonetheless I have had to abandon my usually effective plan of waiting for cooling rain and instead set out for a run in the broiling weather yesterday morning. To the usual and absurd get-up of lycra and Oakleys I added a cap. Only shuffled a couple of miles but must admit I feel the better for it.

In addition to the football I have also enjoyed the Irish Open golf from the magnificent looking links at Ballyliffin. Seaside golf, either playing or spectating, can't be beaten. Oh to be in Northumberland hacking up the course at Goswick, the day ended by a walk on the sands at Bamburgh.

Things Ain't What They Used To be

It's me, I am still here but I haven't been in the mood for blogging. I've been lacking in inspiration, alternating between high and low moods, with my family and friends the cause of the highs and the perfidy of mankind the harbinger of the lows. Neither of these factors is new and, you might very well observe, this state of affairs has never stopped me droning on at you in the past.

So what's different? This question has been gnawing away at me and I have had to conclude that what has drained away my will to write, has been the lack of any reliable prescription to cure the ills of the world. You know me - usually I think I know the answers (well some of them) but just now I feel defeated. Defeated by Trump perhaps. I no longer wake with the vague hope that overnight America will have found a sense of decency and taken steps to remove this wretched man. I am resigned to his awfulness. Will democracy ride to the rescue? I just have this horrible feeling it will not, that America is to remain calamitously divided and damnable. We should not be surprised by any of this - the almost equally loathsome Bill Clinton has this week averred that, given his time again, he would handle the Lewinsky Affair exactly as he did when in office. The man, like Trump, is a cad.

Pop Will Eat Itself - quite possibly the greatest rock band name of all time. My old mate Adam Dolgins wrote a whole book on that very subject by the way (band names that is). You will (if you read me regularly) have heard me use this delicious phrase (PWEI) before. It's one of my favourites and I think I most often use it in the context of the parlous state of that loveliest of games, cricket. Because here's the skinny, Cricket is not so much eating itself as devouring itself like a deranged self-harming tiger. T20 - here's another skinny: it's not fucking cricket. With this one I am pissing into a strong prevailing wind but that doesn't mean I'm not right. I look at my collection of Wisden almanacs and wonder how long it will be before there is no first class cricket to contain within those yellow dust jackets. A nice aside, Pop Will Eat Itself (the band) issued a track Reclaim the Game, though their context was the game of football. At least we don't have anyone force-feeding us abbreviated football. Not yet anyway.

On my recent journeys on public transport in Porto and Bilbao, I was struck by the unaffectedly polite cheeriness of the commuters and the cleanliness of the trains. Taking a train in England is so often a dispiriting experience. Does it have to be this way? I don't think it's the infrastructure so much as the people. Or maybe the infrastructure has deteriorated so much that we find a retreat into oafishness our only coping mechanism.

You see what I mean - I've become a right misery guts. Let me then introduce a moment of good cheer. I'm going to buy myself a new lawnmower, petrol and self-propelled of course. The current precious mower has done twenty years of loyal service and I want to retire it before it gives up the ghost altogether. I like petrol mowers. I like a tidy lawn.

Another reason to be cheerful, I ran four and a bit miles this morning. Slowly but continuously. I have a vague notion that I'd like to do a 10k in the autumn. Should be manageable, even for these old bones. Big Fat Pig redux.

You know what, just typing this blog has cheered me up. A problem shared etc. Thanks for listening.    

God Was In His Heaven

The sun shone, God was in his Heaven, The 1st XV won, and all around was the company of good men. I took Dad to the rugby club yesterday and it made me feel glad to be alive and to be part of the brotherhood that is Aston Old Edwardians. We are far from consistently perfect but the small moments of perfection still thrill me.

Where is rugby football at? Well, the administrators in their attempts to confect things for television have bound themselves into an injury crisis born of the supposed ingenuity of coaching. The way I was taught to tackle by that great man of Neath Ray John (still going strong - I saw him earlier this week) has become unfashionable, notwithstanding that it is the safest and most effective way of grounding an opponent. Oh well, what do I know?

not actual gameplay footage

To continue the theme of satisfying experiences, today I have cut the lawn. Stripes a-go-go.

What I Did On My Holidays: 6

Yesterday back to Alnwick but this time to visit the Alnwick Garden, a modern wonder of creativity and monumentalism.

The Grand Cascade at the Alnwick Garden

Today has been one of sporadic rain and high winds but in the face of my lethargy I plodded for four miles this morning. Coupled with our walk this afternoon from Craster to Dunstanburgh Castle I now feel ready for pesto pasta and vinous accompaniment. Judging by the clatter of bottles we delivered to the bottle bank at Craster we have been doing well by the vintners of the world.  I'm also doing my bit for brewers - two pints of Black Sheep at the Jolly Sailor in Craster. Bosting.

A two week holiday still doesn't feel like enough to do justice to this fabulous area. It's a hard life being me.

Au Jardin De Chez Nous

I sit in our garden typing and looking up to be transfixed by the parabola of the water sprinkler as it feeds what I have to concede is the rather nice planting. I can take no credit for the scheme, concocted as it was by the designer under instruction of the Groupie. My contribution is limited to destructive tasks (horticulturalists deem it pruning) and the cutting of the lawn. Still it is a nice place to be. I have a glass of chilled water to hand and, bad form I know, also a glass of cold red wine. This, of course, is one my rare social faux pas. The red in question is Porta 6, Vinho Regional Lisboa. Great label.

Summer will subside into Autumn, this mixed season perhaps my favourite time of year. Rugby will be back and over the long horizon comes Christmas, which, now I think about it, is also perhaps my favourite time of year. Actually, I like people better at Christmas and I like the weather as it is now.Then again, I love long sunlit June evenings and my best rugby was played in the mud of the new year. I shouldn't have started down this line, but I'm not deleting it.

We've watched another good film, in fact very good - Nocturnal Animals. A story within a story, the second layer of the confection bearing tones of Cormac McCarthy. That's very much a compliment in case you're wondering. The ever reliable Amy Adams and Jake Gylllenhaal star and this is a nicely creepy psycho-thriller, albeit I was not entirely convinced by the enigmatic ending - couldn't think of a better one mind. 7.5/10.

I'll tell you what's funny: That Theresa May that's what; that Donald Trump that's what. Satire. I'm here all week.

Admirable Stategy

Our bins haven't been emptied for three weeks now, courtesy of the industrial action ('strike' in good old fashioned parlance) by the City's binmen. But here's the clever part: they're only partially on strike; they down tools for an hour at a time but still take up their various entitlements to breaks etc. So they're still picking up a wage whilst managing to cause absolute havoc. As a strategy you have to admire it - it's pretty much flawless when ranged against the insubstantial intellectual might of a Labour controlled administration. Me? I relay my rubbish direct to the dump when taking the grass cuttings - the price of having a nice lawn (which thanks to the good people at Top Grass I now have) is that it needs to be cut weekly. It grows like Topsy and not a weed in sight.

you can't get me I'm part of the union

I have been listening to the Strawbs - who knew they were so good? Not I certainly but I have to confess that the more I try, the less I seem to know. Tempus will keep on bloody fugiting. Mind you I strode (alright shuffled) four miles on the hills of Four Oaks this afternoon. Mens sana in corpore sano and all that jazz. My expensive orthotic insoles (touch wood) have done the trick. What I need now is an expensive product that will magically prevent me from being unutterably shit at golf.

Ooh, forgot to tell you - Bridgnorth Golf Club - nice but OG not up to the job. Trounced by my little brother.   

Things Ain't What They Used To Be

But what the hell, let's get on with it.

It is hardly a novel observation that the pair of wankers currently rattling nuclear sabres at one another have the very worst hair ever seen on a public stage. Nevertheless it is worth saying and I congratulate whoever produced the photoshop that transposes the two coiffures. Funny.

What has been cheering me up in these dire times? A few things actually. I have been running without triggering my calf injuries. Which is nice. We are enjoying the subtitled Spanish thriller Se Quien Eres (I know Who You Are) on BBC 4. Which is nice. I saw a cracking Titus Andronicus at the RSC this week. Bloody but not unfunny. Which is nice. We really enjoyed Brooklyn - a beautiful piece of cinema. 8/10. Which is nice. The garden looks good. Which is nice.


So keep on keeping on.

Oh Woe Is Me

One of those frustrating days today. I went out for a run and at pretty much the same point into the run (indeed on the same stretch of road) as when last out, the calf started to tighten up. I walked in but I could really do without this interruption to training that had hitherto gone pretty well.

One man went to mow

Anyway I wasn't going to let this setback get in the way of wheeling out the precious petrol mower and re-striping the lawn. But what did get in the way was the absence of the keys to open the door from garage to back garden. Since I am the only one who uses that door I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I must have lost them, but I will not completely abandon the search for somebody else to blame. Not just yet.

Uttering foul imprecations (etymological note to self: is there any other sort of imprecation) I had to move the precious bike, manoeuvre the precious mower around the precious Jag and then drag the precious mower through the gravel on the drive before negotiating the side entrance to the garden. Then it bloody well rained. Then it bloody well stopped and I was able to mow the lawn. Altogether a bit of a fag but the results are quite pleasing.

I had decided that yesterday's mot du jour was to be 'cant' but in the end I rejected it because, on more measured analysis, the specimens that were exciting my ire probably lacked the full blast of hypocrisy. I've been seeking an alternative but I'm afraid I've come up with nothing better than 'drivel'. The first instance was the plain blather of our esteemed Minister for Housing, one Brandon Lewis. It gives me no pleasure to report that this man holds a degree from King's. Still he was not the worst (or indeed most important) culprit in the news because St Barack of Obama was at it again yesterday. With his best "Trust me I'm a lawyer" face on he announced that something must be done about global warming and that it needs to be done - by somebody else. Now I think about it, Obama probably got closer to cant than poor old Brandon Lewis whose major offence was to have drawn the short straw of defending the government's symbolic and meaningless legislation to make private landlords do the job of the Home Office.

If you know where those keys are could you let me know soonest. I can't go through this rigmarole every time I want to mow the lawn.

Ooh, if you want some good news - I played golf again last Friday (I had the course to myself at Baron Hill) and played the best I can remember for years. I believe I have detected a pattern to this - I play strongly every decade.

To Cut a Long Story Short

We treated ourselves to a new garden last winter. One of the casualties of the beautiful new arrangement was the rather scabby old shed. So far so, good but the lack of the shed (and my failure to erect the proposed new one - the story gets even longer if I expand on that subject) has meant the precious mower sharing garage space with the precious Jag. Pushed into the background and shamefully neglected has been the precious bike. So today I girded the old metaphoricals  and cleared out the garage thus liberating the bike. Now I can store all three of my preciouses and have ready access to each. I spent an oily hour changing a tyre and gave the bike an overdue clean and polish. She sits resplendent and tomorrow morning I plan to give her a gentle outing, judging this to be more tolerable for the calf injury.

All buffed up and beautiful

As I toiled inefficiently at the tyre I listened to the Alpe d'Huez denouement of the Tour de France. Brilliant and spoiled only by the infantile French tossers whose response to another British victory is to make wholly unfounded accusations of drug abuse and to gob on the toiling members of the ultra-efficient (and I grant thereby hard to love) Team Sky. The French have been waiting a long time for a Tour winner, though they might like to reflect that we waited a damn sight longer for a Wimbledon winner without feeling the need to start expectorating in the direction of the victors. Allez Froome. And chapeau to Nairo Quintana who attacked heroically on the Alpe but came up just short.

Au revoir one and all.

For Breakfast ...

Bosting

I have mostly been eating pancakes, bacon and maple syrup (which I cooked myself - except for the syrup obviously) washed down with prosecco and damned fine coffee.

After a foul day weatherise yesterday, it dawns bright and clear today. A bit of gardening followed by a barbecue beckons. Top draw.

Incidentally I have spoken to the Sugar Mummy and she prefers to be known as the Groupie, so we will revert to that.