A Personal Boast

It was only on 17 January that I shared with you my resolution to get back to being able to run for an hour non-stop by the end of May. This was based on adding five minutes to my longest runs each month. It was not exactly an earth-shattering ambition but I would point out that by the time we get to the end of May I will be sixty-six and in grateful receipt of my state pension. I own an old body hampered by a rugby player's accumulation of physical afflictions. Wouldn't change that last fact for the world.

Anyway, what I am building up to saying is that the Pig is back in Benllech and set forth this morning in high winds and pissing-down rain and rather surprised himself by running for one hour and sixteen seconds. To say that I am pleased with this outcome is an understatement. Just thought I would share this with you.

While I exult in this minor achievement, the world lurches from one undignified crisis to another. Will Keir Starmer survive as PM as what I presume someone will shortly dub Mandygate unfolds? It is very tempting not to give a shit but there's a country to be run. Any volunteers? Oh, by the way, I've just done a cursory Google search and 'Mandygate' has been doing the rounds for days. So much for my political antenna. 

Even I Am At A Loss For Words (Well Almost)

Anybody with half an ounce of perception has been able to tell for in excess of two decades that Peter Mandelson is very talented. But it has been equally obvious for all that time that the the man is a preening, vainglorious shit who thinks himself above the confines of what passes for common decency, Why could our Prime Minister not tell this? He could have asked me, or indeed anyone at the court of public opinion. I despair.

Keir Starmer has managed the near-impossible by his ineptitude in the appointment of our most important ambassador - he has made Kemi Badenoch look competent at PMQ's. I despair. And don't get me started on Ed Davey or that sinister yob Nigel Farage. We deserve better, much better.

The State Of The Nation

What exactly is the point of Kemi Badenoch? No seriously, what has happened to right of centre politics - we seem to be left with a vast wasteland where once was important ground. Still we can at least take some comfort from the fact that the morally ungrounded Keir Starmer is turning out to be the best Conservative prime minister since that nice Tony Blair.

Enough of such gloom (well actually ther might be some more to come - sorry) because I am on one of my flying inspection visits to Plas Piggy. The sun is shining and the Great Orme smolders in a heat haze in the distance. The wretched flying vermin gulls are nesting on our roof again but that cannot take away the attractiveness of this place.

And last night I watched an interesting film, a Danish/Icelandic speculation on humanity and morality - Godland.  It follows the travails of a Danish pastor tasked with building a new church in the remoteness of South-East Iceland. It is a tale of endurance and obdurance. Three men die, as do two horses. The pastor is a pioneering photographer and the movie is shot in an almost square ratio with rounded corners that mimics his glass-plate photography. A serious film. A good film. Available on iPlayer. 78/100.

The VE Day celebrations last week were moving. I particularly enjoyed how much it all meant to my mother who remembered the sheer joy and relief of that end to war, celebrated in her case as a ten-year-old in Gloucester. That generation who lived through WWII have been the guiding influence on my generation and as we lose them we need to reflect on our own actions upon those growing-up behind us. Are we, the baby-boomers, as wise an influence as our own parents have been? Such thoughts can cast a pall over my day so I have risen from my desk and looked out once again over the sun-dappled sea. I may even have a third cup of damned fine coffee. Life's been good to me so far.

 

Self-Corroboration

I recall from my dim and distant past that there is, within the Law of Evidence, a rule against self-corroboration. Well, that rule does not have sovereignty in the realm of the OG.

I mention this merely because I yesterday came across a quotation from eminent sociologist Erving Goffman, itself quoted within Alan Bennett's Writing Home. Anyway, being as self-involved as anyone who writes a blog I lighted on Goffman's remarks as adding weight to what I said about Keir Starmer on 7 January.

Young psychiatrists in state mental hospitals who are sympathetic to the plight of the patients sometimes express distance from their administrative medical role by affecting shirts open at the collar, much as do socialists in their legislative offices .. What we have in these cases is a special kind of status symbol - a disidentifier ... telling others not what he is but what he isn't quite.

I see this appliance of the disidentifier in the dressing habits of my successors in the legal profession. As I write this I realise, of course, that Starmer is one such successor.

Sloppy logic, I know. This is not really self-corroboration. But you get what I'm driving at - these are my prejudices and I'm sticking to them, it's taken years to acquire them.

 

Nature Abhors A Vacuum

Great minds have debated this Greek nostrum, but don't worry I'm not going to suggest that I am qualified to add to the clamour. No, it just comes to mind when I try to summon up some optimism for the year that lies ahead of us and I see the moral and intellectual vacuums that so disfigure our public life.

Let's get Keir Starmer out of the way. I really don't care for this two-faced Mr Pasty but, bloody hell, he's a mile more convincing than Kemi Badenoch. Mind you what's really irking me about Starmer are not his policies (what policies?) but his predilection for having his photo taken jacketless and his sleeves rolled up. Here I am probably miles removed from the zetigeist but I like my statesmen to appear statesmanlike, not like some mealy-mouthed middle-manager.  

But let us talk of the far greater problem - the moral vacuum that emanates from America and threatens to pull us all into its nothingness. And I'm not (for today at least) concerned with that arch-shit Trump or his grifting British minion Farage. No, Elon Musk. Being the richest man in the world does not disqualify him from having opinions but the vile trash-talking he favours (much of it currently aimed, quite improperly, against Starmer) is an abuse of status. As Spiderman so often reminds us, with great power comes great responsibility. The Overgraduate does not, and never will, own a Tesla.

Interim Report On The Great Oleaginous One

I refer, of course, to Sir Keir Starmer. I suspect, much to my regret, that I am one of those people he refers to as having 'the broadest shoulders' and that I will be paying more than a proportionate share of the price of rescuing the country's economy. It's all blather of course, economically illiterate and powered by that great engine, envy. Don't get me wrong, I count my self blessed to have what I have but just in case his ridiculous class-warrior deputy, Angela Rayner, has missed the point I would point out that all that the Pig and the Groupie have attained has been through taxed income and that neither of us has ever had even a day of private education. I agree that the country is in a mess and that the Tories are a shower of shit but this is not the way to put us back on track.

Oh well, at least we don't live in America. For the sake of what is left in the way of societal decency, Kamala Harris must please defeat Trump. The difficult part is that after she has done this great service to the world, she must eschew the hare-brained poilicies she tends to offer up on those rare occasions when she is tempted to talk turkey. Government price caps anybody? 

By the way, if you want to see some relatable rugby unon on the television, seek out New Zealand's National Provincial Championship on Sky.

New Year Resolutions And Other Garbage

I do have some resolutions but my main one is not to share my resolutions with anyone. Some things are best internalised.

Which, you might think, would be an end to this blog. But no, I promised some other garbage so here it goes. Something is rotten in the state of Britain, indeed in Northern Ireland as well, if we are to be terminologically correct.

Why are there so many bloody potholes on our roads? Why are junior doctors on strike? Why are standards of public behaviour so lamentable? Knife crime? I could go on but you know where I'm coming from. And this is not some churlish new year hangover-induced melancholia. No, I'm actually that most unusual of people - one who likes January. With my rose-tinted backward-facing goggles I reminisce fondly of fields of January mud that slowed the game to my pace and allowed me to play some of my best rugby. As I say, rose-tinted goggles.

I'm trying really hard to be fair about this but is there anyone in our political class about wehom I can feel sanguine, never mind admiring? Rishi Sunak is plainly a bright bloke but he seems to have fallen captive to what the spin doctors feel should be his public persona. Thus he meanders around the questions that are put to him and simply comes across as shit-scared, rabbit-in-the-headlights awful. Mind you the quality of political interviewing leaves much to be desired. Oh for those Sunday lunchtme Brian Walden interviews where seriousness was prized above assinine point-scoring. What about Keir Starmer I hear you say. Well (and I will concede that he has a point) he is so plainly scared of putting his foot in it that he finds new and more boring ways of saying precisely nothing. It will be an achievement of staggering imbecility if he manges to lose the upcoming election, opposed as he is by a shower-of-shit Tory party.

Could be worse - we might be in America and faced with the possibility of a second dose of Trump. I have decided that 'vulgar' is the mot juste. 'Dangerous' and 'evil' are equally apt. 

OG advises that you follow his lead - keep your head down and seek out the many reasons that still exist for being happy. Don't let the bastards wear you down. As a starting point you might like to note that the utterly brilliant and charming Paddington 2 is available on iPlayer for twenty-one days. 

The Return Of The Grown-Ups

Alexei Sayle is back doing stand-up, or at the very least he has launched his Imaginary Sandwich Bar for the delectation of radio listeners. This is decidedly good news. Sayle has more wit in his little finger than many of the self-loving modern stand-ups put together. Sayle and I stand at opposite poles of the political world (I exclude the lunatic fringe right from my analysis) but I have always had an admiration for sane socialism. And he never forgets the underpinning rule of comedy - it's supposed to be funny. 

A far cry from comedy (well, on reconsideration, probably not) is the state of British politics - tragi-comedy perhaps, that difficult bastard child. Much of the time I give way to the counsel of despair and just roll my eyes sagaciously when politics intrudes into my life. Well, what would you know - I turned on the television to watch the parliamentary debate on the Autumn Statement. I should declare an interest here. For the record, the provisions of the Statement materially and injuriously affect the finances of the life of Pig. I neither expect nor seek any sympathy. What struck me about the debate was that before the infantile shriekers of the back-benchers took their turn, there was the spectacle of adult speeches. No matter what James Naughtie may think of him, I estimate Jeremy Hunt as a serious politician. And lo, I give unto you, his Shadow, Rachel Reeves. Another adult and one not tainted by service in the joke Corbyn Shadow Cabinet. Unlike, of course, her pudding-brained leader, the pathologically useless Keir Starmer. Sayle's show included his slam poetry offering - I Hate Keir Starmer. Quite.

Back Home In The Searing Heat

We have left beautiful Northumberland behind us and are back at Casa Piggy, where, I am delighted to report, all seems to be well. The cats have been collected from the cattery this morning and the Groupie is already hard at work in her transplanted office - because of the heat (it is what we meteorologists term bloody hot) she has moved downstairs to the North facing study. As for the Pig, well I have been to the municipal dump to decant historic garden rubbish and am now looking forward to a game of golf at the Royal Pype Hayes - haven't touched a club since tour three weeks ago. Expectations are low.

Reflections on Northumberland: it is an area that has a magic about it. Judging by the throngs at Bamburgh it is no longer quite right to describe it as an undiscovered secret but there is plenty of scenery to go around and I would recommend it to anyone. The village of Beadnell was a happy accident for us. We had booked relatively late in the day and Bamburgh was full. In fact Beadnell was a better alternative - not as crowded and a great base. I even ran from the village out to Seahouses and back on our final day. The Groupie and I then retraced my steps (and a little further) that afternoon. I slept bloody well that night.

A great holiday deserves a great film. We duly watched one. When Harry Met Sally - I use the descriptor 'great' quite advisedly. We have seen this film umpteen times but always find enough new in it. Its most famous scene is in fact rather de trop and yes I do know that it borrows some narrative tricks from another great film, Annie Hall, but this is a delightful piece of art - Baby Fish Mouth anyone? 90/100.

You know I got all excited about the golf ball I found at Dunstanburgh Castle. Well, would you believe it, I found another one as we walked through Seahouses Golf Club. I intend using these lucky charms at Pype Hayes this afternoon. We will quickly learn whether they are indeed lucky or just like every other ball I have ever owned - doomed.

And of course, whilst we were busy holidaying, the country lost a Prime Minister. No need for much comment from me. I have made clear my opinion of the shitbag Johnson. I could even find some satisfaction in the line that the generally hopeless Keir Starmer deployed at PMQ's as the cascade of ministerial resignations went on - the first instance of sinking ships deserting the rat. 

Now to go into my pre-golf mental regime - designed (badly) to avoid hitting the trees alongside the first tee. Om.

Missing An Open Goal

I tuned into Prime Minister's Questions today in the vain hope of some parliamentary fireworks. Instead what I got was that prize drip Keir Starmer (who let us not forget served Corbyn so loyally) failing to hit the net from six inches out and with the goalkeeper nowhere in sight. Thus the loathsome Johnson survives to pass another political day indulging his trademark political nothingness. Forty-plus percent of his own parliamentary party have signified that they don't trust him/have confidence in him and yet he blunders on. The Conservative Party needs to relocate its vaunted ruthlessness and show this mendacious toad the door pretty bloody pronto. I am fed-up to the back teeth of the SNP being the most efficient Westminster party.

So what's a man to do as his country crumbles around him? Start running again, that's what. The Big Fat Pig has been nursing a sore Achilles since January but yesterday he thought 'sod it' and headed out of the door with the full lycra on and sporting the precious go-faster Oakleys. He shuffled and perspired for a virtuous thirty minutes and thirty-four of your English seconds. Today he is feeling the full muscular tenderness of the short distance runner but the virtuousness has not rubbed off. Pig redux.

I'll tell you who I had in the back of my cab - that Neville Chamberlain. I was reminded of this when watching Munich - the Edge of War the other day. It's adapted from Robert Harris's novel Munich, the title of the film presumably expanded to disambiguate it from Spielberg's dour but worthy movie of that name. In Edge of War, Chamberlain gets off rather more lightly than popular history has allowed. Harris likes playing with history. Jeremy Irons does a more than passable physical imitation of Chamberlain but makes this starchy Tory too avuncular by half. Not a bad film I suppose but it never quite overcomes the fact that we know how it is going to end. 62/100. 

And another reason to be cheerful - golf at Royal Pype Hayes on Monday evening with an ever-expanding band of AOE brothers (fourteen of us this week). Weather: fine (makes a bloody change after two consecutive soakings); golf: moderate but not unpromising; company: matchless; Guinness: lovely.

 

Wild Celebrations - Not

The Pig's sixty-first birthday slipped quietly by. He had lunch with his mother (who had brought with her his favourite quiche) and in the evening enjoyed (very much so) a meal of barbecue pork ribs, washed down with the last of the 2001 Barolo. Altogether a very passable sort of a day.

I wrote in glowing terms about Aaron Sorkin last week, and took another side-swipe at David Hare in doing so. Well, as it happens the Groupie and I took in an old Hare movie last night and I haven't changed my mind. I don't deny that Hare has oodles of talent but his politics can't help but intrude themselves and his characters (and this is where Sorkin wins hands down) speak in clumsy and portentous exposition. Having said that, Page Eight is a solid and reassuringly old-fashioned spy film. Not all the online reviews agreed but I thought Bill Nighy was rather good. 66/100.

What are we to make of politics? Quelle shower de shit, as the French don't say. I've been patient with Bors Johnson but his arrant mendacity on the ridiculous business of the renovation of the Downing Street flat is a bridge too far. Answer the bloody question you massive tool. Mind you, don't start me on bloody Keir Starmer, an unprincipled mediocrity who got his knighthood for banging-up wrong-uns. Smarmy lawyer indeed. 

Goodbye To all That

2020 is at last behind us. The year started in the shadow of my father's death. We did at least get to give him a memorable funeral before the darkness of Covid engulfed us all. By government dictat we spent much of the remainder of the year cowering in our homes - could it have been handled better? Well yes possibly but no plausible candidate for stewardship of the ship of state suggested him or herself. Perhaps the only political illumination in the year came last week when the largely risible Michael Fabricant kept referring to Keir Starmer as a smarmy lawyer. 

My golf did get marginally better but paranoia sufficiently clouded governmental sense to mean that we could hardly even lock ourselves away in the Anglesey home we own and on which we pay punitive tax. What did they think we were going to do - run around the village coughing our nasty English germs through people's letterboxes?  

Anyway, it's over now and the new year does at least arrive with the hope inherent in the new vaccines. And in nineteen days Donald Trump will cease to be President of the world's most important country. Do you think we ought to tell him he lost? Loser.

 

Writers Read

The urge to read has remained with me as we go deeper into the coronavirus lockdown. In the last week I went straight from Simon Raven's Friends in Low Places to its successor in the Alms for Oblivion sequence, The Sabre Squadron. To my mind this is the best of the ten novels. It can profitably be read without reference to the other books, but once you have read it I suspect you will want to search out the remainder.

After the scabrous Raven, a change of tack altogether. I fancied a chunk of comfort reading so it was back to a childhood favourite author, Arthur Ransome. I lazily thought I had read all the Swallows and Amazons tracts but I had overlooked Missee Lee. A book which would today have child protectors rushing to condemn it and which might very well also be deemed racist, it rockets along at breakneck pace and is a plain and simple delight.

Politics still intrudes. In America the Democrats have at least stopped fighting each other and will hopefully direct all their energy to defeating the narcissistic sociopath that is Donal Trump. Mind you whether the selection of someone as obviously second-rate as Joe Biden to lead the fight is a good one must be very open to question. Good luck to them in any event. In 1980s America I met Republicans who were very thoroughly decent people but one has to say that the amoral manner in which today's GOP has fallen in behind Trump should leave members thoroughly ashamed.

At home I'm afraid I have to say that I have always found something vaguely unpleasant in the phenomenon of Keir Starmer. Yet another bloody lawyer, he was a good enough prosecutor to attract a knighthood under a Tory regime. Despite his carefully cultivated appearance of moderation he had no problem falling in behind the laughable policies of Corbyn. He started his leadership of the Labour Party by disavowing factional opposition for the sake of opposition and the very next day published a mealy-mouthed attack on the conduct of the coronavirus crisis. When Boris Johnson fell seriously ill Starmer blathered self-serving bollocks about constitutional procedures. Sanctimonious prig.

But hey ho, the sun is shining, the Pig ran five miles this morning and there is one glass of Chateauneuf-du-Pape left from last night's bottle (it was a bank holiday so therefore does not count as a weekday) - the recliner in the garden is calling and the Pig is going to read another chapter of John Wilders' The Lost Garden, a consideration of Shakespeare's history plays (including those of Rome) in a lapsarian context. You must be so jealous.