Variation On A Theme

Union over League for me but that should not be allowed to obscure the fact that the best try on television last weekend was the one scored by Rob Burrow in the RL Grand Final at Old Trafford. Catch it at Grand Final Highlights

The old black dog made a bit of a comeback on Sunday, hopefully a mere blip on the road to Wellville, but my old friend Culcha came to the rescue last night. It was 'Make An Aria' night at the Barber Institute and one of the four student writing teams included that promising juvenile librettist known as The Overgraduate. Our aria 'Y Gollyngdod' seemed to get a good reception at its first (last?) public outing so that made me feel pretty damned good. Time to 'fess up now though. Operatic writing may be a collaborative art but take it from this participant, it is the composer who does the bulk of the work. Big respect to Jeremy Clay who took my verbal meanderings and gave them a musical direction that even my tin ear could follow. Because I can't read music much less produce it, the first time I heard the music rendered was as I fraudulently sat on stage with Jeremy for yesterday's rehearsals. As soon as I heard the clamour he gave to my second stanza I could have hugged him. He got it. He got my words and he made them sing. Thank you. Sample some of Jeremy's earlier efforts at his website - and watch that space, the boy has talent. Jeremy Clay

So that's me then - lawyer, librettist, bon viveur,wit. Available for weddings and bar mitzvahs. Reasonable rates. What have you got to lose - aparts from money and any standing in society. I had thought the commissions for an entire new opera would have flooded in today but only silence thus far. Perhaps the answering machine's on the fritz. Yes that must be it. Or possibly wicked tory cuts. Must go, my public awaits.

Paging Doctor Faggot

For the last couple of weeks I have mostly been watching ... opera. Yes, me, opera. First up was WNO's production of Cosi Fan Tutte in the favourable surroundings of the Birmingham Hippodrome, courtesy of the largesse of WNO themselves. My composer (Jeremy Clay - I term him 'my composer' in the safe knowledge that he returns the compliment and refers to me as 'his writer' - we're like that us arty types) and I took up the free tickets due to us in our role as aspiring aria writers.

From what I can tell (and your internet search will back this up) the critics have not taken to this production. The action has been located in an English seaside town, for reasons which, even after mature reflection, have eluded me. Merchant of Venice in Las Vegas, that I get, but this just seemed deliberately perverse. Having said that, the actual realisation of the location was magnificent. Cracking set.

Despite the reservations my overriding reaction was one of pleasurable awe at the potency of the human voice. I could have done however without the enthusiastic grunts of the young conductor (looked like he used hair spray to me - never a good sign) close to whose den we were sitting. Jeremy shared this displeasure so perhaps I have some non-philistine genes after all. All in all a nice night out but I'm not convinced I would have felt so sanguine if I'd had to put my hand in my pocket.

 

If the jury was out in the case of Roberts v Opera, the verdict was irrevocably swayed by my attendance at the world premiere of Seven Angels. This was in the less salubrious surroundings of the concert room at the CBSO Centre. Music by Luke Bedford, words by Glyn Maxwell, both of whom I spoke to prior to the performance. Now I would never have been there but for the recommendation of my writer which does go to show that one of us knows what he's talking about. I've thought about this and, do you know what, I don't recall ever seeing anything on the stage quite so engaging, ever, ever, ever. The music added to the words, the words to the music. Synergy. 2+2=5. The singers could act, or perhaps the actors could sing. A very clever set by Japanese artist Tadasu Takamine. You could hear and comprehend the words, enunciated beautifully in English. Suddenly I get opera. Done properly the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. I'll be back. And another thing - when Seven Angels becomes part of the standard repertoire I'll be the smart arse who got his programme signed by both composer and librettist at the world premiere. For a rather more po-faced review you can check out Telegraph Review

In case you missed it the tag line for this blog entry is my daughters' current favourite response to manifestations of my culture-vulturicity. I understand it is taken from The Hangover. The girls assure me I would like this film. I will report when I eventually get to see it.  

Sport For Kings

Leinster 33, Northampton 22. Even the bare statistics of last Saturday's Heineken Cup Final make impressive reading and yet the true tale of this epic is even better. For half the match Northampton were as good as their resources permitted and then for the second half of the match Leinster were quite simply irresistible. Super 15 eat your bloody heart out - this was proper rugby. Proper scrums refereed by a proper (French) referee. Turnovers, even a strike against the head which led to a try. My rugby season got under way with a fantastic trip to the Women's RWC final and it ended with an even better excursion to Cardiff for the Heineken. This was our third lads trip to the final and we have booked next year's tickets already. London surely cannot live up to the standard set by Cardiff as host city.

We arrived on Friday lunchtime and after booking into the cheap, cheerful and eminently well situated Etap Hotel the five of us found the nearest pub, The Golden Cross. Now admittedly the bitter was off but this was otherwise a fine establishment. Only after perusing the forthcoming attractions on the big screen in the bar did it dawn on a couple of us that this was a splendidly gay pub. Only at this moment of realisation did the white leather sofa in the corner of the bar became more explicable. Where else might such furniture be kept clean? Not in the least discomforted by this revelation we drank on, pausing only for the barman to mop up the pint I succeeded in knocking onto the floor. It was JRS's pint not mine so you might say I was acting in his best interests - he felt pretty ropey on Saturday morning but think how much worse he would have felt if he'd had that fatal one extra.

Will you tell Sergio Parisse
 he looks a bit of a nancy in this?

Anyway we filed The Golden Cross away for future reference and then moved deeper into the city centre for more drinks before a bracing walk out to the Cardiff City Stadium for the Amlin Cup final - this was not a great match in terms of quality but high on excitement with Harlequins winning 19-18 with a converted try three minutes from the end. One might feel sorry for Stade Francais if they didn't wear such daft shirts. In any event Harlequins deserved some luck after winning in Munster in the semi-final. Word on the street (or in the pubs more accurately) was that Munster fans had block-booked vast numbers of tickets for the final before the semi had even been played and that their absence explained the array of empty seats. I do like a good conspiracy theory on a Friday night.

Chip Alley

After the match it was back into Cardiff and more drinks before discovering the joys of Caroline Street or 'Chip Alley' - this is the thoroughfare onto which the clubs and pubs of Cardiff disgorge their revellers to enjoy the wide selection of takeaway food. This sounds ghastly but is not. Fast food that lived up to its name and a general atmosphere of good cheer. Very good kebab with garlic sauce. This is better for the triathletic constitution than the diabolic chili sauce which I blame for JRS's early Saturday dyspepsia. Late supper of champions.

After the Saturday morning 'All You Can Eat Continental Buffet Breakfast' (a snip at £3.75 if you put away as many croissants as I did - breakfast of champions) it was a stroll down to the rejuvenated Cardiff Docks so that I could pretend to be Captain Jack from Torchwood and the others could have a coffee. Suitably fuelled it was back into town to recommence drinking with thousands of other rugby fans. A word of praise is due to Greggs who supplied me with reliably fatty foodstuffs (snack of champions) at stages during the afternoon. One has to be very methodical about eating and drinking when faced with a 5.00pm kick-off. Luckily I am good at this stuff and only rarely keel over; certainly better than one Leinster fan who had clearly over-revved and was sleeping on some church steps next to a faintly indignant tramp. I wonder if his mates sold his ticket.

World's best sports arena?

If Cardiff City Stadium had been an impressive but modest example of the sports stadium oeuvre, then the Millennium Stadium is simply a masterpiece - massive yet atmospheric and embracing. Even the bar service was efficient. This is the best stadium I have ever been in and I'm afraid it puts Twickenham's austere concrete to shame. It helps enormously that the stadium sits squarely in the city centre and perversely (for anything so modern) ignores the requirements of the motorist. At the Millennium you cannot just drive up and then drive away afterwards. You have to engage with the city around it. Which I'm delighted to say we did with a yet further vengeance on Saturday evening. We spread our love around the various pubs and the weekend developed something of a theme when the multiple pierced bouncer at the James I politely informed us that we were very welcome but should know that this was a gay bar. Did we mind? We were happy to assure him that we did not and that indeed we were something of an authority on such matters. By now luxuriating in our modernity and after a return to 'Chip Alley' we rounded the night off with a few games of pool (pink table natch) at The Golden Cross.

Altogether a top weekend. Top sport. Top company. Cardiff: absolute top city. The locals were welcoming and seemed genuinely to be pleased that we were enjoying ourselves. I look forward to returning in October when my first operatic aria is to be rehearsed at the WNO. It is my hope that this last statement has taken you aback. It was meant to, though it is true. I'm only writing the words of course but nonetheless I hope you agree that it's pretty bloody incredible. More to follow.