Apologies For Absence

I have been away from this blog for a few weeks. I apologise. The world has been in a catastrophic mess. It still is. It has not really seemed that I can add anything to the commentary on Trump's war in Iran. By calling it Trump's war I am probably doing a disservice to Netanyahu. Hey ho. I will say only this: this war has been prosecuted on a vainglorious whim boosted by a misunderstood Zionist zeal; the Americans have not come even close to articulating a proper reason for their attack; Iran is a crazed theocracy but the way to deal with it is not Operation Epic Fury.

Enough of such things. Reasons to be cheerful, one, two, three. Last week BH, MS and RW were kind enough to let me join the Appleby Renegade Tour, a golfing trip of sheer fun. The history would bore you, suffice to say that Appleby was the venue for the early QMT golf tours - I have blogged about that before and, as I always say, it's a long story so I won't weary you with it.

Immodestly I have to relate that the Pig won the golf. Not through any great competence but by sheer obduracy. Enough of that. The courses. First up was Bentham, comprised of nine old holes and nine newer. I'm glad to say you could not really see the join. The Pig got the tour off to an inauspicious start by blasting two out of bounds from the first tee - thereafter a degree of sanity and good fortune came to his rescue.      

A god meal and a few pints were followed by a goodish night's sleep (I'm not as good as I used to be with an unfamiliar bed) and we even went for a walk around Appleby on the second morning before our afternoon outing at Appleby Golf Club. I had played Appleby twice before and thought it adequate. I was wrong - this is a fine golf course on wild moorland. We played through a blessedly short but biblical storm and under high winds. I should also record that the Pig produced an improbable clearance break of twenty-two to clinch a frame on the clubhouse snooker table. Great moments in sport.

More food. More beer. Another truncated night's sleep and then an early start on the journey home. We broke the journey at Breadsall Priory which is where QMT Tour is to be held in June. Very much a hotel/resort set-up with two courses. We played the Priory course. A perfectly decent lay-out but very hilly. Not remotely as memorable as Appleby but a good end to the trip. I slept well back at home and woke as stiff as a board. I was till sore on Sunday morning but dragged myself out for a thirty minute run and that made me feel much better. You're not getting any younger Pig but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Pride Comes Before A Fall

Big Fat Pig is nothing if not an entertainer. Yesterday he slopped around the golf course in the mud and the puddles - for once it wasn't raining but we are going to need a very prolonged dry spell to get Royal Pype Hayes back into shape. Now the Pig's game has been in pretty shabby order for the past couple of years. Much of this is down to age and an inherent lack of talent but I do also have the excuses born of my own clumsiness. First I fell down the stairs and damaged my back. Next up was the infamous bike crash when I cycled into the back of a stationary Merc and wrecked my knee. Finally I somehow ricked my foot so that I could hardly walk. These misfortunes meant no running and no cycling for a lengthy spell but I persisted with the golf and got progressively (quickly in truth) worse at it. Only recently do I detect some green shoots of recovery. This may not be totally unrelated to an encouraging amount of running and the resultant mental wellbeing.

So here's the story. By my low standards, I started yesterday's round well. By the time we reached the ninth tee I was playing comfortably under my handicap and feeling rather good about it all - the ball was under control and the company was excellent - GB and JW thank you. Hole 9 at PH is stroke index 18, that is to say it is the easiest hole on the course. The Pig had the honour after a deft up-and-down for par on the 8th. All was well in Pig World. No need for any heroics so the driver stayed in the bag and Pig aimed to lay-up with a calm 2 utility. It is at this point that Pig's recollection becomes blurred. The tee shot travelled all of a yard and nestled in front of the tee mat. No matter, Pig would take his medicine and lay the second shot short of the ditch at the front of the green. From there he would make a five. The problem was that Pig then pulled his second shot miles right (the Pig is left-handed) onto the roof of the greenkeepers' hut, off which it bounced back but settled down three yards out-of bounds. Sharp intake of breath. Repeat. The next swipe took the ball even further out-of bounds. By the time the Pig had effected that sensible lay-up he had already played seven. There was more playing indignity to come, but we will park that for a moment. You see the first ball out-of-bounds was findable, perched on a muddy mound. The Pig retrieved it nonchalantly having scrambled the mound still with his golf bag slung across his shoulders (the Pig always carries). This is where it gets worse because the Pig then slithered down the other side of the bank and landed on his back. Have you ever tried to rise from a prone position with a golf bag pinioned on your back? The Pig has to tell you it's bloody difficult. So difficult that if there is a nearby bed of nettles, one might roll into them. This the Pig promptly did. One might go so far as to say that the Pig looked not unremotely like a bit of a fool. Brushing the dirt off his back and legs and trying to get some undergrowth from out of his belt-line, the Pig returned to the ball in play - I would remind you it had taken him seven strokes to get that far. Never mind, down in two more and the indignity of a ten is avoided. Pig therefore, took a deep breath, swung slowly and ... deposited the ball into the ditch. By the time he finished he had used a dozen strokes. You ought to get some sort of award for such persistence.

As I say, pride comes before a fall. For the record, I played neatly for the rest of the round.   

6N 26.3

Saturday was a funny old day. I seem to have a lot of those - I think I often fall victim to my own contrarianism and also to my bipolarity. In fact the latter was accentuated last weekend because I was in Anglesey and had forgotten to take my anti-psychotics with me. Keep taking the pills Pig, they work for you.

Anyway, Saturday. I awoke early after a fitful night (that's another benefit of Olanzapine, it helps you sleep) and was determined to go out for a decent run, during which I was going to undertake the mental composition of a blog entry excoriating England Under 20s loss to Ireland on Friday night. I even had a title - 'Brainless Behemoths'. Those of you who have been with me on this journey will recall that this is not a new theme. In the end I abandoned the task as my running (up towards Storws Wen Golf Club, for those of you know the local geography) became more and more a painful exercise. At twenty-five minutes I turned back from my route and headed home to Plas Piggy. But stubborn old Pig then willed himself to take control and I embarked on a series of deviations from the straight route home. I reckoned that if I could count my steps to twelve hundred on these deviations I would add enough time to get me to an hour. I did it - bloody knackered but I did it. And I felt a good deal more sanguine about the previous evening's rugby. So mood was now up.

Then England played Ireland in the Six Nations. Mood down again. What a calamity. I counted twenty handling errors from England and lost count of the missed tackles. Outplayed, outthought, outmuscled. Garbage. At moments like these I am relieved that I am at least Irish by marriage. In my defence of this shameless abandonment (I'll be back) of my homeland, I can point out that both of my daugters have Irish passports. 

Wales v Scotland cheered me up. I would have preferred it if Wales had clung on to win but it was an estimable game to watch as a neutral. Mood back up again. Sunday, back home to Casa Piggy to take in the ultimately comfortable French Victory over Italy. But let us get this straight - Italy are no mugs and if England play again as they did on Saturday, they will lose to Italy. I might actually have a bet on that - it makes the game more bearable to watch.  

Pig's last game of golf

Good night's sleep last night and I am due back on the (soggy) golf course early tomorrow with the Seniors at Royal Pype Hayes - I have had a few weeks off to get over the effects of a very poor slog in the mud last time. These things should never become a matter of arduous habit. Keep taking the pills. 

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. 

Out Of Ireland, Out Of Wales, Of England

I married my way into the Irish diaspora. It is a nice place to be. I was born into the Welsh diaspora and, despite the turmoil in Welsh rugby, that is also a nice place to inhabit. I am though English and there are aspects of that that concern me. Let me illustrate.

On Friday I took a journey to the doctors surgery I have used since the Groupie and I first married. We have moved three times since then but have never felt any urge to transfer to a surgery that occupies the same supposedly rarified area as Casa Piggy. The service I receive from my doctors is superb and I can say that they have played a central part in keeping me alive. The National Health Service at its best is a thing of wonder. 

My drive to the surgery (I had requested a PSA test and they had readily agreed - no symptoms but I am of the age) takes me through Kingstanding Circle, a place with tender memories for us because we lived round the corner when first married in a lovely little house that cost us the princely sum of £15000. The Circle has been ambush-swathed in Union Flags and Crosses of St. George. I am at heart a patriot but this sort of display has come to feel threatening and somehow indicative of division and rancour. I cannot tell you how sad this all makes me feel as I hunker down in my middle class redout. I feel vaguely estranged from my own homeland.

After my blood sample had been given and I had admitted that, yes, my blood pressure remains stubbornly a bit too high, I drove on down Short Heath Road and up Station Road to Erdington to see my aged mater familias. As I waited for the temporary lights on Station Road to change I observed a slattern coming out of a convenience store dressed in pyjamas and a seedy dressing gown. It was half-ten in the morning. It may be a little thing and I may be a terrible snob, but really is this what we have come to?

Back to Ireland and a question springs to mind. How can that sainted isle produce two such contrasting products as Mrs Brown's Boys (which I'm sorry but I have to say this, is pitiful) and Leonard and Hungry Paul, which in case you haven't seen it is delightful, a sort of Napoleon Dynamite meets Derry Girls.

I don't usually approve of early Christmas trees but tomorrow is a working day for our decorator in chief (the Groupie of course) and next Saturday will be a tad late, so our trees have gone up this weekend and this afternoon I will mount the step-ladder and put up the outside lights (for switching on tomorrow) - all is well, mostly all anyway.

That blood pressure thing - I have been out running on both days since my test.           

In Defiance Of Age

I fell of my bike last year - but that is an old tale, told in earlier entries. I hurt myself, most problematically my left knee. That knee is now properly operative (or as near as is possible for an old wreck) thanks to the ministrations of the physios at Little Aston. Thank goodness for private health insurance. 

Big Fat Pig redux

But where fitness is concerned, there is always something waiting around the next corner to sabotage our hero, Big Fat Pig. Most recently it has been a painfully damaged right ankle (the injured knee was my left), an injury I further aggravated treading on a large pine-cone in the trees to the right of the 11th fairway at Royal Pype Hayes. It is still not right but I today judged it sufficiently stable (having strapped it up inexpertly) to go out for a run/shamble. You will be pleased to hear that the Pig survived thirteen minutes of what seemed massive exertion.  

From The Desk Of The Author

bloody lovely

I have spent the last couple of days here on the island (that's Mon to you and me) in confinement with Shakespeare and Bagehot, pushing through the rather tedious task of correcting the manuscript of my thesis. I never thought I would say this but I can actually tire of exposure to my own purple prose. Who would have thunk it eh? Still, my efforts have been productive and as the afternoon slips into its seventh hour I have given myself permission to open a recently purchased bottle of Basciano Il Corto 2019. I do get some things right - it's bloody lovely.

So what (apart from the academic distractions which quite properly don't interest you) has been going on with the Pig? Well, he's strained his left calf muscle (in a new area - of the leg, not of the country) which is a pity because he's been feeling quite fit. He's played quite a bit of golf and after some encouraging signs has gone significantly backwards in the last couple of weeks, so we won't dwell on that.

Politics, bloody politics. What a shitfest. No I'm not going to depress myself by dwelling on the subject. Just for now. Oh I know what I can tell you about. You may remember that I was lamenting the deplorable adaptation of Great Expectations offered up by the BBC. Well the good news is this - the same organisation's 2011 offering of the same source material is on iPlayer and it's so much better that the it makes you suspect that someone at the Beeb left it up there because they were so ashamed of the newer pile of shite. It's teatime - spicy mussels are calling and that wine won't drink itsef. TTFN.

An Excess Of Exercise. A Greater Excess Of Eating

As the Moody Blues put it, it's a question of balance. And Big Fat Pig is on the wrong side of the equation. We have been on holiday for four days now and I have been a good boy and been out running twice - including a tortuous 5K this morning. So far, so good. The problem is that the Pig cannot help himself when faced with a pub menu. I have already told you about the excellent fare at the Joiners Arms, and now we have to add the Market Tavern in Alnwick to the list of recommendations. Not so haute cuisine as the Joiners but none the worse for that. A truly gargantuan portion of ham, egg and chips and two pints of Alnwick Amber Ale. Stuffed.

That was yesterday and today we have been good. Not only did I go for that run but the Groupie and I also walked from Newton-on-the-Sea past Emebleton and out towards the daunting ruin that is Dunstanburgh Castle. We went along the beach for the outward portion of the walk and then trudged up and down the coastal path through the dunes for our return. We were walking alongside Dunstanburgh Castle Golf Links, one of my favourite courses. As an added bonus I even found a golf ball (Callaway, so no cheapo) that must have been hit heroically off-line on the eighth. We took a picnic lunch (bought locally of course - support your local sheriff) and have actually managed to go a whole day without diverting into a pub. My poor old legs feel as stiff as the proverbial. I feel more than vaguely virtuous. Mind you there's an impudent Gavi chilling in the fridge here at Piggy Hall.

Jones Must Go? Part II

Another week in the Six Nations and another underwhelming performance from Eddie Jones' England. The admirable Ugo Monye talked about the need for passion and precision. Good call. There was plenty of the former and all too little of the latter. If you're finding it hard to sleep, perhaps re-watch the match and keep a tally of how often the recipient of an England pass had to jump, stop or reach backwards to take that pass. Such imprecision is not acceptable for professional athletes. 

And what bloody match was Sir Clive Woodward watching? Clive, I have loved you dearly but for heaven's sake drop the bromance with the Boy Jones and call it for what it is - uninspiring tosh.

Got to say it - Sam Simmonds scored two more tries for Exeter at the weekend. With the horrible injury to Jack Willis, is there room in the squad for some back-row cover?

Rest of the weekend: Wales lucky; Scotland self-harming; Ireland not bad; France the best of the lot even though misfiring at times; Italy - very sad, and they were only playing England!

That's all folks. Oh, I ran for six miles this morning.

Life In The Old Dog Yet

I'm sick to the back teeth of lock-down but accept the need for it. I'm sick to the back teeth of Boris Johnson bur accept the need for him. Looking further afield, I'm sick to the back teeth of America's Republican Party but accept the need for it. So it is nice to concentrate on rather more parochial issues and to announce to you that I burned it up today and lopped a whopping thirty seconds off my seventh decade PB on my measured run. This is nothing special but, sod relativity, this is me competing against myself and today - I won. The Pig rules.

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 Siren Idiocy Of 'Make America Great Again' ... And Some Cheerier Stuff

The message is delivered knowingly by a dangerous man who cares for nothing other than his own crude ambition. If his blandishments have their desired effect then America (which we of course concede has on occasion been a great force for good) risks slipping idiotically into a politics of eternalism in which unpalatable truths are treated as invention and decency is sacrificially slaughtered.

The politics of eternity consumes the substance of the past, leaving only a boundless innocence that justifies everything. (Timothy Snyder)

Enough I hear you say. Ok - for now let us have some faith in the American electorate coming to its senses. 

What is the cheery stuff? Nothing startling or new but sometimes old nostrums bear repetition. After the second recent occurence of my calf injury I am back on the roads again, now wearing my very silly-looking calf warmers. Touch wood, so far so good and I am definitely feeling the benefit of the relatively large amount of running and cycling I did in the Summer. The nicest aspect of running the same route most days is that I see familiar faces - this morning was particularly gratifying as a succession of senior citizens (yes even more senior than the Pig himself) waved or spoke to me. As Blur nearly said, it gives me a sense of enormous well-being. Actually, come to think of it, that may even be precisely what Blur said. Answers on a post card etc.

Yesterday was the forty-ninth anniversary of my starting at School. I've said it often enough before but King Edward VI Aston School has been an overwhelming source of good in my life. As if to illustrate how some gifts just keep on giving I played fun and sociable golf yesterday evening with NJ, BH, JRS, CDL and RM, all of them part of the Aston community. Life's been good to me so far.    

 

Pig On A Bike. No Crashes. Another Two Films

It's been another mildly troubled week for the Pig. Out running on Monday when the right calf twinged again. He finished his half hour and then strapped on the ice packs. He hasn't been running since but managed a seesion on the cross-trainer and then this morning lasted the full two and a half hours on the precious bike, including four substantial (Pig standard) climbs. His porcine legs are very stiff.

Those films. DN2 and I viewed The Imitation Game on Friday. It's goes without saying that Benedict Cumberbatch is excellent as the tragic genius Alan Turing but it perhaps comes as more of a surprise to add that Keira Knightley is also very good. The cracking of the Enigma codes has become the stuff of legend but Turing himself remains, well, something of an enigma. This film relates a very British tragedy unfussily. A solid 2:1 - I'm thinking of films in degree terms I've decided. 69/100. 

Very different but another solid 2:1 is Bridesmaids. It contains some of the features of the gross-out comedy but has a tender heart and is well played by its ensemble cast. Makes you laugh out loud and also makes you smile without getting too lachrymose. 68/100.

I've just been thinking about that 2:1 analogy and it occurs to me that I have, by this new standard, probably been over-marking certain films in the past. Well what can I say  - I'm not a bloody machine, though perhaps I am an enigma. Is that a good thing?

Suite Francaise

 I haven't read Irene Nemirovsky's novel but have now seen the film of Suite Francaise. It is a quiet film about desperate times and rather beautiful. Its cast includes the reliably excellent Kristin Scott Thomas. The end seems hurried but perhaps that is inevitable when the source is an unfinished novel. No matter. 70/100.

 

What else has the Pig been up to? He's been a very good boy exercise-wise. When last he reported to you he had taken his first tentative run after the calf strain. Since then he has been for another thirty minute run in broiling heat and then, yesterday morning, in more conducive (though humid) weather he surprised himself by staying out for ninety minutes. His weight is down and today he is going to test his refound golf game at Harborne. He is maintaining a mood of quiet pessimism although the temptation to be positive is lurking. Watching CNN soon dulls any positivity: Trump gets worse by the day and Biden is tragically limited. 

Le Pig Sportif

 An interesting couple of weeks for Big Fat Pig and his fitness drive. You may recall that the Pig was for several years plagued by calf injuries. The purchase of some expensive made-to-measure insoles for the running shoes seemed to have cured this blight. But a fortnight ago the Pig was twelve minutes and fifty seconds into his first plod of the week when the right calf pinged in protest. A regime of ice, compression and elevation thus followed and the Pig made his comeback this morning. Thirty-one minutes and no damage done. Le Pig est retourne.

Despite the troublesome calf the Pig has not been completely idle. The cross-trainer has been dusted off and the golf has continued. Monday nights with the lads at Pype Hayes and an additional outing last week at Hatchford Brook where the Pig had his best round of the year (of several years in fact) such that the handicap is inching back towards respectability. On a different golfing front the Pig backed Paul Casey at 80/1 for last week's PGA and the each-way pickup was a healthy return on investment. Le Pig - il est genius. 

I've just finished reading a real curiosity of a book. Caesar was the first published work of Patrick O'Brian - a seriously good author whose Aubrey/Maturin novel sequence everyone should try. Caesar was written when O'Brian was only twelve and published when he was fourteen. It is concise and elegant. Remarkable. 

The sun is shining, the garden is looking good and it is almost too tempting for the Pig to break his midweek alcohol ban. Almost. Le Pig est mentally fort. He's going to make a sandwich and eat it outside. Le Pig est faim.

Croeso - Encore Une Fois

How's that for a polyglot heading? Admit it you're impressed - a Pig of hidden depths. Well you will probably have guessed that Big Fat Pig is at Casa Piggy Cymraeg again, ostensibly to meet a roofer to get a price for a new roof - the original seventies roof is now held together by a lot of moss. That moss is much loved by the pestilential gulls who are once again nesting on the roof, their offspring now thumping around on the flat section and shitting everywhere. Possibly a shiny new roof will be less attractive to these flying vermin.

I say ostensibly here on account of the roof but of course I need little excuse to decamp here, even if it does separate me from the Groupie who puts the Pig to shame by her work ethic.

Anyway enough of my domestic arrangements - here's the news: for the second week in a row the Pig took his long run in Anglesey, this time heading inland and back to Benllech. Ninety-two minutes (and two seconds - it all counts) in a refreshing (for the runner at least) drizzle. Oakleys were worn, otherwise I doubt that the Pig could have made it. Thus continues the fitness drive - the Pig can now pull his unbelted trousers down without having to undo them. He does not, naturally, do this in polite company - mind you he does not often keep polite company.

Whilst writing this I have been listening to a brilliant album by the most disappointing act I have ever seen live - the album (taut and compelling) is Armed Forces, the band Elvis Costello and the Attractions. I am pleased to say that that evening at the Hammersmith Palais was more than rescued by the two support acts - John Cooper Clark, and Richard Hell and the Voidoids. It is not a little frightening when I realise that this all took place more than three decades ago.

It is also nearly twenty years since the Pig and the Groupie took Daughters Number One and Two on a four week Australian holiday. It was completely fantastic. But I won't bore you with the details, instead I will refer to one small episode that sticks in my mind from that vacation. We transited via Paris Charles de Gaulle and were in the Club lounge (Groupie had a lot of air miles from her business travel - the major factor in the Pig's predilection for turning left when he gets on planes) where the decision to shut the smoking area was causing an uproar. The area in question was merely a demarked section of the room, no physical separation being in place. In short the room was (as we had found when on our outward journey, the closure occuring in the interim) Passive Smoking Central. The Pig is not a vehement anti-smoker, indeed enjoys the occasional crafty cigar, but there is a world of difference between endangering your own health and the freedom to infect your fellow man. As something of a libertarian (admit it, you'd noticed) I wrestle with these sorts of things but at some point common decency ought to intrude - first do no harm. What am I getting at? Well, take  a look at this video of boorish libertarians in the States - https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/world-us-canada-53411955/you-call-me-selfish-for-not-wearing-a-mask

They have a point - but that point is wrong. First do no harm. Primum non nocere. Which by my count means that smart arse Pig has now used four languages in today's tirade. Pig out.

Welcome To Hardy Country

It's an indicative confession that this man with a respectable first class degree in English has never before in his sixty years read any Thomas Hardy. This man, the Overgraduate aka Big Fat Pig (though getting slimmer - more of this below) has always struggled with the Victorian novel - loved David Copperfield but couldn't hack the rest of Dickens, fought through Middlemarch through a sense of obligation, etc.

Well anyway shame at this omission has caught up with me and I have pulled from the shelf a three novel collection of Hardy texts which I seem to have acquired for the princely sum of one of your English pounds. The nagging guilt must have acted upon me when I bought it, although I cannot for the life of me remember when that might have been. And now I've started on Tess of the D'Urbervilles, so I intend to finish. It's heavy going particularly as I came to this after the quick pleasure of re-reading Simon Raven's Fielding Gray. However I can see why Hardy has admirers and before we got to Tess's fall (I strongly suspect this will not be the lowest point of her trajectory) I was taken with one of the best descriptions of joyful drunkenness that I have encountered:

The fresh night air was producing staggerings and serpentine courses among the men who had partaken too freely; some of the more careless women also were wandering in their gait ... Yet however terrestrial and lumpy their appearance just now to the mean unglamoured eye, to themselves the case was different. They followed the road with a sensation that they were soaring along in a supporting medium, possessed of original and profound thought, themselves and surrounding nature forming an organism of which all the parts harmoniously and joyously interpenetrated each other. They were as sublime as the moon and stars above them, and the moon and stars were as ardent as they.

Now you have to admit that's rather beautiful.

So I mentioned, did I not, that the Pig is shrinking. He is playing a bit of golf (not too badly as it happens - not well but you know what I mean) and that is a help but more importantly the Pig is regularly gracing the mean streets of Four Oaks in his athletic gear. He is up to ninety minute runs and one hundred and fifty minute cycle rides. There is power to add. Hopefully.

 

Bloody Hell That Was Hard Work

Dave's go-faster shoes

I have taken the exercise allowance in lockdown as less permission and more mandate. I do two shorter runs (thirty minutes) each week and one long (by the Pig's standards) which I attempt to lengthen by five minutes each week. I got up to sixty-five minutes this week. I also get out on the Precious Bike once a week and I am adding time on each occasion. Today was bike day and you know how it is, sometimes it is just bloody hard work. I can't attribute today's difficulty to any particular reason but by the time I had come up Hill Village Road for the second time (at the culmination of my Little Hay/Shenstone/Four Oaks loop) I was totally knackered and (could it be a defect in my posture on the machine?) my arms and shoulders were begging for mercy. One hour forty-six minutes. I know it's not that impressive but it is making me feel better in mind and body. I've even invested in some new running shoes - Asics GT2000/8 again - I'm a creature of habit. My magic insoles (all the way from California at ruinous expense) have been transferred from the old pair.

I've just re-read that paragraph and realised that it is bald confession of breaching the one hour exercise dictum. In my defence I stress I am scrpulous in my social distancing and I never spit! As I type, Boris is on the television telling us all how the lockdown will continue. I think he will cut me a bit of slack. Blow me, he just did. 

Now for a word about a film we enjoyed. Well a couple of words - silly and enjoyable - that's three words I know but you will forgive me the conjunctive. The Bourne Ultimatum continues the Bourne saga into its third iteration. There is immorality at the top of the CIA (when is there not?) and it is down to Jason Bourne to stop it. But who is Jason Bourne? The film rockets along in its silliness but it is beautifully realised. 73/100.  

On Ageing Disgracefully

Yesterday it rained. Today it has not, although the temperature has been sharp to say the least. Still I saw quite a few hardy souls out for a walk as I ran four miles (yes you did read that right - the Pig is back) this morning. I traded greetings with various people and exchanged knowing nods (the stock in trade of the self-righteous) with a few fellow runners - this is an exaggeration of course, what the Pig does these days is not so much running as shuffling. It is, in the Pig's defence, moderately faster than walking.

At what age does middle age end? I will hit sixty next month. Will I pass from being a MAMIL (middle aged man in lycra) to some other status? Is wearing lycra after passing six decades on the planet an affront to decency? Do you know what - I don't care. It makes me feel good, even if the pre-exercise stretching and the post-exercise recovery take longer and longer.

And another thing - I'm off the midweek vino at present. Sodding hell I feel smug! And the FTSE went up today so I am moderately richer than yesterday and still substantially poorer than one short month ago. You can't take it with you but I'm thinking of living for ever.

Bring On The Big Grumpy Fat Pig

The Pig was out on the streets this afternoon, quite pleased with himself actually because he managed (very slowly he has to concede) four miles. While he was running (he thinks we can just about call it that - he doesn't jog) he was honing his thoughts on the big issues of the day. Those issues are the fate of European professional golf and the problem with Boris Johnson.

I saw something toe-curlingly dreadful when channel-hopping last night. It was on the Sky Golf Channel and it called itself the Hero Challenge. This consisted of self-consciously miked-up professionals (and remember these poor lost souls will play anywhere if the price is right) hitting wedges into a grid of targets on a green while Vernon Kay (wtf) shouted an asinine commentary to the assembled masses. At one point we got the gem from Kay or his hired side-kick Anthony Wall (for like pigs and men they had become indistinguishable),"You could throw a handkerchief over Matt Fitzpatrick's two balls.' Truly awful - do it if you must but please do not attempt to pass it off as proper sport. Golf is a very silly but beguiling game with an unparalleled lore - don't ruin it. And don't start me on the self-serving banal bollocks that the fantastically gifted Rory McIlroy spews out every time he is confronted by a microphone. I admire him and his game but can't find it in me to like him. As I said Big Grumpy Fat Pig.

in search of an idea, preferably an electable one

Boris Johnson. Again, wtf. I couldn't put my hand on my heart and tell you one thing he seriously believes in aside from the advancement of Boris. But maybe I'm wrong and a great statesman is going to appear from beneath the shambolic carapace. Big Grumpy Fat Pig advises you not to hold your breath.