Advent 9

A few days ago I said that County Sligo sometimes gets my vote as the best course I have played. Today we have what is the other main contender for that accolade - Southerness, a daunting links overlooking (indeed almost touching) the Solway Firth. Yes, on balance, Southerness is the best I have played - for today at least.

The 12th is a 421 yard par 4 that doglegs its way down to the sea. A pond protects the left of the green, bunkers the right. The Firth boils in the background and there is out of bounds at the back of the green. The photograph shows the hole on a quiet day. When I played it with my dear late lamented mate Rod Meere and my stalwart golfing companion Big Willy, it was blowing a gale. Rod (who had a good few years on the two of us) sensibly repaired to the bar after eighteen but Willy and I were so entranced by the place that we went out again in the storm. We managed sixteen holes before taking our bedraggled selves back to clubhouse. An isolated and magical place. 

Tomorrow we move inland to another championship test.

So Begins The Task

I am still absorbing the hugeness of my father's death. There have been various administrative hurdles to negotiate - a reference to the coroner's office, a reference back from that office to the hospital (basically telling them to get on with it and not to pass the buck) and, at last being able to register the death. Registration took place this morning and then it hit me - I had in my hand certification that this moral giant is dead. Now we can start to plan a fitting memorial.

Dad, at his beloved School

So, private grief aside, what is the world up to as it faces a brave new year? Quite a lot actually. America took it upon itself to execute an Iranian alleged mass-murderer. The world thereby shivers in the shadow of war. It would be nice to have greater (no, any in fact) faith in the U.S. President who ordered the act. It is possible to do the right think for entirely the wrong reason. The defining story of 2020 will be America's response to the opportunity to eject Trump by the ballot box. The fabulously ill-judged impeachment of this wretched man will be the prelude to the democratic denouement.

South East Australia is ablaze and it is apparently my fault. And yours. What are we going to do about it? Should my next car be a hybrid?

Scotland worries me. Actually, scratch that - Scotland annoys me. You may remember that a matter of a few years ago we had a 'once in a generation' referendum on Scottish independence. The nationalists lost that vote 45/55. Those same nationalists have just (by an ironic fate) achieved 45% of the vote in Scotland in a national election. The remainder voted for various hues of unionism. According to La Sturgeon this gives her (please bear in mind that she was not even a candidate in these elections - at least Salmon took the fight to Westminster) 'an overwhelming mandate' for another referendum. Beam me up Scotty.

Let's finish on an optimistic note. Last Saturday prior to the two Aston Old Edwardians fixtures against Aldridge RFC, sixty plus players and officials and a large throng of spectators were whistled to attention and stood in a solemn silence in memory of Brian David Roberts. He would have loved that and, yet more, he would have smiled to see the old ground so full. Furthermore he would have allowed himself a brief triumphant glow in face of the results which saw Aston win on both pitches by a combined margin of just eight points. The sun shone and perhaps, just perhaps, God was in his heaven.   

What I Did On My Holidays: 7

Kelso Abbey

We conducted a whistlestop tour of the Scottish Borders today, pride of place going to Kelso which (and I may be miles wide of the mark here because I have done no research) exudes an atmosphere of dignified affluence, nowhere better exemplified than in the strikingly well maintained Garden of Remembrance. Kelso may very well be the pie capital of the world - only £1.10 for a chicken curry pie, this a full seventeen pence less than the excellent chicken and mushroom pie I had in Alnwick last week. Can we take these prices home with us please?

We crossed back into England for dinner and on that subject I have some exciting news for you. It is official, OG has spoken and the Groupie will verify his claim - Lewis's in Seahouses is the best chip shop in the world. Yes even better than the Golden Fry in Benllech. Fabulous chips and divine haddock. Fizzy wine for pudding I think.

Of Samosas, Pork Pies, Haggis And Rugby Football

Oh and I should have mentioned the beer because there was plenty of that as well.

Just back from the European Finals Weekend in Edinburgh. A bloody great trip. So first of all big thanks to our organiser JRS - good hotel, good driving, looked after the kitty and even got us kitted out in matching shirts and rain tops - tops which have what AW (who couldn't remember the word 'hood' - it's his age) termed an 'integrated hat'. I think AW might very well be the funniest man in the world. What great company - blessings to aforesaid JRS and AW and also to AS, AO and BH.

Food of kings - or should that be maharajas?

Samosas: BH had brought a megabox of Indian provender. I had samosas for lunch on Friday, supper on Friday (actually the wee hours of Saturday) and breakfast on Sunday. I like samosas.

Pork pies: AO is a titan in the pork pie industry - and no, I'm not making that up. He brought a megabox of pork pie based provender. I had pork pies for lunch on Friday and for lunch on Sunday. I have also had a pork pie back at home today. I like pork pies.

Haggis: AS (who has claims to be the most civilised front row forward in history) had booked us into Howies for lunch on match day. This sheltered us from the rain (although we did, of course, all have integrated hats with us) and the provender was excellent. I had the cullen skink as a starter and the haggis for main. I like haggis.

The rugby? Well, Friday's Challenge Cup was a poorish game between two sides, Gloucester and Stade Francais, who looked terrified of winning. Still, the ultimate Stade victory was a reward for the titan that is Sergio Parisse. And I had samosas for supper so not a bad day at the office.

Saturday, and the Champions Cup Final was a different cup of tea. Played at a giddying pace and full of thunderous defence, Saracens and Clermont Auvergne served up a treat, deservedly won by Saracens whose athletic professionalism really ought to be admired, not cavilled at by the jealous. I had a Macdonalds for my late supper. Which was nice, but not as good, in the wider scale of things, as either samosas or pork pies. Or indeed haggis.

Life is good.

What A Waste Of Words

A wise person told me that the proper response to the inaugurating of the Donald will be to shed a tear for the world. There is something in this. However the thought occurs to me that waking on Friday to a Hillary Clinton presidency would be almost as deadening for the soul - another wave in the cruel statist tide. Sad times.

Nichola Sturgeon. I mean bloody hell, talk about overstaying your fifteen minutes of fame. I care not what she thinks her little bitty piss-ant economy is entitled to over and above what the rest of us citizens have to put up with. Not being Alex Salmond is hardly a life skill, but I struggle to comprehend what else recommends her to us.

giants in the earth

Nick Clegg. Some people just don't get it do they? Here's an expensively well-educated polyglot and yet he has not lost his mastery of getting it wrong. Nick, son, don't (as you did on Radio 2 this morning) presume to tell me what I did or did not vote for in the referendum. Deal with it.

If we get the politicians we deserve then we must have done something pretty gruesome in a previous life. I am currently enjoying John Bew's Attlee biography Citizen Clem, which only serves to accentuate the intellectual poverty of our political times. There were giants in the earth.

What Did I Do To Deserve That?

I've been making a concerted effort to keep myself sound of body and mind. The body is catered for by the running which continues to go quite well. I didn't get out whilst in Anglesey last weekend and instead rather overfed and overwatered myself. Compensation came in the shape of seventy minutes up and down the local hills on Tuesday and three sharper efforts to round the week off. As for the old mind, I visited Waterstones to spend some vouchers and any bookshop visit always fills me with good intentions. Under this new ascetic regime I have largely foresworn the perils of daytime television (dangerously addictive) and instead got stuck into a variety of tomes. For most of my life I have read only one book at a a time but I have now adopted my father's method and I have two upstairs books and three downstairs on the go.  My reasoning is that if it is possible (as it is) to imbibe more than one television serial at a time then one can do the same with books. Yesterday I finished off Waugh's A Handful of Dust, quite simply a masterful novel, one I first encountered as a set text for English A level. The modern edition I have just finished includes as an appendix the alternative ending that Waugh was forced (for copyright reasons arising from the ownership of an original short story that went on to become the concluding chapter of the novel proper) to write for a serialised American edition. The author himself described it as a 'curiosity ' when it was appended to a 1963 reprint. 'Travesty' might be more apt and you rather suspect that Waugh bashed it out for the money, tongue admirably and firmly in his cheek.

Other books in the midst of which I find myself include Mrs Barrington's Life of Walter Bagehot, Atlas Shrugged (itself something of a curiosity but not unfascinating), Hearing Secret Harmonies and Jamaica Inn. Catholic tastes? That was rather the image I was going for.

Preferable to Blatter

Finally I get to what I meant to say and what you were entitled to expect from the heading of this post. I  did, between books, dip into the BBC News yesterday and I saw two reprehensible characters: that awful con-man Sepp Blatter was distancing himself from the chicanery at FIFA; Alex Salmond was giving  a withering speech in his new home, the House of Commons. Both in their way loathsome but there is an important distinction. Salmond is merely objectionable but acts within the law (even those he abhors). Blatter is either a kleptocrat or a massive idiot incapable of seeing beyond the end of his administrative nose. As I write this the good burghers of FIFA are voting on Blatter's continuation in office. Nobody is predicting that he will do other than survive. Hang your heads in shame.  

An Inglorious Conclusion

All political careers end in failure

And so today was the last day of the current Parliament and thereby the end of William Hague's legislative career. A man of obvious talent and one suspects underlying niceness he bowed out by trying to steer through the House a vindictive piece of procedural flummery whose aim would appear to have been to punish John Bercow for being, well, John Bercow. Now I'm all in favour of Bercow being penalised for being Bercow (and I should remind readers that yes I have met the man) but not by this clumsily chosen method.

Thus Hague's career ends rather fittingly on at best a misfortune, perhaps more accurately a misjudgement. Pity.

I have dream wherein Bercow and Alex Salmond are washed up on a desert island and in a sort of Lord of the Flies/Titus Andronicus mash-up manage to exterminate each other.

The State Of The Union

Had the Scottish independence referendum result been reversed it would have been characterised as that hoary old political entity a 'landslide'. In their state of thrall to that most sturdy of nationalists Alex Salmond, I have not found any media outlets purveying that term. Now Salmond has resigned as his party's leader and as First Minister so perhaps the analysts will get a bit braver in analysing his failure. He held a referendum at the time of his choosing, with the question of his choosing and he enfranchised  juveniles in a  cynical attempt to garner their votes. On a high turnout he lost by a margin of ten per cent. All political careers end in failure and we should welcome this one.

Glad I got that off my chest. To happier and more important matters I ran for thirty minutes this afternoon but am still suffering from tonky piggery.

I worked hard this week in readiness for a fortnight's holiday but have thereby merely made myself bloody knackered. I have two weeks in which to save my body. Pass the crumpets vicar.    

Thursdays Belong To Me

I work Monday to Wednesday and the plan is that Thursday belongs to me and Friday will belong to Walter Bagehot, Shakespeare and other matters postgraduate. That's the plan but as per my previous lament I'm generally shagged out by Thursday and manage nothing more than loafing about feeling sorry for myself. So last week I actually did something on Thursday and indeed I did something yesterday, even if it was working (reason for which to follow).

 damned funny old chap

I am in the early stages of directing a production of Noel Coward's Hay Fever (November 19 to 22 since you ask) and so took myself to Bath to see the Theatre Royal production. Lovely old theatre and an estimable rendition with Felicity Kendall in the lead. I can strongly recommend Bath and in particular the user-friendly Park and Ride scheme. No charge for the parking and £3.20 for the return ticket which deposits you in the centre of town. Had my habitual glass of sauvignon blanc before the show in a busy pub where, as in so much else, a Clive James lyric came to mind - 'I like to see a servile barman hustle'.

So that was last Thursday. And yesterday was work on account of attending Joy Collis's funeral on Wednesday. A bumper attendance and a just air of celebration for ninety-three years well lived.

There's a lot to have opinions about at the moment, not least the unedifying spectacle that is the Scottish independence referendum. Alex Salmond finally got his way and goaded David Cameron onto the hustings. It occurs to me that the most astringent analysis is that David Cameron is as odious to the Scots as Salmond is to the English. As for poor old Miliband, he is the same to very nearly all people - a tired joke. As for Nick Clegg, well, so what.

Conspiracy Theory

The very odd couple

I was in Leeds a few days ago and I saw the damnedest thing in Macdonalds. There was a shiny faced, suspiciously dark-haired chap, understatedly well-dressed. He tried to appear normal but every pore of him shouted posh to anyone caring to look. He looked familiar as well. That forehead was memorable. He ordered a "large Mac". Clearly outside his comfort zone.

He was then joined by a rather jowly fellow who barked an order for super sized Big Mac meal with an extra box of nuggets as a chaser. I sat nearby and listened.

So what were David Cameron and Alex Salmond doing on what might be termed neutral territory? Stitching up the bloody referendum that's what. These very different men have a common interest in the Scots fatso getting his way in the Autumn. I think they missed a trick however - Lardy Face and Old Hair Dye agreed that the former would call the latter arrogant in his latest venting of spleen. This of course misses the point. Anyone can tell you Cameron isn't arrogant - patronising tosser is a better expression.

By voting yes the Scots can guarantee themselves no Tory government  ever ever ever. By voting yes the Scots can also ensure that the wrong Miliband never gets to be PM of the rump UK. Result. Where do I vote?

In The Deep Midwinter

It's snowing. It's snowing. I love the snow. It excuses isolated indolence within our lovely home. In fact we haven't been utterly indolent - yesterday we walked down to the shops, no doubt inspired by the Shackleton documentary we'd watched the night before. We bought Mexican food which we had for tea last night.

Well, what have I been up to in the post-Christmas lull? Ooh, this and that, you know, this and that. I've been putting in some time with my old Victorian mate Walter Bagehot - there may be an element of the self-fulfilling prophecy but I find a lot of modern resonance in good old Walt's oeuvre. Remember that con-artist Tony Blair and 'Education. Education. Education.' Well try this for size,

Our University has shown upon what principles a sound and sensible culture can be given to young men sincerely bred in different religious creeds, without sacrificing either the faith to the culture or the culture to the faith … The cry should now be “Educate! Educate! Educate!”
 

That was Walter to the graduates of God's own University of London in 1867. A time, by the way, when the University had its own MP voted for by the alumni. Sounds a great idea to me. I see no sound reason why I shouldn't have at least two votes to the one of most mortals.

We went to see Merry Wives of Windsor at the RSC. A beautifully staged production of a lesser play which, to my mind, tails off in the final acts. A good night though. I do recommend the rebuilt Royal Shakespeare Theatre as a congenial performance space.

Time spent with Walter also gets me thinking about the stinking morass that is modern constitutional politics. I've been having some thoughts as to what Bagehot would make of the EU. To the extent that it disenfranchises its citizens and leaves government to an elite, he might be anticipated to approve. However Bagehot accepted such arrangements to the extent that they were either efficient or dignified. You will have a job convincing me which category le Grand Projet can squeeze itself into.

I'll tell you who is efficient - that Alex Salmond. He has manoeuvred the SNP into a position of beautifully unaccountable power. You have to admire his method. And even more skilfully he knows his limits - he will always struggle to tick the dignified box so he would keep the monarchy for that purpose. Hard to deny that Queen Elizabeth II does dignity in spades. I bet he's read his Bagehot. She definitely has. Daft they ain't. Heard him the other day on the radio and his latest little tic is never to say just 'Scotland' but 'oil rich, green energy rich, Scotland.' I wish him well. If the Scots transpire to want the sort of Scotland Salmond would want, a Scandinavian annexe, then they can go with my blessing because the majority of the English, to the extent they ever really think about such things, want something fundamentally different. In an uncomfortable way I rather admire Salmond.

Ronan O'Gara has received  a one week ban for full-on kicking a bloke last weekend in a Heineken Cup match. Apparently they took account of his 'previous good record.' Wtf - if you added up all the yards he has run over the years to land a cheap shot in fights that were none of his damned business you'd get to Cork and back a good few times. Gobshite.