A Warm Little Hand - Love And Letting Go

Last Saturday at the Fitzrovia Chapel (beautiful) Helen Frances Eileen Roberts (better known to you as Daughter Number One/DN1) was married to Christopher William Larkin. It was an altogether splendid occasion - she, of course, looked beautiful; he, of course, looked proud as punch. God bless them.

It was a celebration to reaffirm your faith in the younger generation. Helen, Chris and their friends partied joyously but properly. The weather was kind, the venues (the aforementioned Chapel and, afterwards, The Coin Laundry) excellent, and all of this suffused with that mightiest of human emotions - love. 

Big Fat Proud Father Pig made a speech at the reception. Alongside the eulogy at my father's funeral, this rated as the public oration about which I was most nervous. It went well. I took as my Proustian trigger the cherished memory of DN1's warm little hand in mine: when she first came to the hospital to meet DN2; at her first visit to the cinema (the Regal in Wadebridge to see The Jungle Book); as we skimmed stones over a frozen tarn. Now that hand is released and entrusted to Chris. God bless them.

Advent 6

The city of my first university. The city of Hyde Park. The city of Sam's Bar at Imperial College. The city of the Zetland, my local pub for two years. The city of the National Theatre. The city of the Globe. The city of 2012. The city of the National Gallery. That London. Love it.

Chapel at King's College London - OG did not spend much time here

Days Of Wonder

I know you like me to keep you up to date with what is wrong with the world, keep you posted on endemic assininity. But you might also have gathered that planet earth is so beset by shitiness that it has become tiresome to highlight it - so good news, I'm not going to bother. Instead I'm pleased to report on some good days under the broiling English sun.

The QMT (Question Mark Trophy - it's a long story) tour took our particular brand of shoddy golf to Bridgnorth Golf Club. An excellent venue even if BH was dissatisfied with his breakfast egg, angst exacerbated by a wooden bench later collapsing under his welter weight. All of this organised superbly by my brother Bill, with AK winning the fabled trophy. As for Big Fat Pig, well I played very badly but had a great time and didn't fall into any ditches - which judging by my own disreputable standards is a triumph. As for the course, definitely recommended with its four dauntingly hilly holes on one side of the road and the remainder chokingly tree-lined on the other. Bosting track as they say in Bloxwich.

After two sleep-deprived nights (the first drinking on tour, the second providing a lift home to the Groupie who was at an awards dinner - she's so important) it was a tired Pig who headed to that London on Saturday to join both daughters in celebrating the thirtieth birthday of Daughter Number One. This took the form of an excellent lunch at The Ivy Cafe on Marylebone Lane. Only one tiny complaint - my bloody mary lacked oomph but this was a minor blemish. Food excellent, main drink (the house champagne) the same, and service even better.. Definitely recommended. Bosting caff as they say in Bloxwich.

Next on the agenda is a flying visit to the country estate where some surplus furniture is being collected. I will be travelling in the Precious Jag subject to the imminent fitting of a new battery. I shall wear my Oakleys. Quel dude as they say in Bloxwich.

Nice to note by the way that a hero of this blog, Cris Froome, has been exonerated of doping charges. This will not prevent the jealous French from attacking him during the Tour de France. Plus ca change.

Phew What A Scorcher

Big Fat Pig and the Groupie are in that London for a couple of days. It's bloody warm out on those mean streets. We ate Greek last night accompanied by some surprising and pleasant Macedonian wines. Big Fat Pig went back to being Very Big Fat Pig. Such is life.

worn ironically natch

After eating we took a moonlight stroll to the top of Primrose Hill and looked out over the lights of that London. There was the smell of illegal substance in the air - reminded me of the odour of a Wishbone Ash concert at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1978. Far out man.

I had Chinese food for lunch toady at Camden Market. Which was nice. I bought a tee shirt, a nice little Cold War chic number emblazoned 'CCCP'. I'm so hip. I may become a Corbynista. Don't fight it, just go with the flow man. BFP out.

That London; Hell Is Other People; Lives Of The Rich And Famous

An interesting and, on balance, most enjoyable Sunday. On the train to That London with Joey Barton sitting in our carriage, presumably en route to watch his boyhood team, Everton, who were at Arsenal. He behaved himself. So did I. Tempting to know what the odds on that double would have been. Should have asked him.

Rather bloody lovely

Once in That London we went for a longish walk on Hampstead Heath in the company of Daughters One and Two (I say that as if there might be more - there aren't). Now, I'm ashamed to admit it but notwithstanding my time at university in the Big Smoke, I'd never made it to Hampstead before. Rather bloody lovely - the sort of place where people can afford to be liberal. I pinched that line from an old friend from college days.

We rewarded our exertions with a late lunch at The Holly Bush: nice pub, good food, notably good service. recommended.

Hell is other people, most particularly on crowded trains going back to Liverpool full of football fans. At least they don't smash the trains up like they used to. Joey Barton was in our carriage again. What were the odds? Oh sorry already done that gag. Is Barton stalking me? Am I stalking him? He was not the only footballer on the train - two coaches of first-class had been commandeered for the Everton team and sundry hangers-on. They denied entry to autograph seekers but Barton duly signed for two youngsters. good on him.

A prejudice confirmed by yesterday's lunch: fish and chips should always be haddock rather than cod.

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXII

damn fine coffee

Good coffee. I am currently drinking Kochere from Ethiopia, courtesy of the admirable Monmouth Coffee Company in Covent Garden. I make it in my newish Russell Hobbs filter machine, the old apparatus having burnt itself out. I prefer this method of production by a small margin over the stove top and the cafetiere.

That London - I was there yesterday on janitorial duty for Daughter Number Two's flat. I had drinks and a meal with both DN2 and DN1. The pub (whose name I forget) where we drank was memorably described by DN2 as being full of old men who smell like mashed potatoes. We then ate at Del'ish, a Persian restaurant in Fitzrovia. Very good.

My daughters - one shouldn't boast but they are rather marvellous.

All Is Not Well In The World

Last week you were no doubt surprised to find me confessing common cause with John McDonnell. As an aside I do note that McDonnell is a fellow alumnus of God's own University of London, though not, of course, of King's - we didn't really do lefties. Anyway my inner political correctness is nagging away at me once again. Surely I can't be the only died in the wool capitalist who is queasy about this undignified toadying up to the Chinese that our esteemed government deems fitting - Where is the morality?

The tiger who came to tea

I am considering inviting the Dalai Lama round for tea so that he can be assured that we're not all like George Osborne.

I wouldn't mind our creeping to the Chinese if I felt we were on the upside of a cunning plan to exploit the one party statists and their loathsome fellow travellers and thereby precipitate their downfall. But I am left with the unpalatable conviction that our new found mates will simply shit on us again and again, much as they have already shat on our steel industry. Nobody sane is an absolutist about foreign policy but you do have to draw the line somewhere. Don't you?

At times like this I read my tattered volume of Bernard Levin's journalism (a thrift shop find) and wonder what the great man would make of it all. He was close to a lone public voice predicting that the Soviet 'evil empire' would collapse under its own odious weight. I hope the same is true of China's project but it will occur all the more slowly if we underpin the superstructure.

As another aside, Levin was another London graduate - LSE in his case, a place that really did produce lefties of heft. It was with a little sigh of regret that I read last week that the LSE is these days one of the country's most conservative colleges. Bloody hell, where will I be without my cultural stereotypes? 

Kia Sorento - Interim Verdict. Plus Thoughts On Capital Food.

Our Kia Sorento (aka Canyonero - check out The Simpsons episode 193, The Last Temptation of Krust) is almost a year old and had its first service today. No problems, in fact no bill because I got five free (well I suppose I paid for them but not much) services as part of the deal. It is not a Range Rover but then again it is less than half the price of a similarly spec'd RR so who's complaining. It drives nicely and copes with any conditions I might care to throw at it. And they even sorted out the problem with the radio on service. Result. Recommended? Definitely - and a word for the dealers, Sutton Park Kia, who have been a pleasure to deal with.

It's taken me a few days to get round to recording it but we had a nice weekend in London. We did rather more eating out than is good for waistline or wallet and because it's what I do, I will give you my précis of the experience. I've expressed pleasure before about the Prince of Wales Feathers, the pub over the road from Helen's flat, so I won't do that again. But new destinations were: the Fig and Olive, Islington (Saturday night); Dishoom, King's Cross (Sunday breakfast); and the Phoenix in Cavendish Square (Sunday lunch).

Fig and Olive - crowded and lively. Service friendly if a little chaotic, first bottle of prosecco on the tepid side, but all redeemed by a fabulous main course shin of pork. 6.5/10. Fig and Olive

Washed down with a Bloody Mary

Dishoom - a modish 'Bombay Cafe'. This place was good - a tasty fusion bacon and egg naan roll with a side of chicken livers, a very creditable Bloody Mary and good coffee. 7.5/10. Dishoom

Phoenix - well I only had fries and dips (perfectly fine) but there was a nice atmosphere and the service was notably cheerful and efficient. Provisional 7/10. Phoenix     

That London (Continued)

Back from that London, in fact now on one of my Anglesey jaunts. I ate so bloody much in London that I have had to have a severe word with myself and consider adopting extreme measures to get my waistline back under control. The answer is in a diet of breakfast cereal, bananas and alcohol. What can possibly go wrong?

On the subject of alcohol, a quick word of praise for the Lowlander Beerhouse in Covent Garden - loads of fun beers and good no-nonsense food - the fish finger sandwich is wonderful to behold. Try their own Wit Beer. I did. Twice over lunch.

OG liked it

Theatre review. In advance of seeing it I had my fears about Handbagged, fearing a republican/Guardianista style piece of Thatcher bashing. Not the case - the play aims its barbs at all sorts of targets, not least that bloody woman, but it does it even-handedly and to good comic effect.It gets a 'worth seeing' from the Overgraduate. 

Pearls Of Wisdom

Thirty years ago today I got married. Wise men will tell you I never did anything better and have done nothing wiser since. So today is our pearl anniversary. So you see what I've done with the title of this entry - clever eh?

Sharon and I are staying at one of the London outposts of our property empire - well Rachel's flat. She is at Glastonbury but doesn't live here any longer anyway - it's complicated.

Daughter number one is not at Glastonbury so has been chaperoning her old parents, mostly from pub to pub. Yet again I have to praise all that London has to offer, though cheap it ain't

So what have we done? Friday night, Sharon  and I had a satisfactory meal at the local pub, the Edinboro Castle (yes that's how they spell it) - decent chicken caesar salad and fairly priced prosecco.  We were back there yesterday with Helen for a very agreeable lunch - fish and chips since you ask, washed down with three pints of Ubu. In between those two visits we had taken a more upmarket excursion on  the Saturday morning to mark Helen's birthday. We brunched at the Gilbert Scott restaurant in the magnificent refurbished St Pancras station hotel. Excellent service and very good food at a predictably elevated price. The Ridgeview English sparkling wine worked very well with my haddock omelette. Rather less pricey was a nostalgic visit later that afternoon to  the Zetland in South Kensington - my local when a student three decades ago. It wasn't all eating and drinking, we fitted in the Victoria and Albert Museum as well. I'm ashamed to admit that I had never been in there before despite having lived in a flat directly opposite for my final two years at King's.

So all in all, having a lovely time. Theatre tonight. Review to follow.

... Are Brilliant Mark XV

Traditional British beer ... I have been off the booze for a month now and was going to wait until Katie's wedding on Friday before falling off the wagon but a bottle of IPA had my name on it.

The National Gallery. Free. Fantastic. And a cracking website. Today I was in that London and my meeting finished early so I studied not only Seurat's Bathers but his other smaller preparation pieces exhibited alongside it. Have a look for yourself - National Gallery-Seurat

Apple and granola muffins. Or more precisely an apple and granola muffin, singular, enjoyed in the National Gallery coffee bar.

Russian Caravan tea.

Trains when they run on time.

Cardamom Coffee

David a Londres

Forgive me forgetting, but these things I do (Bernie Taupin at his best) - I clean forgot to sing the praises of Camden Market at which I spent last Sunday afternoon. Sure there's much rubbish and tat you can get there but there's also a surfeit of good stuff. And the food, well you could get well full without too much damage to your wallet. I was still stuffed from breakfast at the Prince of Wales' Feathers but I did discover cardamom coffee at a Lebanese cafe. I shall return and savour it with some lunch next time because that looked nice and was paid the ultimate compliment of being enjoyed by a couple of elderly Arabs deep in foreign conversation.

D'apres les personnages de Herge

One can never have too many tee-shirts so I bought myself a Tintin a Londres shirt. Not Herge but in the style of Herge. I shall be wearing it in the near future and looking rather dashing.

The best sort of rain is the sort that falls overnight. The sun shone all day yesterday and is shining now on wet pavements without me having seen a drop of precipitation. I feel as if I have cheated nature. I will have a quiet word with Big Fat Pig and see if he is up for another short run before I drive us home through the mountains.

Hell Is ... Other People ... Heaven Is

Hell is other people. I thought this as I sat in a stuffy standard (ie second) class carriage last Friday evening. The (lack of) air conditioning, the oafishness of the bloke who denied our reservation, the noise of the stag party, these are a few of my unfavourite things.

Heaven is other people, most particularly my own wondrous daughters who hosted us last weekend. Heaven is other people, when part of the determined audience at the Globe sitting (even standing some brave souls) through all three parts of Henry VI . The hunger, the hard seating and the eventual tumultuous rain were all bearable for what was a thrilling pageant of poetry and story telling. These may be Shakespeare's least esteemed history plays (in some estimations not entirely or even mostly his handiwork) but played at pace and without overdue deference they work on stage. Bravo.

An interesting encounter in the interlude between Parts II and III - I politely asked an elderly lady if the space next to her on a bench was taken. She responded that it was not and then engaged me in conversation about the production and the Bard in general. She proudly informed me that she was eighty-five and that this was most definitely the last chance she would enjoy to see these three relatively rarely performed plays together. It was hard not to agree. She then turned to me and asked that I mind her bag because she was absolutely gasping to go outside and have a cigarette. I liked her.

An interesting matter of train station etiquette arose while waiting for another train this week. This time I was in the Virgin First Class Lounge so in a more amenable mood than had prevailed last week. The quandary - it is I presume rude to stare (or indeed even glance) at the manifest transvestite sitting opposite one. Modern manners can be awfuly vexing.

I watched an interesting and very British piece of film making last night - Mona Lisa in which Bob Hoskins does his best Bob Hoskins imitation. It was one of those free dvd's they used to give away with the Sunday papers and which lie in a neat pile here in Anglesey. I'm repainting some water damaged spots in the kitchen the roof having finally been repaired, inbetween bouts of listening to or watching the Ashes, wherein Australia are in the process of proving they are not nearly as bad as some would portray them and England are demonstrating that they are not remotely as good as some believe.  

Ship Of Fools Has A Cinema

I have said it before - if our ship of state were rudderless we might arguably be better off than we now are as Gideon and Dave steer us knowingly onto the rocks in the vague hope that the rocks will have eroded to nothing by the time we get there. At least when you are rudderless there is the chance that you will drift to safety.

You will doubtless have been gob-smacked by the sheer euro-effrontery of the Cypriot economic crisis and mused that there is always someone worse off than you - think again and read this excellent article which neatly explains the way we are dishonestly inflating our way out of depression riding on the back of savers - Great Savings Robbery

But enough of such misery. I have been in the city state that is that London this week and that and the nearness of my admirable offspring (both of whom most sensibly reside there) have made me prone to an invigorating optimism. Doubtless this will soon get knocked out of me once back at work next week but then it will only be three weeks till our Irish golf adventure. And in the meantime I have mostly been watching good films.

Exhibit A: Kind Hearts and Coronets. I seem to recall that this was the favourite film of Edward Heath. Doubtless he took great pleasure in the notion of worthless toffs being knocked off by the middle classes. Despite bearing the handicap of Heath's recommendation, this is a gloriously dark species of genteel comedy. 7/10.

Exhibit B: All The President's Men. 9/10. The strap line calls it 'the most devastating detective story of this century' and of course it is made all the more wondrous by the fact of its truth. Watergate manged to be America at its best and worst - best in its detection, worst in its commission. The journalism behind it made me want to be a writer. So how's that working out Dave?

Exhibit C: The Lion King. 8/10. Hakuna matata,as we say around these parts.

So, on balance, all things considered, at the end of the day, basically, you know, I will probably be alright Jack. But that, as any fule no, is not the bloody point.

Peering Over The Fiscal Cliff

I saw the wholly laudable National Theatre production of Timon of Athens last week, another very worthwhile day trip to that London. The professional critics have had their say so Simon Russell Beale needs no extra boosting from this amateur but there was much to admire and stimulate even beyond his central brilliance: the staging, Hilton McRae as Apemantus, the not so sly digs at certain celebrities (I wonder if Tracy Emin saw herself), the seamless editing of the difficult (and some argue incomplete) text and, not least, the adequacy of the pre-performance sauvignon blanc. It is a play that sits very nicely in an atmosphere of capitalistic self-doubt. Its run was sponsored by Travelex - money changers in the cultural temple.

I saw Timon whilst in the middle of reading Atlas Shrugged, a novel to which I will return in a later blog but whose themes, much as your modern bog-standard American liberals might like to deny it, chime rather nicely with this unfamiliar corner of Shakespeare. And by another nice coincidence this all sits with rehearsing An Inspector Calls and playing the tragic apologist for 'hard-headed practical men of business' Arthur Birling. Arthur's not all bad you know, but his wife, well that's a different matter.

And just to bring all this into sharper focus we have had an American election which was fought between two schools of legalised plunder - immoral capital and thieving state. As the song goes, this is an age of miracle and wonder, but it is also an age of moral vacuum. But hey ho, it's only a game and, as my old mate Arthur Birling suggests, a man has to make his own way.   

Post Mortem

Back on me old manor now, safely embedded in Four Oaks. Three nights in the comfort of my own cot and camping a shrinking memory. Time to reflect on London 2012 before my sad old grey matter has mixed and sentimentalised it all to pap. Lucky for you I jotted down some aides memoire before leaving the Big Smoke on Monday and I haven't yet drunk so much red wine that I can't make sense of them.





erection with an identity crisis

Docklands
Saw a lot of the revived and yuppified banlieu in which ExCeL is situated. Love the DLR, particularly the fact that it so resolutely refuses to travel in straight lines. I swear the O2 Arena (rechristened North Greenwich Arena for the duration of the Games on account of O2 not being an Olympic sponsor) was on my left at one point and then on the right a couple of minutes later. The Overgraduate likes the modern Docklands and wouldn't mind a pad there if he had some spare loot. I'd live in the West End for preference but I like a bit of realism mixed in with my dreams. One shouldn't be greedy.

Observative
Best neologism of the Games, uttered by a nervous supervisor who urged us to be observative for wheelchair and other accessibility challenged patrons. I was duly observative and will ever be thus.

Paid Staff
The organisation of the enterprise was largely praiseworthy but the quality of some paid staff was an issue. Not those at supervisory levels who were generally keen and committed but those pressed foot-soldiers who appeared to be part of a woolly social experiment to pitch into work dissolute and uninterested juveniles. Their ineptitude was easily covered by the army of volunteers who treated them with richly deserved disdain. They were not going to spoil our fun. They missed a golden opportunity to win some influential hearts and minds. Last and only whinge, I promise.

Handball
Why have I never had the chance to play this brilliant sport. Love it. If I was thirty years younger ...

Bloody Football Starts Again
Sorry another whinge. The Premier League kicks off on Saturday. Too soon. It will dilute if not wash away the Olympic spirit. I know there's nothing to be done about it but, as I say, too soon.

732000
The number of spectators we welcomed to the ExCeL across the Games. I think I spoke to roughly 700000 of them. Especially the Irish ones.

a friend of this blog

Lasha Shavdatuashvili
Georgian judoka who won 66k gold and probably thought he was safely anonymous when he went for a coffee outside the arena a full week after his competition. He was on my patch and I only know who he is because a crowd of crazed Georgians spotted him and detained him for fully an hour whilst every conceivable combination of photographs was taken. He was lovely and seemed genuinely touched by the mass of swarthy grateful men lining up to kiss him. As a finale he picked up and was photographed with an initially bemused small English boy who will for ever be able to say that he had his picture taken with an authentic gold medallist and national hero. Good on you Lasha.

Patches of Dead Grass
As the end of the Games approached and Games Makers headed home after their stint, patches of yellowed grass appeared on the campsite where once had stood tents. I should have taken a photo of this poignant patchwork.

Ice Creams
The free ones handed out throughout the Games at major commuter stations to passengers. A really nice touch, symptomatic of the small ways that Locog painted the big picture.

and he seems like a nice bloke

Mo Farah
Having learned of his 10000m triumph over a privet hedge in Twickenham, I saw his 5000m gold (or at least the last half lap of it) in the bar of the Docklands Crowne Plaza thanks to a fortuitously timed comfort break in my Friday shift. I then had the pleasure of announcing the news to those arriving at ExCeL for the boxing. Of all the British victories, Farah's are the greatest and his the nicest story of a storied fortnight.

Panem et Circenses
That's bread and circuses to you and me. This one is difficult - have we been distracted from civic desecration by a vast but meaningless pageant? Am I a dupe? I don't believe so but it is perhaps instructive to comment that the only time I can remember this country feeling quite so buoyed was during the Falklands Conflict. We were right then and I believe we were right this time but I do love that I have been brought up to accommodate a scepticism that interrogates these matters. And if that sounds smugly like having my cake and eating it, well you'll just have to humour me for a few more weeks until the roseate tinge has departed my world view.

Plastic Bags
I always like to leave you with some practical advice so here it is - you can't have too many plastic bags when you're camping. I spoil you lot, I really do. 

Journey Of The Working Class Heroes

I don't know about you but it seems to me that most people who see themselves as working class heroes are nothing of the sort - they tend to be middle class wannebees. Circumstance used to force me to associate with one such. Utter cock. The only redemption was that I felt ashamed by the association even if it took me the devil's own time to act upon my shame.

Which wasn't what I was going to blog about but it came out and on balance I think I should leave it there.

No, what I was aiming at was a glib joke about Mr and Mrs Roberts' invitation to attend a private view at the Royal Academy last week. It is a weak joke because although I am patently not a WCH Mrs R most definitely is, not that she makes anything of it, far too classy for that.

So, Royal Academy - nice gaff. Summer Exhibition - nice idea, though I am a little late on the scene in passing this judgement since the annual event has been going since 1768. But I know you don't tune in to Radio Free Overgraduate for tired facts, oh no what you want are the fearless opinions, so here goes. Exhibit 1272 in Gallery VIII, Feather Child I, by Lucy Glendinning is seriously disturbing, which I assume is the objective. Arresting but I wouldn't want it in my house. Exhibit 745, The Long View Reflected, Chris Orr - we both liked this. Best in exhibition and winner of the utterly valueless and unregarded Overgraduate Prize is 593 in Gallery II, Safety Last, by Catherine Yass. If I had a suitably deep wall I would buy this series of eight etchings. I don't.

These shades are nearly as cool as mine

Been out on the bike three times in the last week following another sodding leg strain brought on by running (I know I said I'd stop doing it but you know how these things work) - cycling is brilliant, an opinion given even greater weight by the ever stunning Tour de France, presently in progress and probably to be won by a Briton. If this transpires, hold all polls, ignore the Olympics, this is the sportsman of the year. Already a triple Olympic champion and about to conquer his sport's awesome peak. Bradley Wiggins, Big Fat Pig aka The Overgraduate salutes you.   

... Are Brilliant Mark X

This entry combines the factors which made the weekend before last in that London so terrifically terrific.

Henry V at the Globe. Cracking play, matchless venue. Have raved about the Globe before and will do so again. Some right gormless knobs in the audience mind. I gave them my famous Paddington Bear glare. Usually does the trick.

Abigail's Party at Wyndham's Theatre. Good play, lovely old theatre, half bottles of champagne available. Audience a little subdued but no glaring knobs.

Barolo. Shit man that stuff is good. Polished off the best part of a bottle (I let Helen help me a bit) with my lobster at Isolabella in that Holborn. Good restaurant. Unpretentious. Multo affordable. Popular. Book at Isolabella Restaurant.

The Bomber Command Memorial in Green Park. 55573 members of Bomber Command gave their lives in the Second World War. My grandfather was a comrade. He survived for which I am ever grateful. A picture of him in his dress uniform sits on my desk. When he died a natural death in 1985 it was the first time I had known a friend die. He did no impression of a perfect man but he, like so many of his generation, was forced to be a great one. He would have done no more than turn away from the pious right-on views of Jonathan Jones in the Guardian (The Grauniad Speaks) but I am from an emotionally incontinent generation so I will say this - what a knob van.

Not all is bad in the Guardian however. Most of it is (two words: Polly Toynbee) but Simon Jenkins speaks for most of us when he skewers the prize shits who populate our banks - Banking keeps getting away with it. And I'm sorry, I really don't care whether Bob Diamond knew what was going on (though one has to ask what he was doing if he didn't sodding well know) - on your watch matey boy the bank (in which I and various other foolish innocents are shareholders) was fined £295 million (that's 295000000 - it helps to set the noughts out in full) for its misfeasance so it seems to me you ought to be compelled to give back some of the spondulicks you've conned out of my pension. And thank your lucky stars you're not in prison.

And last but never least, Sharon Roberts, whose significant birthday we were celebrating in that London. Sharon,
 " whose beauty claims
    No worse a husband than the best of men;"
and who like poor old Octavia didn't quite get what she deserved in marriage, but at least I won't be shacking up with an Egyptian. She could have done so much better but every day I'm glad she didn't.

Piece Of Paper II

Did you miss me? You've been waiting with bated breath haven't you? Sorry, been a busy boy, getting most of my work done before embarking on the annual Dunmore golfing festival. I am thus blogging from the comfort of the StenaPlus lounge on the delayed ferry crossing to Dublin - it's going to be a rough one.

complete ******

Now, last time we met I had a whine about Keith Vaz and Polly Toynbee but there is a yet greater ogre in my red ink and I must ask those of a delicate disposition to look away now because the following two words may cause offence: Ken Livingstone. What a dick. If Londoners are seriously about to elect as mayor this mendacious, avaricious, small-minded pygmy then I despair. London, I love you but please, please, don't do it. This is not a plea for Comedy Boris. It's just a plea not to invite derision upon yourselves

Bardic haka

To cheerier matters. I've raved before about Shakespeare's Globe but I saw a performance there last Monday which was awesome - Troilus and Cressida in Maori. Seriously bloody brilliant. Part of the cultural Olympiad, all 37 plays are being presented in different languages. Catch one of them if you can. The Bard transcends even his own language.

One bad thing about the Globe however - they have succumbed to what I take to be a bizarre egalitarian design whereby the gents' toilets contain only cubicles and no urinals. This slows down the whole generally manageable business of a bloke having a slash. Our ability to pee standing up is one of our few cultural advantages and the mass urinal is one of modernity's great space-saving devices. Bring back the pisser!

See that ball in the gorse-
that's mine that is

Beautiful, Beautiful beast. No, not me, nor most certainly Big Willy Macfarlane or John Brain my golfing compadres who sit opposite me as I type. No, I speak of Bull Bay Golf Club where we yesterday battled strong winds in the traditional pipe-owner. The official record will show that John won our contest - what it will not tell you is that Willy and Brain both rode in an electric cart, the pair of inexcusable faggots. They even nearly drove that over a little cliff, pair of clowns.
I remain, indisputably, our finest athlete. This is not a great boast.

My Piece Of Paper I

It doesn't yet qualify as a system but I have been writing stuff down on a piece of paper because at my age I do forget things and that is just not fair on you is it. Some of it may be my best stuff.

Most of the writing on my piece of paper was made during my latest foray into the jungle that is that London. In red ink which is, I think you will find, almost as clear an indicator of a nutter as green. Almost.

Who's your boyfriend?

We start with a couple of astute observations on what you can learn merely by noting the opinions of eminent hand-job merchants. For example we do not need to delve too deeply into the government's proposal for minimum alcohol pricing - suffice to say that Keith Vaz thinks it's a good idea.. I rest my case M'lud. Btw, as you enter the words 'Keith Vaz' into a search engine the predictive results include in fifth place the wonderful phrase 'Keith Vaz is a knob van.' Made this juvenile chuckle.

quod erat demonstrandum

Exhibit B: the views of the reliably barking, achingly serious Polly Toynbee. Good old Pol has been heard to endorse the Chancellor's cap on tax deductions for charitable giving. Because the government is, of course, so much better a judge of how your money should be spent than ever you might be. You have to have a sense of humour about these things. Really you do, because the alternative is horribly depressing - believe me I've been there.

This grumpy old bastard will share some more of his red ink with you tomorrow. Goodnight sweet prince.