In The Bleak Midwinter

Actually by the OG measure of seasonality, it is not yet even winter - by my reckoning that comes on 1 December. Nonetheless we awoke here at Casa Piggy to a blanket of snow. Thus the Pig is not playing golf today. Just as well because he is not friends with his driver at present. 'Twas ever thus.

The Lower Grounds at Casa Piggy

 So anyway, you have all no doubt been wondering why Big Fat Pig has been silent after a flurry of posts during Groupie and Pig's brief holday at Plas Piggy. Sorry about that. Just to fill you in, the last day of our stay was spent walking from Wylfa Head to Cemaes, the walk including a stop-off for a pint at the turning point. Lovely. We than had a very good pub meal back in Benllech at the Breeze Hill, under new management, marked by a particularly fine example of that prize side, onion rings.

We watched three films during our holiday, nothing to get overly excited about but decent holiday fare. In ascending order of merit, we first have The Mirror Crack'd, a workmanlike Christie adaptation laden with stars but lacking in pizzazz. I have to be in a certain relaxed frame of mind for Agatha Christie on either film or television. I have no interest in identifying/guessing the culprit, but rather want the text to wash over me. 55/100.  

Next best is Blunt a television film from an age when the BBC could afford more ambitious projects.This retails (yet again) the Philby/Burgess/Maclean/Blunt spy scandal, concentrating in particular on the relationship between Burgess (played by an excellent Anthony Hopkins) and Blunt (the equally meritorious Ian Richardson). In particular Hopkins conveys a convincing picture of Burgess as hugely well-educated but prize shit. 61/100. 

Finally we have the 1974 film of Murder on the Orient Express. This is the one decorated by Albert Finney arrestingly hamming it up as Hercules Poirot, whilst surrounded by a cast of more restrained co-stars. Poirot is worthy of caricature so Finney just about gets away with it. The pace occasionally drops to the pedestrian but the period detail is consitently well-done. 68/100. 

And now the snow is melting. Back to November drabness. Soon be Christmas.

Bad Hair, Great Golf

Britain melts in a moment of heat - for the first time we have red weather warnings because of the extreme temperatures. I endured an uncomfortable drive back from Mon this morning because my ageing SUV has knackered air-conditioning. Air conditioning - one of those toys that used to be seen as a luxury but which we can now see as a necessity. The drought of 1976 seems a long time ago. I sat my 'O' levels that summer and we had to wear full school uniform, blazer included. But we were, as Monty Python observed, happy. I bet the exam room was a bit whiffy though - all that adolescent sweat in an age when deodorants were far from ubiquitous.  

So who has the bad hair? That would be Cameron Smith whose barnet even the Donald might deem inelegant. But, wow, the way Smith dismantled St. Andrews to win the Open was magnificent. I doubt he is troubled by my criticism of his coiffure. I hope he can find it in himself to turn down the Saudi/LIV Golf millions that are inevitably being promised to him but one has to doubt it. A pity - the last four days demonstrated that championship golf is played over seventy-two holes with a half-way cut and a one tee start.

Once the golf was over I watched Joker. This is a difficut film, one that divided the critics. My turn now. It is a super-villain origin story and is decidedly not for the kids. Quite rightly it carries an 18 certificate. 1980's Gotham is putrefying under the weight of its uncollected garbage and collapsing morally under the burden of societal divisions. From this cess-pit crawls Arthur Fleck, who is to become Joker. The film makes some bad decisions and its debts to Scorsese's Taxi Driver and King of Comedy can be distracting. However as a study of psychosis I found it compelling and Joaquin Phoenix in the lead is never less than magnificent - skeletal thin and fuelled by a diet of nicotine and hatred, he populates the film with a worrying meaning. The ending is enigmatic. Joker 2? Part of me hopes not but apparently I am wrong. 73/100.

Back Home In The Searing Heat

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twelve Films At Christmas - 1

Here at Casa Piggy the snow lies all around, deep and crisp and even, disturbed only by the trail of paw prints from the local fox. Thus I find myself starting the usual cinematic Christmas thread a few days early. But don't worry, we haven't put the decorations up yet. Anything before December is terribly infra dig.

Christmas films. They have been showing the crappy schmaltzy ones for the best part of a month now. However I am pleased to report a rather more elevated addition to the Christmas canon. A Boy Called Christmas is a Sky/Netflix co-production, thus part of the conspiracy to take over the world. It has a cinematic release but is available on Sky at the same time. Do you know what - it's rather good. A cast of very good British thesps including the compulsory Maggie Smith. A plot that completely ignores the religious side of Christmas (but hey ho) and I think I even detected an anti-Brexit tinge (but hey ho). The effects are very good and there's a sassy talking mouse, voiced by Stephen Merchant. Pleasingly in amongst the saccharine (it is Christmas after all) there is some jeopardy and a bit of unleavened tragedy. A good start to this year's festive dozen. 69/100. 

A Long Weekend

My lawn here is a motley of little green and rather more burnt straw and still no sign of meaningful rain. All of which made for a contrast in Anglesey where it rained (not torrentially but with feeling) last Friday while we waited in for the man who was measuring for some new blinds. As with so much else on the island we were taken aback by the relative cheapness of the service - a particular contrast with the London outposts of our property empire, that is to say the flats belonging to Daughters One and Two.

DN2 trained it up to Anglesey to join us for weekend and a jolly nice time was had by all in pleasant temperatures. An appetite-stimulating walk on the beach at Newborough was followed by an appetite-satisfying dinner at the Tavern on the Bay at Red Wharf Bay. Black pudding starter, fish stew and cheese board for the Big Fat Pig. Sirloin steak for the Groupie, swordfish for DN2. All highly commendable and washed down with Chablis. Good times.

There are plenty of worse places to eat

DN2 accompanied us back to home and left early for London this morning. We had come back from the island early enough for one of the Pig's signature barbecues. Barbecue is possibly my only marketable life skill.

Molinari celebrates landing Pig's online bet

Sorry I didn't share my hot tip for the Open golf. Pig has remotely trousered his winnings on the phlegmatic Signor Molinari. Just occasionally I get these things right.   

Coriolanus In The (Sometime) Rain

A rainbow arced over Robinson College and we sat stoically in the rain (for a short time at least) as the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival gave us its Coriolanus. It was pruned down to less than two hours but I have no intrinsic problem with that in the English summer rain.

and then it rained

Caius Martius Coriolanus (he earns the last moniker for his single-handed courage at Corioli) is a difficult part to cast. Angus Villers-Stuart (A Birmingham School of acting grad) was suitably muscular and believably martial but just that tad too young for the part. Another BSA alumni, Tim Atkinson, was impressive as Titus Aufidius and, old clever clogs, played both clarinet and guitar in the interval - though not at the same time. Best of the cast was Adam Elms. His Menenius was arch, even mildly camp, but, rather contrary to my expectations, he made this work.

So all in all a worthwhile trip. And in Cambridge even the pork scratchings are posh - mine came with Cornish sea salt. I washed them down with a muscular Coriolanus like Malbec.

53 Days And It's Raining

In Anglesey and sitting in my running kit watching the rain pour down. Should I go for that run in the rain or should I wait in the hope that it will recede? I know the correct answer - get out there and train, you may have to run the event in these conditions, but then again do I really want the smell of damp kit around the place? My oh my, life is full of decisions.

I've made up my mind - I'm going to have another cup of coffee (legal stimulant) in the hope that it abates. A hope that looks forlorn because it has got heavier even as I have written this.

By the way I don't wear my Oakleys when I run here. I can't trust myself not to lose them. Instead I wear their predecessors (imitation Oakleys) which have been relegated to country estate duty along with my old trainers.Not so much go-faster gear as go-slighty-slower kit.

Bloody hell it's now absolutely lashing down. That coffee better last a long time.

It's also blowing a gale.

Sod it, I'm going for it.

Of Running, Rain And The Perfidy Of Builders

In case you missed it, that was Summer that we had on Thursday. Yesterday was murky and today it has just hosed down for most of the day. Which is at least good for my lovely garden but does encourage the grass to grow more swiftly than is ideal.

The view from the bridge of the good ship BFP

After a delay (detail to follow) I went out for a run in the rain. New running shorts were a success but my precious Oakleys were a categorical error. No matter how cool I think they make me look, they are impractical in heavy rain for the obvious reason that you can't see a bloody thing. And yes I do know that a man of my education should have been able to work that out but they do look soooo cool.

What kept me in the house was the promised attendance of our builder who simply never showed and ignored a dozen phone calls. This is uncharacteristic so I hope nothing nasty has happened but I do have to confess that my state of mind, couching it in Wodehousian terms, is that if not entirely disgruntled I am certainly far from gruntled. A glass of red is presently soothing the savage beast.

I ran a comfortable four miles but having to carry my Oakleys disturbed my finely honed body balance.