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. 

Shining On The Self-Righteous At Plas Piggy

Here on the island for the first inspection visit of the year. All is well, in fact it seems even better than that. In marked contrast to last week's covering of snow at Casa Piggy, Benllech is bathed in glorious winter sun and the Pig is feeling very good about himself having run for forty minutes this morning. By way of climatological proof I reproduce the rather crappy photograph taken from the front window showing the waters glistening on Red Wharf Bay and the Great Orme looming in the distance. I can't give you any documenatry proof of my run - you'll have to trust me on that one, but why would I lie?

It is on a day such as this that one glimpses the illusion of the runner's high. Actually that is unfair - the high really does exist, it is just that you feel it less frequently as age and lassitude restrict activity. On the basis that the public sharing of a new year resolution makes compliance more likely (because failure is so much the worse when suffered in the open) I will admit that I have the ambition to get back to running for an hour by June this year. My other resolutions are for me alone.

I will say this - running here in Benllech is even tougher than back in the environs of Casa Piggy (which is atop a hill) as the village climbs steeply out of the Bay. Today I ran/staggered half-way down to to Red Wharf Bay and back. I feel good.

Another reason to feel content - I have realised that itvX harbours Once Upon a Time in America in its listings. I'm too mean to pay for the ad-free version but I may watch it tonight and put up with the adverts. I haven't seen the movie for a decade or more but I remember it as Leone's masterpiece. Am I right? 

Cinema Paradiso

I have previously disclosed my misanthropic objection to attending cinemas. Modern home screen facilities are so good that there is little enough reason for me to mend my ways. But I accept that I ought to try. Anyway, enough of that and, via one of my characteristic diversions, I will tell you about two movies recently viewed.

But first that diversion. I am here on the island and sitting proud in the bookcase (note to self: we need a new bookcase) is my copy of Halliwell's Film Guide (2nd Edition), a present, I note from the inscription, from the Groupie on my twenty-third birthday. This was a long time ago. A very long time. I was musing (to myself, no one else listens) about the essay Leslie Halliwell appended to his edition titled The Decline and Fall of the Movie. Writing at the turn of the seventies into the eighties, Halliwell found himself dismayed at what he perceived as the film industry's collapse into self-indulgent meretriciousness. He had a point although his ambivalence about the early work of Martin Scorsese is a point of view from which I hasten to distance myself. Reading it again at this distance, I am pleased to be able to report that fine films are still being crafted. I'll give you a couple of examples (one of which pre-dates Halliwell's pessimistic essay) of good craftsmanship.

Young Winston (1972) tells (without being too hagiographic) the early life of Winston Churchill. It is engaging despite some  asides to camera (disguised as responses to an out-of-shot journo) that really don't work. Despite that it is, as Halliweel might have it, well crafted 62/100.

And now for something of a much higher order and a suitable riposte to Halliwell's pessimism - A picture that is concise, witty, amusing and provocative. And in case you protest - yes I know it's not intended to be accurate history. But it is clever (Stoppard and Norman wrote the script) and keeps you on your toes. We have, I suppose, to skate around the fact that it was produced by the odious Harvey Goldstein. 84/100.  

La Dolce Vita Cymraeg

Here on the Island with my soul mate. We have had a wonderful week - pottering, doing some minor works on Plas Piggy and taking in the scenery on some mildly taxing walks. Yesterday brought to mind how Ynys Mon keeps favouring us with good times.

There are some excellent beaches on the Island but in high season it perhaps makes sense to head for the less immediately prepossessing. One of our favourite walks takes us from the decommissioned nuclear power station at Wylfa along the Anglesey Coast Path to the village of Cemaes Bay. Cemaes is a hidden gem. It has free parking just off the High Street; it has proper old shops (there is even a picture framer to whom we took some recent purchases on Monday); it has a presentable and uncrowded beach. But yesterday's great discovery was the cafe operating out of a utilitarian stone shed on the beach car park (£4 - so you're better off walking down from the free parking). Caffi Bach does wood-fired pizzas. Absolutely excellent. The Groupie and the Pig shared a margherita and a generous portion of chips. We ate these on a beach-front bench - delicious and not a scavenging seagull in sight. Life is good.   

The State Of The Nation

What exactly is the point of Kemi Badenoch? No seriously, what has happened to right of centre politics - we seem to be left with a vast wasteland where once was important ground. Still we can at least take some comfort from the fact that the morally ungrounded Keir Starmer is turning out to be the best Conservative prime minister since that nice Tony Blair.

Enough of such gloom (well actually ther might be some more to come - sorry) because I am on one of my flying inspection visits to Plas Piggy. The sun is shining and the Great Orme smolders in a heat haze in the distance. The wretched flying vermin gulls are nesting on our roof again but that cannot take away the attractiveness of this place.

And last night I watched an interesting film, a Danish/Icelandic speculation on humanity and morality - Godland.  It follows the travails of a Danish pastor tasked with building a new church in the remoteness of South-East Iceland. It is a tale of endurance and obdurance. Three men die, as do two horses. The pastor is a pioneering photographer and the movie is shot in an almost square ratio with rounded corners that mimics his glass-plate photography. A serious film. A good film. Available on iPlayer. 78/100.

The VE Day celebrations last week were moving. I particularly enjoyed how much it all meant to my mother who remembered the sheer joy and relief of that end to war, celebrated in her case as a ten-year-old in Gloucester. That generation who lived through WWII have been the guiding influence on my generation and as we lose them we need to reflect on our own actions upon those growing-up behind us. Are we, the baby-boomers, as wise an influence as our own parents have been? Such thoughts can cast a pall over my day so I have risen from my desk and looked out once again over the sun-dappled sea. I may even have a third cup of damned fine coffee. Life's been good to me so far.

 

Odeon Ynys Mon

 I am on one of my solo sorties to the island. Yesterday was a fine day. I went to C.G. Ynys Mon and spent a fruitful (well hopefully) hour sharpening (it was very blunt) my short game. As if that was not enough I wasted my money backing Perceval Legallois in the Grand National and found time to watch two very different films.

Father Brown is a 1954 piece of British whimsy capped by a superb performance from Alec Guinness in the tile role. It puts the flimsy modern television version of the tales of the priest/sleuth to shame. Somehow films of this idiom are all the better for being in black and white. A wholly worthy piece of movie-making. 70/100. 

Hang 'Em High (1968) is an altogether different kettle of fish. In fact not a kettle of fish at all, rather a plate of spaghetti americano. Hard upon the success of Sergio Leone's three Clint Eastwood westerns, America reclaimed Eastwood as its own and made this paleish imitation of a spaghetti western. Eastwood speaks more than in his seminal role(s) and the sheer visceral quality of Leone's pictures is missing. Notwithstanding this daub of filmic polish, there is enough to get your teeth into and there is, if you look hard enough, a moral speculation trying to get out. Worth a watch. 64/100.

Days Of Wonder

I am here on the island, my ostensible reason being to see a roofer about the leaky chimney, but, in truth, mainly because I love it here. The only downside is that the Groupie has not been able to join me on this occasion. It has been a notable break.

For journeys up here I have abandoned the M6 even though it is potentially the quickest route - the expense of the M6 Toll cannot be justified and, besides, if you get held up on the motorway, you really do get held up. The shortest route is the old A5, also the most scenic. However I favour the A458/A55 - quickish (exactly three hours on Thursday) and scenicish. 

A very productive meeting with the roofer, RJE, on Friday. Like all the tradesmen on the island (in my experience) he is friendly, reasonable and charming. So far , so good then, but it was yesterday (Saturday) that turned into one of those days of wonder. Up early and drove to Anglesey Golf Club where I maintain country membership (ludicrously cheap compared to Birmingham) and I had bitten the bullet and entered a Stableford. Now playing with strangers can be daunting but not at The Anglesey. I was warmly greeted and paired with AJ, a Mancunian who served with the RAF at Valley and married a local girl and stayed here after he left the forces. The course was wet but eminently playable and there was a strong wind that made the back nine very challenging. We were round in three hours. The course won but I had a lovely time. If you see me, remind me to tell you about my birdie on the fourth. 

And as if that was not enough, as I drove back across Mon, Snowdonia (sorry, Eryri) glared at me, sun-kissed and snow lying on the northern slopes. Beautiful. 

I was back in plenty of time to open a bottle of Rioja (Gran Reserva naturally) and watch England subside to defeat to Ireland in the Six Nations. This much was predicatable and I won't bore you with another lecture on the problems besetting the grand old game in England. I then watched the recording of the Scotland v Italy match without knowing the result. Isn't Blair Kinghorn a good player!

Anchovies on brown toast for supper. 

You will notice that I have drawn a sensitive veil over the demolition of Wales by France on Friday evening. I find it best not to intrude on private grief. Mind you, DH the greenkeeper was kind enough to remember that I had been a player and elicited my opinion. I comforted him by saying that England would lose and that Wales have unearthed another quality player in their captain, Jac Morgan.

Slept like a baby. Days of wonder.

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.

Yesterday I Have Mostly Been:

Worrying - about my stiff knee; about Trump's clear victory in the US election. Shame on the Democratic Party for finding no better candidate than Kamala Harris. But the sun is shining on the Great Orme as I write this and I will expend my energy on things I can control.

Walking - along the coast path at Trearddur Bay, probably the nicest village on Ynys Mon. I was, of course, with the Groupie, so life can hardly get better.

Eating - at the Sea Shanty in Trearddur Bay. Monster portions at bargain prices with swift, unobtrusive service. Washed down with a pint of Golden Gate IPA. Altogether most satisfactory.

Reading - The Mabinogion. Still.

Yesterday I Have Mostly Been:

Running slowly - before breakfast and ruing my stiff knee, the latest manifestation of my old age. To add to the knee, it's bloody hilly here at Plas Piggy.

Visiting Caernarfon - the castle may be a symbol of oppression but you have to say it's a rather magnificent symbol. Nice pint in the bar of The Black Boy and a bowl of chips shared with the Groupie.

Listening to - Gil Scott-Heron, Pieces of a Man. Nice.

Reading - The Mabinogion. In English translation, sorry about that.

Epic As An Adjective And Other Exercises In Writing

A weekend of sunshine on the island as the Pig enjoyed a brief break at Plas Piggy. Now as you know, the Pig is well down with the kids and he therefore wants to describe the weekend as epic.

Those of you who have been paying attention for the decade and a half that the Pig has been writing this guff, will know that another adjective is also pretty important - 'precious', as in the Precious Jag, the Precious Petrol Mower, and the Precious Bike. Well here's another entry to the Piggy Hall of Fame - the Precious Drain Rods. These got an ultimately epic outing on Friday evening. The enjoyment of using rods is in direct proportion to the scale of the blockage under attack. Unless you have done it, you cannot comprehend the adrenaline rush that comes at the point of rodded release of a major shitberg - though prose of the same quality as what this sentence is, gives you a pretty good idea. The Pig even made a trip to Screwfix in Llangefni to add a new tool to his set of Precious Rods. Behold the Bailey drop scraper.

 

Pretty exciting I'm sure you'd agree. But there was more and here you will see how clever the Pig is being with his vocabulary - because as he enjoyed an epic high tea of tinned hot dogs in appropriate finger rolls, he watched a film that can accurately be described as an epic - you see that's a noun! The film in question is not epic in its artistic attainment but is epic in scale and ambition. Nicholas and Alexandra may be a tad plodding at points but as a dramatic primer on the retreat of Mother Russia from the divine right of kings it seves very well. 68/100. 

And on the way home the Pig listened to Steely Dan. Epic.

The Mystery Of Faith

I woke early here on the island and came upon King of Kings showing on the BBC at a strange early hour. It is not a great film but the underlying biblical story is a fabulous one. I'm a sucker for the gospels.

Anyway it put me in the mood to attend mass at Our Lady of Lourdes RC church here in Benllech. And jolly good it was too. A congregation combining locals and manifest holidaymakers was treated to a measured and wry performance by a Scottish priest. All of which got me thinking about my own conflicted catholic agnosticism. It is the proclamation of faith that always gets me and the attendant ceremony over the offerings. I came away feeling still in a state of negotiation over my own faith but pleasantly uplifted. And yes I did take communion - a cynic might call that having my bread and eating it. I can live with it.  

The Cambrian Williams

This is a tale of Cambria and two Englishmen called William who have moved there. Both have appeared in these pages before - they are my brother WJR and my dear friend Big Willy Mac. Over the past two days I have enjoyed  a game of golf with each in turn. The weather has been kind but with a wind that made the game gratifyingly difficult. First up was a chastening defeat at WJR's hands at Welshpool Golf Club. I actually started competently but two lost balls on the ninth presaged a collapse in morale on an epic scale. This has happened before and, as night follows day, will happen again.

At the high point of Welshpool Golf Club

I urge anyone who has a feel for truly rugged golf to go to Welshpool, a James Braid course that improbably climbs up and down hills and is a test of imagination and stamina. There is not a single sand bunker on the course - it doesn't need them. A snip at less than thirty quid. Next time I'm going to play better.  

Golf as God intended - Harlech

From Welshpool I drove on to Ynys Mon and Plas Piggy. Slept like a log and then undertook the drive to Harlech where Big Willy (who has transplanted his life to Criccieth) is a member of the truly wondrous Royal St. David's Golf Club. This is golf on an epic scale. Amongst a plethora of great holes, perhaps best is the fiendish 15th that takes you up a narrow gully between the dunes. I played a little better than at Welshpool but could not better Big Willy's nous and local knowledge.

Feeling a little foot-sore today and will recuperate with an impertinent Argentinian red whilst watching the Open from Royal Troon. I've said it before - when I grow up I want to be me. 

Species Of Noir, The Curse Of Google, And The Dangers Of Taking Stairs Quickly

Last Tuesday morning I was feeling quite optimistic about my golf game. I was due for an early start with the Seniors Section at Royal Pype Hayes and I had it in mind that I had learned the lessons of my humbling at Ynys Mon the previous week. Yes, this was going to be a good round, two in fact because my ambitious plan was to play two games in a day. The Monday night rugby/cricket boys had switched to Tuesday on account of bank holiday. What I had left out of my tactical armoury was a plan for getting downstairs. Long story short, I came a right pearler and fucked my back up (medical terminology) good and proper. A week on and I am still feeling the pain of the splenetic trauma (idiomatic slang) and golf is definitely off the menu. So is any form of exerecise. Silly old bastard.

Whilst I have been laid-up I have been watching a lot of television and old films. Until now it has not even been comfortable to hold a book - I am strangely particular about the right conditions for reading. There has been a lot of the noirish but first the widescreen spectacular. The Robe was the first film exhibited in Cinemascope. I would like to see it in the cinema but a decent print on a largish modern television still gives some idea of the spectacle. Richard Burton allegedly hated his own performance in it (for which he received the first of his multiple failed Oscar nominations) but I thought he was rather good. 70/100.  

Not all of the classic noir tropes are deployed (no narration, no flashbacks for instance) but The Big Sleep is beyond doubt film noir. Humphrey Bogart as Philip Marlowe spits out the crackling dialogue with huge presence and the atmosphere itself crackles when Lauren Bacall joins him on screen. It is not original to call this a great film but it is correct. And I do still love to wheel out the fact that Marlowe's creator was, like that other great writer P.G. Wodehouse, an Old Alleynian. On occasion you have to doff your cap to the English public school system. 90/100.

Many years ago (I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now) I compiled a list of my fifty favourite movies. That list would change a good bit if I undertook it again but I do recall that Orson Welles' Macbeth was on it then and, having revisited it, it would be today. In this I diverge from my learned doctoral supervisor. Yes, it is full of faults, not all of them down to the straitened financial circumstances in which it was produced, but it does manage to convey the visceral darkness that is at the heart of this, Shakespeare's tautest tragedy. Renaissance noir. 83/100. Mind you, if you really want to see Macbeth at its best on screen, take in Kurosawa's Throne of Blood.  

Next some Gotham Noir. I must declare an interest - I think Christian Bale is superb in pretty much anything he does. Thus I came to The Dark Knight Rises pre-disposed to enjoying it. It is perhaps the weakest of Christpher Nolan's Batman trilogy but we are talking about three very good movies here. 71/100. As I allocate that grade, I wonder if I am guilty of watching only good films these days. Old time is on our tracks boys and there may not be time to accommodate the mediocre. On which topic, I heard a voice I respect proposing 2001: A Space Odyssey as a great film. Should I give it yet another chance? The defect is probably mine.

I will finish with a film of the New Noir West, No Country for Old Men. But before I turn to that, a note of sadness. The film is adapted from the novel by Cormac McCarthy. I was introduced to McCarthy's fiction by the poet/academic Anthony Mellors. I googled Anthony to see where he might now be hanging his academic hat and/or practising his poetic art. It transpires that he died last year. We were very diffferent people but I regarded him as a good bloke - a designation he might have found amusing. 

Anyway, No Country for Old Men, a bleak tragedy of America's New West. It is testament to the brilliance of McCarthy and also that of the Coen Brothers who produced the film. Roger Ebert regarded their Fargo as a genuinely great movie and his conclusion that No Country is every bit as good is correct. 91/100.

I've Got The Only Cure For Life, And The Cure For Life Is Joy

Not the first time I've purloined a masterful Clive James lyric (written for the music of Pete Atkin) and it won't be the last. Anyway, it came to mind as I mused my way out of the downer threatened by yesterday's speculations on asymmetric war. The cure for life is joy.

I have just watched (it's on iPlayer - seek it out) Listening Through the Lens : the Films of Christopher Nupen. It is no false modesty to say that I have a tin ear and zero musical talent but, rather as with wine, I have come to know what I like. The documentary about Nupen, himself a documentarist, reminded me that music is quite possibly the highest marker of human spirituality. As long as mankind is possessed of musicality there can be some hope.

Also there is running. My new shoes are working well and this morning I ran up the hill and back down into Benllech with the view out to Red Wharf Bay opening up before me. The cure for life is joy.  

Happy Places And The Shadow Of Asymmetric Warfare

Our world is a dreadful place. Our world is wonderful. This contradiction has, you may have noticed, been weighing upon me for some time - pretty much for ever.

Of all places I thought about this as I occupied a new happy place (actually a sub-set of a wider place) - the practice ground at Clwb Golff Ynys Mon where I am now a member. I practised my short game (very necessary) in a mood of self-righteousness burnished by having cleaned the windows at Plas Piggy this morning. As I flailed at golf balls, jets roared overhead as they came in to land at RAF Valley. I find their presence comforting. We can go into that at some later date. No, what I was thinking about was the asymmetric war currently being waged in Gaza. Israel have a formidable defenec force and are deploying it ruthlessly in Gaza - the ratio of terrorist deaths to civilian deaths is numbing. Netanyahu does not care an iota. He sees an enemy constitutionally committed to the eradication of the state of Israel and will pursue them no matter how many bodies he must trample over. This horrifies most of the watching world. However the vital point that evades those spectators is that Hamas' approach to the conflict is knowingly as asymmetrical as Israel's. Hamas care not a jot how many civilians they have to put in Israel's path. Their god is on their side. And before we get all gooey-eyed about the horror of it all, we might pause to consider the asymmetry of the bombing of Dresden, of Hiroshima, of Nagasaki. It makes one weep. Not, I suspect, that you care but the OG's preference would be for Israel to take what is left of the moral high ground and desist. This seemingly will not happen so long as Netanyahu is in power. Whilst liberal hand-wringers (in whose number I count myself) pontificate on this catastrophic mess, we might care to turn our attention to influential wings of two monotheistic religions, in their very different manners, acting as grisly death cults. If I wasn't so happy, I would cry.

But you see, that's the problem. I am happy. It is only when I face the world outside my euphoric bubble that I do just wonder if this whole human experiment has turned to shit. Will I feel better if I buy an electric car? Answers on a postcard to the usual address.

 

An Antidote For The Tired Mind

Yesterday was one of those days when things just come together and remind you why you love life. You won't have missed the fact that rugby union has been a large part of my life. A diminishing part. I woke yesterday still feeling the effects of a cold and forgave myself an intended run. Instead I settled down for a quiet day in front of the television here in my happy place - I'm in Ynys Mon. I wasn't over-optimistic about the Six Nations fixtures, anticipating another bout of tactical kicking and the accursed caterpillar ruck. Scotland would see-off a valiant Italy and dull England would be outclassed by Ireland. How wrong. How wrong. Italy's victory over the dim Scots was a tear-jerker. And then came the best England performance for an age. Not a complete performnace but one that at last betrayed some wit and intelligence. All washed down with a 2014 Rioja Gran Reserva. Herring roe on toast for supper. Life's been good to me. 

I'm Not One Of Those People ... But

I'm not one of those people who puts photos of what I'm eating on social media ... but here is an exception that proves a rule.

If you ever wondered how there come to be shortages of cod stocks, well take a look at the size of the portion that the Groupie enjoyed at The Anglesey Arms in Menai Bridge on Saturday. Bloody brilliant. There was even enough for Big Fat Pig here to have to polish of the remnants.

 

And in the background you can catch a glimpse of the Pig's tower burger. Also bloody brilliant but just in case you are not convinced here is a close-up of that meal as well.

All part and parcel of a short but enjoyable visit to Ynys Mon. We had worked up an appetite for these gargantuan portions on a long walk around Trearddur Bay. Stunning. The only cause for complaint is the level of parking charges that Mon Council see fit to levy - bang out of order and yet another example of political small-mindedness. Don't start me on punitive Council Tax.
 

Of Sunshine And Genius

The prevailing wind on Mon is a Westerly. This week (yes I'm here again in the company of those two little friends of mine - Shakespeare and Bagehot) it has been a strong Easterly, whipping up unusual waves in Benllech Bay. Thus is the weather ideal for some links golf - sunny but windy. So it was a pleasure yesterday to be joined at Clwb Golff Ynys Mon by my great friend Big Willy Mac (titter ye not madam). The Anglesey is the only true links on the island and it is playing hard and fiery - the forecast rain will be welcome. We had a glorious time, Willy beating me by one stroke - I missed a seven-footer on the eighteenth to tie. Links golf is so different - some inland habituees never take to it, finding the capriciousness of bounce, run and breeze all too much. For the most part yesterday I failed to adapt but I played the last three holes tolerably well and, had time and creaking body allowed, I would gladly have gone out and done it all again. As it was we took the sensible option of a pint of Guinness in the clubhouse before wending our weary ways home. We will be back.

 

I treated myself to a glass or two of red last night, swilling down my supper of soft cod roe on toast. Then I had a trawl through Netflix and found an oddity - Priest of Love - a 1981 speculation on the dying years of D. H. Lawrence. Janet Suzman and Ian McKellen as Frieda and Lawrence are reliably good in the leads but the overall impression is, well, that in fact the movie fails to make much of an impression. This is a pity. I read Lady Chatterley's Lover whilst tent-bound in an Icelandic blizzard (it's a long story that I will save for another day). It satisfied me neither as literature nor pornography. However I am quite prepared to accept the film's oft-protested contention that Lawrence was a genius. McKellen's performance does not shy away from the fact that he could also be a bit of a tosser. As I say, an oddity. Unlike the Anglesey Golf Club, I will not be revisiting. 63/100.