I Went To Manchester And It Didn't Rain

All of which was a pity since after my return to good old Brum, the rain has hardly left Manchester alone. I was there for the cricket and it looks as if the destiny of the Ashes will be settled by the intervention of the weather. England have utterly outplayed the Australians in this match but you have to have a poor medium-term memory to be oblivious of previous occasions where England have got away with it. So no complaints from this quarter - those should be reserved for the gratuitous gifting of the first test to the Aussies - see earlier grumpy entry.

All is forgiven

Our day at Old Trafford was a real treat. We saw Jonny Bairstow at his pugnacious best and we saw the Aussies reduced to pleasing dishevilment. Gratifying. Sadly one has to comment on the truly shocking toilet provision within the ground. Half hour queues to avail oneself of a squalid sewer is not acceptable. I feel a strongly-worded letter coming on.

So what else? Not much to be honest. I was having what I hope will be my last examined encounter with Shakespeare and Bagehot last week and found myself mentally drained as a result. Then a day on the quasi-lash at Old Trafford left this poor little poppet physically empty as well. Time for the Pig to act his age not his shoe size.

A thought - Italian red wines. Yes please.   

A Great Film, A New Calculus, And The Story Of Three Yorkshiremen

I am always careful not to bandy the word 'great' about too careleesly in my frequent opining on films. But you will have to indulge me in the context of His Girl Friday. Even my Halliwell agrees, describing it as quite possibly the funniest film ever made. I'm not quite sure I'd go that far although I can't, off the top of my head, suggest a better candidate. It is a lightning-paced verbal firecracker of a movie. Based on Ben Hecht and Charles Macarthur's stage play, the film takes the daring (and outrageously successful) risk of changing the sex of one of the leads into a woman - Hildy Johnson, played superbly by Rosalind Russell. Her co-star is Cary Grant, possibly more briliant that in any other role and, yes, I have seen Philadelphia Story. 94/100. 

Next, that new calculus. I refer to cricket and the much discussed 'Bazball', itself a nomenclature not loved by its principal practitioners, Messrs Stokes and Brendan McCullum. Mind you Stephen Greenblatt has never taken to 'New Historicism' even though any fule kno that he invented that critical method. Well, Bazball has been worrying me a tad. If we ignore (as we should) the test against Ireland, England, by their own generosity had thrown away two successive tests - the last against New Zealand in the winter and the first in the Ashes at Edgbaston. I like Zac Crawley as a batsman and I find supportable the view that he will become a worthy test batsman. However he gave a completely pudding-headed interview after the Edgbaston debacle in which he parroted the rot about the result not mattering and being in the entertainment business. I've been a sports fan all my life and I can tell you Zac that most of us regard the pursuit of victory as the foremost requisite of professional sport. Yes, you can take risks (including that of defeat) where they open up greater prospects of overall triumph, but throwing international matches away on the basis of a sense of theatre? No, that's professional wrestling and that is not sport.

Anyway, I can forgive the defeat at Lord's, just as I can forgive Carey's dismissal of the criminally negligent Bairstow. Such things tend to come back and bite you and Carey duly endured a tough time at Headingley. Mind you there was no redemption for Bairstow who kept wicket poorly and contributed bugger all with the bat. Which is not to say that Bairstow doesn't have plenty of credit in the bank after last season's heroics.

The Headingley test was almost too tense to watch but I managed it. Good to see one of the nice guys, Chris Woakes, a proper Brummie, scoring the winning runs. His boyhood cricket coach was my great mate ICW at Aston Manor CC. Fame by association!

Nice guys do win.

So those three Yorkshiremen. Bairstow is one and, England's victory notwithstanding, he had a poor match, as did, quite untypically, Joe Root. His droppped catch off Marsh in the first innings nearly cost England the match. Root owes us nothing. Which leaves the third Tyke. The old saw is that when Yorkshire cricket is strong, so is England's. In these days of a criminally diminished County Championship, this is harder to support but in the credit column we have to list Harry Brook. He batted with all the sureness of the infant Bambi in the first innings but then was lion-hearted in the second. Better to be lucky than good. Brook might just be both.  

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.
 

About This Boy

When About a Boy was released in 2002, Hugh Grant's performance was trumpeted as marking his rise above the foppish-aristo that had been his party piece. I'm not entirely sure about that but the fact is that Grant is generally good in whatever her does and that he is a natural and unaffected comic. Ally that to good source material (I've read the Nick Hornby novel, which is even better than the film) and to the standard brilliance of Toni Collette in support, and you have a markedly satisfying film. Funny, touching and with that rarest of things - a good British child-actor (Nicholas Hoult). 70/100. 

This particular boy (your scribe, the Pig) was on QMT golf tour last week. A most excellent time was had by all and Forest Hills GC and Forest of Dean GC were admirable venues. For the record, Floyd (that's us) beat the Rest of the World 4 - 2 in the team competition on Wednesday; David Curwen (Floyd again - it's the house we were in at School) won the individual competition on Thursday; The Pig and his little brother joined forces with Aj and the Slug to triumph in the Texas Scramble on Friday. Brilliant. Knackering. There was even limitless fried bread at breakfast.

I'll tell you what great sport looks like - Australia's State of Origin rugby league, that's what. Just saying. 

    

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.

In Remembrance Of The Now Inconsequential

 

4-3-3: Cup Final Saturday 2010

 

(11 May 2010 – David Cameron forms a coalition government;

15 May 2010 – Chelsea-1; Portsmouth-0)

 

 

On Cup Final

Saturday

men unite

 

to watch the game

and all that

goes before

 

it. That at least

is what I

remember

 

from days when my

grandfather

was alive

 

to administer colour television

and distribute conspiratorial beer

 

whilst speaking in

awe of the

singular:

 

A

Goalkeeper in

splendid

isolation.

 

All trace of romance and enjoyment has

now been betrayed. In the spirit of the

New Politics today I cut the grass

instead.

 

This poem of mine appeared on this blog back in 2012 but, admit it, you had forgotten about it. I certainly had but it came back to me as I meandered around a garden centre on Saturday afternoon. And the reason? Because I was meandereng during the Cup Final. In this age of wall-to-wall televised football, the Cup Final will never recapture the status it once had. Ah well. Our garden looks nice though.

Sometimes The Answer Lies Very Close To Home

I live in fertile golfing country. This may sound an odd remark emanating from the Chateau Roberts locale in suburban Brum. But bear with me. Closest of all to home is Aston Wood, a relatively modern but perfectly presentable layout. But things get better as you head up Rosemary Hill Road. Hang a right into the overrrated privacy of Little Aston Park and you find the justly famous Little Aston Golf Club. Always in superb condition this is, as the Pig might put it, where the big knobs hang out. Might one detect a taste of sour grapes in such a remark? Quite possibly. The Pig has never pretended perfection. Suffice to say it is up there with the best presented courses I have been lucky enough to play. 

But let us move on from Little Aston and proceed half a mile up the road where we can find Sutton Coldfield Golf Club. Now I am biased because I used to be a member at Sutton, a privilege I abandoned simply because I didn't play enough. Well my golfing friends, MS and SS, have recently taken up membership and they were kind enough to host me there last week. What a treat. The old antediluvian attitudes to women have been ditched, and the course improvement works are superb. It may lie in a public park but trust in the Pig, this is a serious golf course. My answer to the question of my favourite course varies from day to day, but just for now it is Sutton Coldfield. Decent beer in the clubhouse as well.