Of Flat Track Bullies (Again) And the Boasting Of Mystic Dave

I warned you that England's over-hyped cricketers were heading for a fall. I warned you. I get things right so infrequently that you will understand my need to boast.

But, my ego aside, we should just consider what has gone wrong - most particularly we should locate the failing as something other than 'just one of those things'. Manifestly it is not such, because in the space of two weeks it has happened twice, on both occasions at the hands of hitherto hapless opposition. I will tell you what is missing from England's game - nuance. One of my favourite words, nuance. Test cricket at its best (and that is the highest expression of the sport) is highly nuanced. One day cricket (but not that omnivorous beast T20) just about permits of nuance. In recent years and even in test cricket England have had two speeds - full throttle and calamitous crash. Just look at Moeen Ali's dismissal against Sri Lanka - a fall categorically lacking in nuance. And he wasn't the only one.

Misses the mark - lacks nuance?

So here it is -  nuance matters. Cricket is a game of nuance, or at least it ought to be and as I have said in this context too often, pop will eat itself. And whilst we are on the subject it should be noted that Mark Antony should be played with nuance and it is this necessity that makes Antony and Cleopatra potentially so beguiling. As a critical aside, and not that anyone will care, the BBC Antony and Cleopatra, marginally misses the mark.

So you see, sometimes I am right. Sometimes I am wrong. And sometimes it rains.   

Of Films, Flat Track Bullies, Imbeciles And Other Annoyances

I think this has been the longest I have gone between posts on this blog. Do you know what, I just haven't been in the mood. A torpor has settled over the Big Fat Pig and he projects a general dissatisfaction with the way the world is comporting itself. Can you blame him? Brexit, bloody Brexit, Trump, bloody Trump, The weather, the bloody weather.

For heaven's sake man, pull yourself together; catch yourself on (as they say in the brilliant Derry Girls, and as they also say in the Irish family into which I married); more prosaically get a bloody grip: etcetera, etcetara [please insert exhortation of your choice].

Because when you actually remove the the self-indulgent dark glasses through which you view the world, there is still plenty of stuff to lift the heart. Mind you, none of it comes from the political scene where we have the gruesome spectacle of a Tory leadership contest in which most seem reluctantly to concede that Boris Johnson is the least bad option. All of this in a galaxy where no one has yet landed a death blow on the relic that is Jeremy Corbyn. You couldn't make this stuff up.

The Pig has endured watching Trump being entertained (royally and well) by the apparatus of the British state. Trump spent his time on the journey over thumping out tweets aimed at that political pygmy Sadiq Khan. What a ridiculous man (Trump not Khan, but then when you mention it ...). The Pig has come to the troubling realisation that Trump has done some politically good things (principally being the first man willing to get into a staring match with an immoral China) but that anything good is dwarfed by his lowering of the tone of public life to a previously unimaginable level. Were I an American (and I can think of plenty worse things to be) I would hold my nose and vote for a mediocrity like Joe Biden - this a man who was found out plagiarising no less an icon than the Welsh windbag himself, Neil Kinnock. I mean, Neil bloody Kinnock - seriously?

But what about those films I hear you ask. Two good films have cheered the Pig recently - you might call them comfort viewing. The Full Monty is not quite a great film but it has a very good run at it. It exudes humanity and dignity, which is pretty good going for a film about unemployed blokes getting their kit off for money. 8.5/10.

The second revisited favourite is, like The Full Monty, a movie that proves that short can be sweet - neither is over ninety minutes. Stand by Me is based on a short story by the copiously talented Stephen King. That source material makes for a beautiful film, locus for the directorial extraction of compelling performances from its juvenile leads. This is a work of art. 9/10.

All of which above writing has cheered the Pig up. Now, I promised you flat track bullies. I am just a little concerned by the hyping to clear favouritism of England's cricketers in the World Cup. They may go on to win but can we just remember that we have yet to meet any of the other likely three semi-finalists and, in amongst the glory have lost to a quixotic (this is a polite way of putting it) Pakistan. The old grouch in me feels a tumble from on high coming our way. I'm only saying.

2nd at Sedbergh - where's Pete gone?

As I swing into cheerfulness (it's good this bipolar lark) I will record a public thanks to BH, the organising force behind last week's QMT (it's a long story) golf tour to Appleby. Bad golf was played, good beer (and a little bad actually) was drunk and there was high drama with debutant tourist PJC conspiring to fall into the river at only the second hole of the tour from such a height that he broke his hip. Decidedly not funny, but definitely the stuff of legend. The local emergency services did him proud - rather reassuring in these austere times. The Pig's golf was modest and the weather was challenging. A great trip. Best beer, Timothy Taylor Landlord on the last night.

So now I feel a lot more cheerful - the power of the written word, even my own.

A Nation Expects - Unfortunately

The Cricket World Cup got underway today to the tune of England's favouritism. Usually such expectation has a debilitating effect on our players but, on this occasion, only the greatest churl would argue that they have not earned the tag by virtue of their prior performances. They have elevated the fifty over game to a point where a total of a mere three hundred can seem inadequate. Their bowling does not convince quite as readily as the brutal batting but, hey, you can't have everything.

 I watched much of the game against South Africa today and at one point in the middle of the South African reply to England's innings, I felt that too familiar deflated sensation of the England fan (in any sport - cricket is hardly alone in letting us down) and was readying myself to write a blog which castigated the attendant mood of confidence. In fact I was wrong by a massive margin. England were reassuringly professional in bowling South Africa out. And if you haven't yet seen Ben Stokes's catch, please gooogle it and wonder at what a man can do. I think I am going to allow myself to be optimistic

All Political Careers End In Failure - But This Is Bloody Ridiculous

So Theresa May has finally admitted defeat and we shall soon have yet another Prime Minister. At her moment of resignation she was dignified and serious - have we ever found her otherwise? But we should not allow our instinctive sympathy for a kind soul to obscure the fact of her ineffectiveness. In my lifetime we have had some bloody awful Prime Ministers (Douglas-Home, Callaghan, Brown all spring to mind) and I'm certain that none of them was saddled with such malign mood music as May. Brexit is a shaming dog's dinner, the Conservative Party is an ungovernable dog's breakfast and, to cap it all, she let that turd Donald Trump hold her hand in public. Notwithstanding such unprepossessing circumstances, it has to be said that she has demonstrated an uncanny knack when faced with a fork in the political road for steering with utter conviction down the wrong way. In all of this she threatens to deliver us into the hands Corbyn and McDonnell, a gruesome pairing which should in any sensible world be unelectable. So, sorry Mrs May, I am not sorry to see you go. Brexit means Brexit indeed.

Much more importantly you will need to know that the Overgraduate has been suffering with that most debilitating of illnesses, the summer cold. I have been unspeakably brave about the whole thing as I'm sure the Groupie will confirm. I do just have to make it clear that this was not Man Flu - which as any fule kno is much, much worse.

Mission Impossible - Fallout - a film of sustained and explosive silliness. It has first Paris and then London being trashed in chases and shoot-outs before repairing to Kashmir for a climax that twins a helicopter chase with nuclear threat. Bloody silly. Bloody well done. 6.5/10. For people who like this sort of thing etc.

For a man who is an avid watcher of Gardeners' World Big Fat Pig is not a keen gardener. It seems to him that if you weed regularly this merely stimulates the bloody things to grow back even bigger. The Pig does of course like a well-kept lawn and is pleased to report that the new Precious Mower is doing a great job, both in standard mode and the alternative mulch mode which he uses when doing the Council's job and mowing the verge at the front of Casa Piggy. As for the institutional uselessness of Birmingham City Council, let's leave that for another day.

Remember you heard it here first: Brexit means never having to say you're sorry.



    

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXV

It's been some time since I last added to this particular unruly thread. You may complain that there is no rhyme or reason to its compilation. You will be right.

It has also been a good time since my last blog of any designation. You may complain, but I doubt that you will. You are discerning people and have other things in your life without having to be distressed about the (welcome?) silence of the Overgraduate.

So what have I been up to? Went to Anglesey/Mon. Went to Newcastle. Watched some rugby. All good stuff.

So what is brilliant?

Treaddur Bay.  Mon's most congenial resort village. Good walking in both directions from the beach car park and good beer and chips at the cafe by that car park. The rest of the food looked good as well but we saved our appetites for the Panton Arms in Pentraeth. No belly pork (the bloke on the next table ordered the last portion) which only slightly took the edge off it.

Treaddur Bay ... brilliant

Indian Pale Ale in many of its guises - a taste rediscovered from my earliest student days.

Hunt for the Wilderpeople. I've raved about this film on previous occasions but we rewatched it in the company of Daughter Number 2 and however enthusiastic I was in the past, it probably wasn't enough. Quite majestical (this phrase will make sense when you, as you must, see the movie). 9.5/10.

Whitley Bay Golf Club - whereat we played in glorious weather on the Friday of our annual Heineken Cup expedition. OG was not good enough for this track but enjoyed it immensely.

Whitley Bay Golf Club ... brilliant

Rugby Union - despite all the unintended consequences of professionalism and the modern crisis of participation (whither 4th XV rugby?) there is reassurance to be had in the European Finals weekend. Newcastle proved a worthy host and AO, JRS, AW, AS and BH incomparably good company. We've already bought our tickets for Marseilles next year.

Aston Old Edwardians (a sub-set of the previous entry) - a venerable institution not without its problems but the club that has given me most of my friends, many of whom I caught up with in Newcastle.

Another sub-set: the final two minutes of the first half of the Champions Cup final - quite simply the most ruthless and professional set of plays I have ever been lucky enough to witness. Saracens, chapeau.

Home.

England And Its Empires

Sir Philip Sidney, described the English in his Arcadia as an elect and 'only'people, governed both by 'justice and providence'... Half a millennia later, however, the 'chosen people' seem, in Davies's words, to be 'manifestly bewildered'; abandoned by God, divested of their empires both 'outer' [the wider empire] and 'inner' [the supposedly 'united' Kingdom], tempted once again by the European res publica, but troubled by it too.

Ian Ward wrote these words in his provocative The English Constitution: Myths and Realities in 2004. We haven't come very far have we? If anything we are mired deeper in our confusion. Ward's sympathies are disestablishmentarian and republican; mine are not but I must confess I am wavering. The powerful executive that Ward laments has retreated a tad under the successive handicaps of coalition and Brexit but nothing has emerged to fill, even partially, the resulting lacuna. Parliament has flexed its muscles but so used is it to being enfeebled that it cannot manage a decision. All we get is the posturing of Bercow, who, Heaven preserve us, has become a cult favourite in Germany. I can't believe I'm saying this but the Germans may have a point.

Where I am undoubtedly ad idem with Ward is in his denunciation of the venality of modern party politics and the sheer, lazy, crassness of Tony Blair. Cameron has not, by the point when Ward writes, yet hoven into view. Don't start me off on all that again.

We watched a rather silly film last weekend, not that it was unentertaining just that it was, well as I say, silly. It was Angels and Demons, the preposterous sequel to The Da Vinci Code. 5/10. My mate JB (Viperjohn to the virtual world) has on occasion passed the opinion that Dan Brown's novels are great literature. I'm pretty certain he does this to wind me up, God love him. It must be said that he only produces these opinions when we are both copiously in wine. This is the week that he and I would, under our ancien regime, have been in Ireland for the Dunmore Golf Classic. As he wisely said in a text (we're so modern) this week, I don't miss the weather but I do miss the craic. No matter, OG, Viperjohn, Big Willy Mac and the Boy Bacon will be convening in Northumberland for golf and fellowship in the Autumn. By which time my adherence to a strict programme of Pilates and Body Balance will have me playing off single figures. Will it bollocks. 

Weather looking rather grim but no matter, we're of to Mon for a couple of days and next week I'm off with the Heineken crew to Newcastle for the European Rugby finals. It's a hard life but someone's got to live it.




   

The Secret To Better Golf

Two weeks ago I went (under the wing of the Groupie) to my first ever Pilates class. I'll tell you what it's bloody difficult - my balance is embarrassingly poor and I've stretched parts of me that haven't been stretched in years, if ever. At one point we were doing an exercise that theoretically involved a controlled roll in a prone position from left to right. As I do when I concentrate, I closed my eyes and only opened them as I completed an inelegant lurch to the right. Opening my eyes I was greeted by an unpleasant close-up of the face of a chubby man in his late fifties - I had rolled up to the mirrored wall. I've since been to a second class and have another scheduled for this afternoon.

But I tell you this not to boast but to impart a startling discovery. On Monday of this week in the humble environs of Pype Hayes Golf Club I played the best golf I have played for a decade. Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Never mind the mechanics of the golf swing and all that jazz, try Pilates.

Whether Tiger Woods has been to Pilates I'm not sure but, having paused for reflection, I am with those who have designated his victory last weekend in the Masters as the most stunning comeback in modern sport. Whilst acknowledging his supreme gifts, I have never warmed to Woods but I think John Hopkins (in The Times) got it right when he concluded that this latest and most improbable victory has made us admire him all the more and dislike him rather less. GOAT? Arguable but I'm still a Nicklaus man.