Beware The Injured Pig

When last we spoke, Big Fat Pig was looking forward to his trip to the refined golfing environment that is Woburn. He was still looking forward to it when he went for a run on the day before his departure. He was still looking forward to it as he rounded a corner at the two-thirds mark of his 5k route. Then he stumbled. He inclined forward but hoped he might be able to rescue his balance. He was wrong and he still has the vivid recollection of that moment in time when he started assessing how least injuriously to land. In the end he favoured his left side and took particular care to avoid hitting his head on the dwarf wall. Outcome - bloodied left knee; bloodied left shoulder; bloodied left hand; grazed right hand. All of this he can live with, can even deal with the lack of dignity associated with these mishaps (a nice lady walking her dog enquired after the Pig's well-being) but the real damage has been to the Pig's ribs. Not to put too fine a point on it, they're bloody painful. The Pig forgot himself yesterday and allowed a sneeze. The effect is rather akin to how one imagines it might feel to be stabbed.

The Pig was not to be put-off his trip to Woburn. And he was right to soldier on. The healing powers of Ibuprofen and the quality of the company combined to make this another memorable trip. At the root of all the fun was the stellar hospitality of VB and MB. Alcohol should not be underestimated as an anaesthetic. WM and ViperJohn joined the Pig as guests.

I have written about Woburn before but I must say that, if anything, I was even more impressed this time. We played the Marquess on Thursday and the Duke's on Friday. I had, in particular, forgotten just how fabulous a course is the latter. This despite a mildly grumpy starter on the Duke's who gave me a very dodgy look as my sore ribs and I duffed two drives (I played a provisional) into the trees on the right. Out of his caustic sight I played tolerably well and ViperJohn and I wiped the floor with WM and MB. All a far cry from Royal Pype Hayes but linked by the joy of a game played in good company. I had to cry-off Pype Hayes on Monday as the ribs took their full revenge on my daring to play at Woburn. The picture is of the fourth hole on the Duke's - arguably the most stunning hole on the property.     

The Craven Reimagining Of Cricket

Pop will eat itself. Here I go again.

As if Twenty20 cricket was not craven enough with its elevation of pub cricket (and don't get me wrong there's nothing wrong with that in its place) into something somehow godly, now we have the utterly detestable Hundred. A sub-seventeen over thrash for professional cricketers, a game devised by marketing men who hate cricket. It is served up to us by commentators who have swallowed the grim lie that this is the greatest thing ever invented and that it will 'save' the game. If this is the price then this precious sport is not worth saving. Nothing sums things up so much as the televised enthusiasm of that great talent, Kevin Pietersen - a man who sees no harm in selling the soul of the sport he graced for a mess of pottage.

Thus yesterday we had the pitiful and meaningless Hundred sharing attention with a Test match which really did what great sport can do - that is to say, expose the fallibilities and the potentials of participants. As it happens the fallibility was all English and the potential all Indian.

Pop will eat itself. God, I feel old! 

Hats And American Noir

A scathing review has it that Ed Norton optioned the source novel for Motherless Brooklyn with a cynical view to picking himself up an Oscar for portraying the central afflicted character - the disabilty in question being Tourette's Syndrome. That may or not be true but, whatever, he didn't get the award and the performance is nonetheless a tour de force shot through with humour and compassion. Norton also adapted, produced and directed so this stands as a fairly formidable cinematic achievement. Yes, the film is too long and relies overly on exposition in its dialogue. But the nods to film noir are pleasing and the necessary hats are fabulous. For those with an eye to less-than-subtle nuance there is even a bit of Trump bashing in Alec Baldwin's portrayal of the villainous property developer. Not, then, a great film but a very good one. 71/100.    

Sound Of Metal

I watched this film a while ago but overlooked blogging about it. That was a mistake because this is a compelling piece of cinema. It is about a recovering, addicted thrash metal drummer who becomes deaf. If that sounds daunting well yes and no. Yes you need to have your serious head on to get to grips with the material but no because it's beautifully realised. A serious artifact. 81/100.

Apres Nous, Le Deluge

The Pig is back from QMT Golf Tour, definitely safe and largely sound. Mind you, I'm still sleeping like a baby and fighting a sense of senile knackerdom. It was a boisterous three days of carousing with twenty-two generous souls. All in all we did well to survive the broiling weather and your correspondent was the only man never to take to a golf buggy for any part of the sixty-three hole marathon. Indeed the Pig was the only player who carried his clubs throughout. This last is, on reflection, probably a sign of senile obstinacy - it was, in technical terms, bloody hot. Very bloody hot. As for the golf - quite good at Droitwich, bad, good, passable, by turns at Cleobury Mortimer. I didn't win.

Droitwich Golf Club was, for the Pig, a known quantity, having played there once before. First impressions had been very favourable, second even better. Not a long course but plenty of twists, turns and changes of elevation to keep you honest. Great greens. The back of the twelfth even has a look of Gleneagles about it. Recommended.

Cleobury Mortimer is a village of some three thousand souls which boasts a twenty-seven hole golf club and just about enough pubs and curry houses to satisfy even the demands of ageing ex-rugby players. The golf course has accommodation on site (we took all of it, with some overspilling to the village itself) and is incredibly competitively priced. Quite how the economics of this all works I wouldn't know but it is mighty impressive - a lot of challenging holes and, again, good greens - certainly good enough to catch out the denizens of Royal Pype Hayes. Quite brilliant, even if we did drink them out of the best bitter. Chapeau to RJW and JRS who put the tour together. My next golf trip will be to the rather more exalted Woburn in a couple of weeks but it will struggle to live up to last week. Mind you we'll give it a bloody good go.

And now it is raining. Hard. Apres nous, le deluge.   

Tales From The Heatwave

Hot. You call this hot. You should have been with us in the summer of 1976, taking our 'O' Levels during the drought. That was bloody hot. And did we complain? Of course we bloody did, all to no avail. Anyway the outcomes for me were largely satisfactory so it now resides in my sun-kissed meories as one of the best years of our lives. Funny thing memory.

All of which is not what I intended to write about today but it is a fact that it is scorching hot today so I thought I would remind you that we did occasionally have heat before global warming. No, what I was going to regale you with is the tale of two films. I was ensconced in Plas Piggy last week so that I could enjoy the Open Championship - the best television marathon of the year for this sports fan. Very enjoyable and doesn't Collin Morikawa seem a nice sort? No machismo (DeChambeau), no surliness (Koepka). By the way, if you want to buy some money, I would lump on the USA to win the Ryder Cup in September. But what do I know - I always say that and half the time I'm wrong.

So anyway, those two films. I watched them in the sultry seaside evenings at Plas Piggy. First up was what I have decided was one of the most dispiriting bits of cinema I have had the misfortune to encounter. It had high production values and a starry cast but, wtf, why does a film like The Jackal even get made? Who sat in a meeting and okayed the pitch to do a broad remake of The Day of the Jackal and then lobbed God knows how many millions at the project? This film is garbage - a good bit of the budget must have gone into fitting Bruce Willis for the various fright wigs he sports. As the contract killer he brings about as much danger as a melted box of cinema chocolate. But that's not the worst of it - I repeat, wtf, Richard Gere with a laughable Irish accent. Don't even start me on the horror of an IRA gunman as the honourable freedom fighter and his inamorata, a principled ETA terrorist. Americans just don't get this stuff do they. I could put up with such twaddle if it served up some tension but, no, this film seems to aim to fail on all fronts. Utter tripe. 23/100. And the great Sidney Poitier phones in a lamentable cameo. How are the mighty fallen.

And just as you despair of Hollywood, a French animation crosses your path and all is well again. Belleville Rendez-Vous opens with a surreal musical number and proceeds to get more and more endearingly weird. The plot involves an old woman with a club-foot whose professional cyclist grandson is kidnapped by the Mafia. She and her faithful hound cross the ocean where the weird and ancient Belleville Triplets eventually help her to effect a happy ending. It's barking mad and visually stunning in a heavily abstract sort of way. Not for small children but perfectly good for small adults and Big Fat Pigs. 80/100.

And talking of Big Fat Pig, he's off on his travels tomorrow. It's QMT golf tour, destination Cleobury Mortimer Golf Club but with a first stop at Droitwich Golf Club where the sainted GC is a member. Good weather (call this hot!) and good company. What more could the Pig want? Well, some good golf would be nice but the early season promise seems to have evaporated. Ah well, you can't win them all. Or any, in the Pig's case when it comes to golf.  

My Friend Is Not A Racist

You may have been deafened by my silence on England's 'tragic' defeat in the final of the European Nations Cup - since this is a (should that be 'the') Blog of Record and in case you missed it, we (I do still mildly identify with the team) lost 2-3 on penalties to Italy. Enough said. Well almost. Bear with me on this one.

The three missed penalties unleashed a wearyingly predictable torrent of racist abuse of the penalty-takers on what has come to be known as social media. That has been roundly and correctly condemned - this vile cacophony is what happens if you give wankers a megaphone. I can hear some of you baying that those of us who live in glass houses shouldn't lug stones about but I'll carry on heedless. Let me unravel for you the tale of Marcus Rashford and my friend who is not a racist.

Let's go back to Rashford's unfortunate penalty miss and let's not beat about the bush - it was comically bad - a stutter-step to the ball and a tame shot that unerringly hit the post. But that is the thing about sport - six inches to the right and the ball would have rolled into the net. Arise Sir Marcus. So anyway, there is a meme doing the rounds which intercuts Rashford's arrested run to the ball with old footage of Max Wall doing his comedy walks. Well my friend (for whom the term 'good bloke' might have been invented) found it mildly amusing and showed it to a customer. This customer promptly and casually accused my friend of being a racist. That is offensive bollocks. It is, and I'm sorry to get all portentous here, the self-righteous and asinine product of the world bequeathed to us by the Macpherson Report - a report which, full of good liberal intentions, encouraged a cult of lazy denigration and vicarious identity politics.

It is not racist to criticise or to lampoon Rashford for his penalty. It is racist to suggest that this occurred because he is black. All that happened is that  a young millionaire who has done much commendable political work made a bit of a prat of himself in his day job. Laughing at it makes it bearable. He'll get over it. So should we and, most importantly, my friend is not a racist.