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.  

Touching Wood

Plas Piggy and Casa Piggy both sit on hills - Casa at the very top of one, Plas three-quarters of the way up the route to the beach. This shared characteristic means that neither residence is in danger of flooding. Which is good. It also means that hills have to be tackled on any run, always assuming that I want to end up back where I started. Which I generally do. So the hills are a nuisance, though probably good for me.

I have regaled you with the comical seqence of injuries that I have inflicetd on myself. There was the bike calamity over a year ago and, now that I look back on it, I really did make a good job of hurting myself. The knee injury is pretty much (bit of residual stiffness apart) straightened out and, as previously announced, I am back running and cycling. All is going to plan. Touch wood.

When it comes to the distinction between jogging and running, the most useful rule of thumb I have encountered is that the boundary lies at twenty minutes of sustained physical effort. Certainly as old age pursues me around every corner, I am happy to accept this designation. Thus I was pleased last week when I shuffled past the twenty minute mark back at Casa Piggy. Today I am at Plas Piggy (boiler emergency) and i managed thirty minutes. I feel good. Touch wood.  

The Oddity Of The Dominance Of The Combover

One should not descend to personal attacks against the way people look. That is low. But there are exceptions, particularly in the case of fascistic *****. So here the OG stoops low because his targets deserve ridicule. Who says satire is dead? And before you ask, yes I am balding (very).

 

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.   

Lions 25.10

The final verdict? A tour bordering on the tedious. Australian rugby is not truly deep enough to sustain a Lions tour, particularly if their test match players are hidden away for the provincial matches. The Lions became a poor shadow of recent Ireland teams, coached efficiently but rather unromantically by an uber-professional Englishman. I was wrong - the series did not end 3-0. I have been wrong plenty of times before. Will be again. Maro Itoje is a great player, notwithstanding anything Murray Mexted might have to say on the subject. In four years it will be New Zealand's turn. Now that really is a tour. 

Lions 25.9 - The Satisfying Sound Of Whinging Aussies

At last a proper edge-of-the-seat test match, albeit one that owed much to an awful first thirty minutes from the Lions. And at the end we had a nice controversy which illustrated much that can go wrong with the current application of the laws. The Lions scored the try that their persistence merited, only for the Australian captain to lobby the (almost but not quite overwhelmed) Italian referee about the estimable Jac Morgan's actions at the final ruck. Here's the truth - rugby is a rough old game and we cannot allow it to be completely emasculated. Justice was served and the try stood. Cue more and more Aussie whinging. Excellent. What everyone should be concentrating on was the theatrical dive taken by the Australian hooker in an attempt to buy the penalty. Sod that for a game of soldiers.

And now a lesson from the Pig's personal history. I was taught tackling technique by Ray 'Taff' John at the age of eleven. No teacher/coach can give you the courage needed to apply those techniques but the bare bones of the method will stand you in good stead. Tackling techniques in the face of a massive physical assault (as Australia predictably brought to the match) are a sturdy resource. The Lions abandoned such techniques and slavishly attempted to 'win the collisions'. They missed scores of tackles. Anyway, all is well that ends well.

One other mention of Taff John (still with us and a great man) - he also taught me French and to this day when I attempt (as I do only in extremis) to speak that language, I do so in a Neath accent.  Bonjour, bore da.  

In Defiance Of Age

I fell of my bike last year - but that is an old tale, told in earlier entries. I hurt myself, most problematically my left knee. That knee is now properly operative (or as near as is possible for an old wreck) thanks to the ministrations of the physios at Little Aston. Thank goodness for private health insurance. 

Big Fat Pig redux

But where fitness is concerned, there is always something waiting around the next corner to sabotage our hero, Big Fat Pig. Most recently it has been a painfully damaged right ankle (the injured knee was my left), an injury I further aggravated treading on a large pine-cone in the trees to the right of the 11th fairway at Royal Pype Hayes. It is still not right but I today judged it sufficiently stable (having strapped it up inexpertly) to go out for a run/shamble. You will be pleased to hear that the Pig survived thirteen minutes of what seemed massive exertion.