A Rather Good Friday

Still in Anglesey and had a rather decent day yesterday, the only bugbear being the vagaries of the digital television signal which disrupted my watching of the Open. Life can be very tough.

I finished  Cities of the Plain, the final instalment of The Border Trilogy last night. I have raved previously about Cormac McCarthy but my admiration is now even stronger. This is a magnificent, beautiful and affecting novel. Before I started blogging today I amended my profile to include the trilogy in my list of favourite books. It's that good. You should read it if you haven't already done so and I won't spoil the ending for you but suffice it to say that it is painful, moving and quite superbly written. The only problem with writing this good is that it puts you off writing yourself because you can never hold a candle to it.

From one great American to another. Tom Watson bade farewell to St Andrews late last night, signing off with a birdie and prompting from Mark James, commentating on BBC, the entirely apt observation that his reception signified not only admiration but also affection. By the way, whoever enforces these things should make James the star commentator on the BBC and should thank Peter Alliss very much for all his work and tell him gently that it is time to retire before he makes a fool of himself. One more observation on the golf. Tiger Woods was out in the worst of the weather but held on grimly and showed at the last hole just why he is so great - close to a hole in one on a par four. I doubt he can ever inspire affection as Watson does but his personal failings should not diminish his status as a sportsman. He is eight shots off the lead this morning but if I was near a bookies (Benllech doesn't have one - the nearest is in Menia Bridge) I would be writing his name on a betting slip.

As the golf endured a break for unplayable conditions yesterday afternoon the guilt took over and I headed off for another run. Rather optimistically I had originally been planning to go out in the evening but, in truth, I think I was getting so desperate for a glass of malbec that I had to bring the torture forward. I'm afraid my vaulting ambition rather o'erleapt itself, most particularly I had greatly overestimated my capacity to run up hills. The result was a strained calf muscle which should act as a decent excuse not to inflict my lycra on the locals today. I will treat it by the internal application of rioja. This has never been known to fail and is strongly recommended by the athletic class I inhabit.

A bit of politics to finish. Listened to Any Questions whilst washing up and I've found someone who annoys me even more than Harriet Harman. At least she gives every impression that she would know how to behave if she came to your house. Derek Simpson (Joint General Secretary of Unite - 200k pa plus grace and favour house for life) was on the panel and one is forced to say, what a prize git. He clearly hadn't even troubled to learn the names of his fellow panellists and in his delivery he came across as ignorant, aggressive and bigoted. I learn that he was a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain until its dissolution in the early 90s. God preserve us. He made me long to hear that other git Charlie Whelan instead. Noone has ever previously had this effect.