I Love It When People Agree With Me

The Commonwealth flag apparently - No I didn't know either

Boma Ozobia (and I do have to say that is a fantastic name) attended my alma mater, King's College London, and unlike your correspondent she has gone on to make waves in the legal world. President of the Commonwealth Lawyers Association no less. I quote from her recent interview with the most boring journal in the world, The Law Society Gazette (that may be unfair, because per force there are many periodicals I have never read):

The UK focuses too much on the EU to the detriment of the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth is a group of friends that shares a common heritage and language with your country. You should throw in your lot with us to promote the common law worldwide and achieve a genuinely global voice.
 

Hoo-bloody-ray, someone talking my language. The Boy Cameron was recently schmoozing his way round India begging for them to take us seriously. Good luck with that son. That ship sailed when the bien pensants turned their collective back on the Commonwealth and cosied up to Europeans who rather despise us. Now just imagine a free trade block that included, inter alia, Australia, Canada, Singapore, South Africa and India, plus little old Britain and maybe even a functioning Zimbabwe. Bloody visionary me. Forty sodding years too late.

Go on, man up and take a swing at him

Ooh, another thing while I'm going off on one. Does anyone seriously believe the British government is more (or indeed less) likely to default on sovereign debt than it was a week ago? No, thought so. Which makes Moody's downgrading of the UK credit rating stunningly irrelevant and what's more it gives that smug tosser Ed Balls the chance to crow about that other smug tosser George Osborne. A plague on both your houses etc

A Nice Little Film

I make no comment on this year's Oscars but we did finally get around to seeing last year's Best Film, The Artist a couple of weeks ago. I liked it, slight as the central conceit may be. And the period of transition from silent film to talkies is, of course, even more winningly deconstructed in Singin' In The Rain. But don't let that stop you - and the dog deserved an Oscar of its own.

Benllech Beach High Tide: Being A Poem What I Wrote

it can seem to
the casual
onlookers unversed in physics
ignorant of lunar pull
that waves crash in
angles askew
to the stark sea wall and then bounce
back out again with force renewed
and still rant in
beating harshly
then at mirror angle thrash
away into new waves rashly
only to come
more fluently
a self refreshing energy
mute force speaking lucidly
 as comforter
soothing savage
nightmares that drive me out of doors
to confront my place in nature
 

 

 

 

                        

A Weekend To Remember

All the Roberts of the male line spent the weekend in Edinburgh watching the Scotland v Italy clash and eating too much. The latter partly due to the world-class breakfasts at the Priestville Guest House - an institution I cannot recommend strongly enough. We were royally and inexpensively looked after. Website at Priestville.

As eaten by Fl LT B.D. Roberts
(RAF ret'd)

This was a first international match for the youngest tourist, George. Far from that for the oldest, BDR, but his first trip to Murrayfield and also his first ever Burger King and first ever Thai meal. You're never too old to learn new tricks.

We combined Shanks's Pony and a taxi ride to get us back from the stadium in time to watch France v Wales at the hotel. The French conspired to make me look an even lousier pundit than in their encounter with the Italians. They have announced their squad today for the visit to Twickenham a fortnight hence - Michalak still included so there are grounds for English optimism. Just watch that statement blow up in my face.

Just thought you ought to know but I hit a couple of buckets of golf balls at the range last week and made an important discovery, or rather a rediscovery - I'm just not very good at golf. I can hit a fade and a draw, I can even hit it straight - but I cannot do any of these things in the correct order. It is like constantly losing at paper scissors and stone - my perpetual incompetence is a statistical wonder. 

I've Changed My Mind

I should have said in yesterday's blog - yes I am the one who tipped France for the Six Nations, thus sealing their fate in losing to Italy on Sunday. Freddie Michalak played a bit like me, only slower on the uptake.

Oh well at least I've still got my looks.

Bloody Raining Again

Which has nothing to do with this blog but I just thought I'd lament the awful weather. Snow at least can have some romance to it, but the rain's just a sodding nuisance which makes golf an impossibility and means my boots get intolerably dirty when I referee. You have no idea how I suffer.

To business. There are eight items on my aide memoire slip of paper so off we jolly well go.

One. Truffle chips - that is to say fried potatoes drizzled with truffle oil. I had them (off someone else's plate - this greatly improves a food's taste)  at The Laughing Gravy in Southwark. I recommend the restaurant and the chips, the latter washed down by the respectable Valpolicella.

Two. Michael Portillo - have been enjoying his Great British Railway Journeys on BBC2. How is it that an ignominious exit from politics can make a man quite so much more likeable. He's really very good.

Ours is a much more fetching grey

Three. Range Rover Evoque. We now have one on the drive - a second portion of automotive porn to add to the garaged Jag. Seriously pleasurable to drive. Some have a fixation with speed, others with luxury. I rather like both. But please don't ask me to begin to explain what goes on under the bonnet. That is for others.

Four. Shropshire. I refereed at Bishop's Castle last weekend on a grand sunny day. A beautiful drive in the precious Jag.

Five. Mark Radcliffe. A much underrated broadcaster. Six. The Radio 2 Folk awards which I saw him introducing between coats of emulsion on Sunday.

Seven. The girl at the Co-Op in Benllech who tipped me off that Doritos were on special offer and saved me from buying the wrong chips to dunk in my humous between coats of emulsion.

Eight. High Noon. Serendipitously I found this being shown on Channel 4 yesterday afternoon just as I needed to stop to let coat number two dry. I had forgotten quite how bleak a film it is, Cooper's discarding of his Sheriff's tin star at the end speaking volumes. Also it is one of those films it is impossible to imagine being anything other than black and white. Tidy.