I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

A welcome outing on the links of Tamworth yesterday but it transpires I haven't unravelled the secret to golf. There was however just a hint that I'm a tad further down the road to fulfilment. All such progress should doubtless be undone by the liquid excesses in Ireland next week. As ever you will be the first to know, well probably not the first but you know what I mean. Right on queue it has been pissing down today so it looks like we'll have the usual weather. I care not one jot. Bring it on. I've got a new pair of golf shoes that cost £19.99 - at that price I don't care if I get blisters.

The Man In The Mirror

Don't let the bastards get you down. The fish rots from the head. Tomorrow is another day. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Welcome to my world. I am buffeted by bastardy and the fish smells off, but today is indeed another day and it hasn't killed me yet. Today I am to play golf with JRS and that is as good a leisure prospect as a man can ask for. My plan is to have salad for my tea (a short burst of healthy eating before I depart for Ireland at the weekend) and then early to bed (a short burst of healthy living before etc).

What's going on in the world? I gave up on the indecipherable Jamaica Inn on the BBC - it says much for the peculiar liberal snobbery of those in the arts that actors should be allowed (indeed were presumably encouraged) to mutter their way through their lines in impenetrable accents. No doubt the show will go on to garner tons of luvvie awards. Bollocks. Which is a pity because I like a bit of Daphne du Maurier. Did I ever mention that I played Maxim de Winter? Oh, I did, sorry.

I'm really looking forward to the Ireland trip. Ireland is a land I like to romanticise as lacking in the aforementioned bastardy. That is probably deluded but for a week I will act under the happy opinion that mendacity and low cunning do not thrive there.

I am rediscovering the joy of listening to full albums rather than submitting to the iPod temptation of shuffle. In the car I listen to entire albums. Thus far I have worked my way through all the early Steely Dan offerings, Pete Atkin's Driving Through Mythical America, Billie Holliday and John Lennon.

Well that's all for now. I must prepare myself to fight the unequal battle against golf. I have, as ever, a new cunning plan - I will share it with you if it works, so don't go holding your breath. I've also got a new pair of golf shoes. Wish me luck.

Don't let the bastards get you down

  

Dave's World Of Sport

So I got up like. And like I wanted to hit some golf balls so I first did some shopping, Easter egg for the wife, tuna for the cats, choc chip muffins for general consumption. But then I was on my way to the Belfry and like I remembered that there's a tournament there this week (Euro Pro tour) so the range will be out of commission. So I turned the car round and headed home. Good job really because when I got here the cats had got another neighbourhood cat cornered in the family room. I organised its evacuation via the garage. Then I had a coffee and like I thought that I really ought to get some exercise. Got into my running gear, donned the magic Oakleys and headed out of the door. I felt really pretty good and had determined to do about four miles. Two minutes and thirty-four seconds, that's how long I lasted before the calf muscle went again. Two minutes and thirty-four sodding seconds. Hobbled home. Cats were behaving themselves this time. But like I still wanted some exercise so I think, you know, I'll go out on the precious push bike. One minute forty-seven seconds, one minute forty-seven sodding seconds I lasted before I realised the calf wasn't up to cycling either. So like I'm home again and still feeling that I want some exercise. The only thing is to go to Fairlawns and have a swim. So that is what I did and there the story gets better because I thrashed my way through thirty lengths and achieved a sense of immense well-being. Now I've had some lunch like and next I'm going to clean-up the cat puke that Piglet (she's one of the cats) has just deposited in the hall. So it goes. Like.  

A Work Of Art

The twentieth century was spoiled for new art forms - principally film and television which expanded the availability of both art and the tawdry . However I was reminded on Friday night of another twentieth century medium - the musical. We saw a touring production of West Side Story. Brilliant - operatic and balletic. A work of art.

Big Fat Pig's Other Car

It's been a good weekend as I recover from the bites of the Black Dog. West Side Story on Friday; a cycle ride on my lovely bike on Saturday; a drive to the health club today in my Precious Jag and a satisfactory thrash through the water to make me feel virtuous. Plus I got a cut into the lawn earlier today and the sun is shining. Tomorrow is work, boo hiss but then next weekend is Easter and we will be in Anglesey and the week after that it is the annual pilgrimage to Ireland to play bad golf in good company. Remember, don't let the bastards get you down.

Bitten By The Black Dog

Don't let the bastards get you down, that's what I keep telling myself. But sometimes it's hard to hear even yourself speaking when the bastards are shouting so loud. And then I go for a run and the bloody calf muscle goes again. First time in an age but monster dispiriting.

The crown in parliament is sovereign, at least that's what they were still teaching back in the late seventies, albeit with the odd sage nod towards the trojan horse that was the European Communities Act. Wedgwood Benn (sorry Tony Benn) and that arch loon Enoch Powell, both had interesting and prescient things to say about that. All of which came to mind in the furore surrounding the eventual resignation this week of Maria Miller. I say this because I detect an unthinking acquiescence to the idea that MPs' expenses should be an issue beyond the control of parliament. It is a piss poor show when our legislators think so little of themselves that they should surrender sovereignty to faceless administrators. Particularly when the head honcho administrator is one of the very academics who were lecturing me all those years ago. Not that it matters but I didn't rate Ian Kennedy - I seem to have been in a minority of one on that score however so I suspect I may very well have been wrong. Such is life.

...Are Brilliant Mark XVI

Haven't done one of these for a while so apologies to all of you who depend on me as your cultural bellwether. Had to check my spelling on that one.

As I said, are brilliant: the Great War edition of Antiques Roadshow last night on the good old BBC. Bloody nearly had me in tears.

Over on Murdoch's demon Sky there is the excellent True Detective. Calling it gritty would be the very least you could say. Best drama I've seen on the old goggle box since Boardwalk Empire. 

Russian Caravan tea. I have a pot of it on the desk as I type. It reminds me of early student days (when I was still the Undergraduate) in that flat in Thurloe Square (seriously we had a flat in South Ken), coming in late from Stan's Bar at Imperial, drinking posh tea, eating boiled egg sandwiches (with tabasco natch) and listening to The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway.

Since I have mentioned it we must add to the list The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway. It often used to be said that most good double albums contain the contents of a great single album. Lamb Lies Down is different - it contains one and a half great single albums.

Having a gym at home (it's only the converted back portion of a tandem garage, with the precious Jag living in the front half) because even though it has pissed down this evening I was able to boost my already not inconsiderable self-esteem on the cross-trainer and the rowing machine. Welcome to the gun show.

The lyrics of Clive James - of which I was reminded whilst listening to my iPod in the car last week. By the way the new car now has a name courtesy of daughters numbered one and two who were home together at the weekend. It is my Canyonero. Those of you who know your Simpsons will get the joke.

Big Fat Pig Update. T+18

I went swimming this afternoon, an exercise I had put off for too long on account of the grumpy old women doing slovenly breaststroke who ruined my last visit. They weren't there today. Which was nice. Somehow I had forgotten the righteous hunger that swimming gives you. So for supper I have allowed myself a Pot Noodle. Which was nice. I ate the said convenience food here in Anglesey. Which was nice. Flying visit to check the estate. Which is nice.

Do you think people should be allowed to smoke? I do. Do you think that all cigarettes should be sold in plain wrappers? I don't but our government does. So we can be trusted to spend our own pension savings (A Budget measure which actually makes both sense and a difference) but not to resist the pictorial blandishments of Big Tobacco. I'm confused.  

The Kia continues to be a source of quiet satisfaction and behaved impeccably on the run to Anglesey this evening. I'm getting the hang of the controls (all on the steering wheel) for the digital radio and it allowed me to listen critically to The Archers wherein Brian could do with some advice from a decent corporate lawyer as Borchester Land is being stolen implausibly from him.

Good night sweet prince.