What's The Collective Noun For Tossers?

A certain Chris Heaton-Harris has written on House of Commons notepaper (so far so good - he is an MP so he's entitled to use the stationery) asking university vice-chancellors to kindly let him know who is teaching European Studies and what they are teaching about our old friend Brexit. You can find a copy of the letter here: Heaton-Harris letter

I've had a good think about it and on balance, all things considered, looked at from all angles, I've decided that this man must, charitably, be a tosser. The information he seeks would be interesting but his method of trying to assemble it is disingenous in the extreme. As I say, tosser.

However, the reaction to it from certain universities is a little pathetic - rise above it, let him do his own research. Bin the bloody thing.

And here's something that isn't a secret - yes our universities are a hotbed of self-pitying leftist tosh. They have been for all of my life and I suspect it will be ever thus - and I include in that disparagement both of my almae matres, the both of which I regard with proud affection. It is always open to people to go against the flow - I did and lost no friends through it. It is when they won't let you speak you should be worried. And I strongly suspect that this is what is in Heaton-Harris's tiny little mind. Certainly the shrill reaction to his tossery suggests that they fear that that tool of the assinine left, no platforming, is to be turned on them by the big bad bear that is the government. Don't worry yourselves my dears - this government has trouble in breweries, piss-up wise.

How about a 'throw' of tossers?  

There Ain't No Party Like ...

OG and Groupie bust some moves

An Irish party. Went to a proper old hoolie on Friday night. A sad event (car crash/serious injuries etc) had provoked a life-affirming benefit evening of drinking, dance and music. Daughters 1 and 2 were both back to attend and it was nice to see old friends. Even did some quasi-dancing myself - throwing shapes is, one believes, the vernacular. Once you've got rhythm it never leaves you. Stop laughing at the back!

I'd actually worked quite hard last week on the old thesis - who'd know that Antonio Gramsci could be so diverting. That's the thing with those old Euro-Communists - they had a good story to tell and for all that they were wrong, at least they had some optimism. And that in a world that can give us Trump is some solace. Here is Gramsci on Caesarism:

Caesarism can be said to express a situation in which the forces in conflict balance each other in a catastrophic  manner.

Something in that when you come to think of it.

Well anyway, what I was going to say was that after my alco/dancefloor endeavours I had a fabulously lazy weekend watching lots of televised rugby. First up was the pleasing sight of the Australians beating the All Blacks. I say this not because I find it anything other than weird to support Australia but because the New Zealand hegemony has spawned some hubris and it needs deflating (if that's what you do to hubris). Wayne Barnes was refereeing and it was quite funny to hear the half-blind Aussie commentators trying to rein in their instinctive (and ignorant) disapproval of his officiating. Talking of hubris and ignorance, we can hardly complain about the antipodeans whilst Stuart Barnes is still taking the Murdoch dollar - I loved him as a player but, really, what a pain he has become. Only Austin Healey comes close and I rather suspect he knows exactly what he's doing.

Also spotted this weekend: a top class official giving a free-kick for a crooked feed into the scrum. About bloody time. Hardly surprisingly it was Nigel Owens. Sometimes the wisdom of crowds is right - Owens is the best referee in the world.

God Was In His Heaven

The sun shone, God was in his Heaven, The 1st XV won, and all around was the company of good men. I took Dad to the rugby club yesterday and it made me feel glad to be alive and to be part of the brotherhood that is Aston Old Edwardians. We are far from consistently perfect but the small moments of perfection still thrill me.

Where is rugby football at? Well, the administrators in their attempts to confect things for television have bound themselves into an injury crisis born of the supposed ingenuity of coaching. The way I was taught to tackle by that great man of Neath Ray John (still going strong - I saw him earlier this week) has become unfashionable, notwithstanding that it is the safest and most effective way of grounding an opponent. Oh well, what do I know?

not actual gameplay footage

To continue the theme of satisfying experiences, today I have cut the lawn. Stripes a-go-go.

Back On The Chain Gang Again

Holiday well and truly over. Post-holiday sulking almost over, situation not assisted by the bloody right calf straining itself when out for a run on Tuesday. Doesn't seem too bad, certainly not as marked as the repeated injuries I used to suffer, but all intimations of mortality are unwelcome. Particularly unwelcome as the wider Aston Edwardian community tries to negotiate two significant deaths.

Harold Jessop was described to me (by a man who would know) as 'the first modern school teacher'. But he was so much more than that - as a rugby master he inspired umpteen generations and was counted by the genius that is Gary Street as his greatest influence. But above all else, he was a complete and unmediated gentleman. He led a full life but the world is nonetheless harsher for his passing.

Terry Green was another schoolmaster, not one who taught at Aston but a man who played his rugby at Aston Old Edwardians - an inspired and beguiling captain of lower teams, an urbane referee, and a cheerful and always encouraging chairman of the club in my year of captaincy. He was serving as a governor at School when he was taken too soon from us. His funeral was a celebration of a life well-lived, and definitely the only such occasion I have encountered where an Elvis impersonator was part of the proceedings. Beautiful. Terry was one of the two most artfully amusing men I have known - both are now dead. As I've had cause to quote before: ' I have the only cure for life/ and the cure life is joy/ I'm the crying man that everyone calls laughing boy.'

What I Did On My Holidays: 9

We're back at home now after a drive that couldn't have been much different from the difficult journey up to Northumberland. Then we seemed to be in one traffic jam occupying most of Yorkshire whereas yesterday we sailed home with minimal delay. We had pizza for tea to ward off post-holiday blues. I washed it down with a nice chianti.

Our penultimate full day on holiday took us to Alnwick Castle. Fabulous - don't be tempted to do the garden and the castle together in one afternoon. If you must do both on the same day, make sure it is a full day. The state rooms in the castle are particularly impressive - monumental spaces and magnificent art on the walls. Also some of the most knowledgeable and approachable room attendants known to man. As you can probably tell I really liked the place. Hats off to the resident Percy family who seem to me to be handling their great good fortune with an appropriate touch. Oh, and don't worry - they don't overdo the Harry Potter connection.

Dining Room at Alnwick Castle

Our last day took in some beach walks in high winds and an evening meal at the Potted Lobster in Bamburgh. Bloody good, most particularly the salt chilli squid I had as a starter - The Potted Lobster

Final thoughts - Northumberland, a magical county, particularly in the lucky weather we encountered. I have had a monopoly over the company of the Groupie for a fortnight and that can make a magical place seem even more enchanted. Am I glad to be back in the luxuries of home? Not quite yet, but I'm getting there. And anyway we're making a very swift run up to Anglesey tonight to see how the installation of new kitchen and bathroom is going. Not exactly the Percy family but we should count our blessings.

What I Did On My Holidays: 8

Back to Cragside today, not to revisit the house but to attempt to do justice to the massive estate. You could quite profitably spend the best part of a week getting to know the forests and lakes. There is a six mile road around the estate with numerous parking areas with intersecting walks commencing in them. We found time to do five walks from four of the car parks. Best views are from the Maroon Trail from the Crozier Car Park. What a place.

What a place

We indulged our habit of breaking the journey back here to have a pint of Black Sheep and a large sauvignon blanc at the Victoria Inn. Also a delicious but unnecessary portion of chunky chips. This really is a great part of the world. Gavi going down nicely - will be eating hunter's chicken shortly. As little orphan Annie used to say - it's a hard knock life.

What I Did On My Holidays: 7

Kelso Abbey

We conducted a whistlestop tour of the Scottish Borders today, pride of place going to Kelso which (and I may be miles wide of the mark here because I have done no research) exudes an atmosphere of dignified affluence, nowhere better exemplified than in the strikingly well maintained Garden of Remembrance. Kelso may very well be the pie capital of the world - only £1.10 for a chicken curry pie, this a full seventeen pence less than the excellent chicken and mushroom pie I had in Alnwick last week. Can we take these prices home with us please?

We crossed back into England for dinner and on that subject I have some exciting news for you. It is official, OG has spoken and the Groupie will verify his claim - Lewis's in Seahouses is the best chip shop in the world. Yes even better than the Golden Fry in Benllech. Fabulous chips and divine haddock. Fizzy wine for pudding I think.

What I Did On My Holidays: 6

Yesterday back to Alnwick but this time to visit the Alnwick Garden, a modern wonder of creativity and monumentalism.

The Grand Cascade at the Alnwick Garden

Today has been one of sporadic rain and high winds but in the face of my lethargy I plodded for four miles this morning. Coupled with our walk this afternoon from Craster to Dunstanburgh Castle I now feel ready for pesto pasta and vinous accompaniment. Judging by the clatter of bottles we delivered to the bottle bank at Craster we have been doing well by the vintners of the world.  I'm also doing my bit for brewers - two pints of Black Sheep at the Jolly Sailor in Craster. Bosting.

A two week holiday still doesn't feel like enough to do justice to this fabulous area. It's a hard life being me.