Twelve Films At Christmas - 8

It has only been some fourteen months since I last viewed this film and let you know my views but it is the ancient prerogative of the blogger to change his mind so here we go again. Paddington (not to be confused with Paddington 2 also recently reviewed here) was on old-fashioned terrestrial television yesterday evening. What a treat - plain old style family fun but also bloody funny. I only gave it 7/10 last year - now revised to 7.5/10. Even that may be a tad parsimonious.

Twelve Films At Christmas - 7

I didn't set out to watch Singin' in the Rain for the umpteenth time but it happened to be on when I switched on the box and I found myself drawn in by this perennial favourite. The music is superb (almost all old numbers - only Moses Supposes was actually written for the film - rescued from the studio back-catalogue to save money) and the dancing quite magnificent. That much you might expect from a musical, but the major bonus from this, a genuinely great film, is the comedy. For fans of framing devices, there is a plethora of film within film within film etc. Greatest treat of all perhaps is the comedic tour de force by Jean Hagen as the tuneless Lina Lamont. Greatest musical of all time? Quite possibly. 9.5/10.   

Twelve Films At Christmas - 6

Battle of the Sexes takes an entertaining view of the 1973 tennis match between self-proclaimed male chauvinist pig Bobbie Riggs and ardent feminist Billie Jean King. It would be easy to paint Riggs unsympathetically but this film has nuance and avoids that trap - Steve Carell gives a winning performance while Emma Stone is believable as King. This is a funny and not unimportant piece of film-making. 7.5/10.

Twelve Films At Christmas - 5

Black Panther is Marvel Comics meets Shakespeare meets the Old Testatment. A clever and visually stunning film, it has pretensions but never lets them get in the way of the action. I really enjoyed this - Chadwick Boseman as the Panther has tones of my old mate Titus Andronicus, while Michael B. Jordan is a compelling villain. Good stuff, indeed far better than I had expected. 8/10.

Advent 24

I could nominate the house in which I grew up and where my parents still live. I could nominate this house I sit in, or indeed the previous two houses where I have been privileged to abide with the Groupie, DN1 and DN2. But, no, door 24 belongs to the place that did most to make me man enough (I hope) to deserve those benevolent homes.

My taste for the Victorian Gothic (Guillermo Del Toro anyone?) probably comes from the architecture of the old building at my school, King Edward VI Aston. Take a look at that picture, imagine yourself joining the throng of boys, take a right turn in the lobby and at the end of the corridor you will be in Room 1, form room for 1F, where first I sat on 7 September 1971. Also sitting in alphabetical proximity to me were JRS and ICW, both of whom I have supped with in the last week.

Our magnificently barmy School song enjoins us to sing both our living heroes and our great departed. Amen to that.

Happy Christmas and may your god go with you.

   

Twelve Films At Christmas - 4

First things first: The Shape of Water won the Oscar for Best Picture, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri did not. By a slight margin I have to say they got this wrong. Both are however brilliant films. 

In fact The Shape of Water is not quite the best film made by Giullermo Del Toro - that would be the transcendent Pan's Labyrinth which, and I'm categorical about this, is one of the very greatest films ever made. But if you like the fantastical Gothic weirdness in which Del Toro specialises (or indeed if you merely tolerate it) then you will love The Shape of Water. 9/10. 

Advent 23

DN1 and DN2 are home for Christmas after a mildly chaotic exit from That London - won't bore you with the details but all's well that ends well and we definitely earned the reward of a Chinese banquet. I've even had some cold prawn toast for breakfast.

Our beach at Benllech

 Ynys Mon (Anglesey to you and me) has become very important to me, a place of peace and comfort. From the two historic bridges that link it to the mainland (a third is now planned), to the easy grandeur of Plas Newydd; from the coastal glory of Trearddur Bay to the craggy outlook of South Stack; from real ale at Red Wharf Bay to excellent fish and chips at the Golden Fry; from waking after a sound sleep to good coffee taken at the front window looking over to the Great Orme in the distance. Ynys Mon is where I feel closest to my personal gods.

Advent 22

It has a castle. It has a fabulous golf course. It has good beer. It has good food. It has a flawless beach. It is Bamburgh.

Advent 21

Today a building of limited architectural merit in the heart of unpretty Hockley. However, to the small extent that I have a spiritual heart, St. Francis Roman Catholic Church is where I located it. Here I was married in 1984 and after a lingering conversion it was here that two plus decades later I took my first communion. All of this was done under the eccentric but affecting spiritual guidance of Monsignor Fallon. I'm afraid I am inconstant in my faith but it matters to me in ways I find it difficult to articulate - and anyway I'm not of the shout it from the rooftops school of religiosity - terribly bad form old chap.

Advent 20

We stayed in an eccentrically styled motel and ventured forth on Highway 101 to explore the stunning Oregon coast. Yachats is one of those places where being alive seems a matchless privilege

Beggary, Bastardy, Camels And Needles

The Groupie and I passed a joyous evening at the CBSO Christams Carol Concert - Alan Titchmarsh great value for money as the compere. However I managed to take a small edge off my own enjoyment by a moment of graceless behaviour. I cannot recall that there were ever beggars on the streets of the Birmingham of my youth, but they are now a commonplace. This is disturbing and I have no answer. I find aggressive begging a particular difficulty and as I tucked into my teatime snack at the German Market, I reacted unjustly harshly to the beggar who approached us as we ate. This is the bastardy to which I refer, not literally 'the condition of a bastard', but rather the modern sense of behaving like a bastard. I was an unfeeling bastard and, yes, come to think of it, had my parents seen my behaviour they might very well have disowned me.  Sorry.

As for camels, well I'm only a tiny camel but just how big do they make those needles?  

Advent 19

I am sure it is a phase that all children go through but Daughter Number 2 was particularly keen on questions beginning 'What's your favourite ......?' She would usually and mischievously end an interrogation with 'Who's your favourite daughter?'

Well, today in answer to 'What's your favourite National Trust property?', I present Cragside in Northumberland. Built by William Armstrong (later Baron Armstrong of Cragside - the first industrialist to be ennobled) it is a phantasmagorical piece of architecture set amidst vast gardens and forests artfully sculpted. The grounds incorporate the mechanisms of the country's first ever domestic hydro-electric supply. And for children of a certain age and disposition (as DN2 once was) there is a very fine adventure playground. What's your favourite playground?

Advent 18

Gljufurarjokull - quite a mouthful. It is a snub-nosed glacier in the the Northern wilderness of Iceland. Until 1977 it had never been accurately mapped. That hole in the panoply of human knowledge was filled by the efforts of a six week scientific expedition mounted by the British Schools Exploring Society under the auspices of the Royal Geographical Society. Selection to the body of the expedition was achieved after an interview at the Society's intimidating premises in Kensington. A very young OG survived the interview process and so spent the entire school vacation under canvass in taxing conditions. My copy of the map that was the principal output of the expedition still hangs on our landing wall - that's how I can be sure I have the correct spelling.

By the miracle that is the internet I found this satelllite picture that locates my glacier

You learn a lot about yourself on a trip like that. I wouldn't say I came back as a man but as somewhat less of an immature jerk - and those of you who have only known me in my later life will confirm that I must therefore have had a really big problem.

Advent 17

We started this advent journey in sunny Nuneaton, my favourite away venue at which to play God's own Rugby Union Football. Today we have something of an altogether higher order - quite simply the best rugby ground in the world. The Aston Old Edwardian Memorial Ground was bought as a permanent monument to the one hundred and twenty-three Aston Old Edwardians who fell in the Great War. Our picture shows the memorial stone at the ground.

 I learned more about myself as a rugby player on this modest turf than anywhere else, more even than at Trinity Road where I played my schoolboy rugby. Here I enjoyed the best win of my career, 11-8 against a menacing Newbold. Here I had played my first ever formal match (Under 12's against Central Grammar where Dad was deputy head) and thirty-six years later with a pleasing symmetry I played my last on the self-same pitch - the smallest third pitch at the top of the ground. I had made a particular tackle that pleased me and when the final whistle sounded I knew that now would be the right time to call it a day. No prior announcement and no lavish ceremony afterwards. At that final moment I briefly dawdled behind my teammates, bent down unseen and kissed the turf and then rejoined the throng for the civilites of applauding off our opponents. I miss it still but there is only so much punishment one can sensibly inflict on an old body. In truth I was already well past my sell-by-date.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 1, 2 & 3

Darkest Hour takes considerable historical liberties but, in the final analysis, none of those liberties can undermine the foundation of a decent film, specifically the central performance of Gary Oldman as Winston Churchill. Churchill himself denies all rudiments of dramatic realism - you couldn't make him up. Those liberties taken are particularly hard on Attlee and his Labour Party but perhaps his is a story to be told elsewhere - mind you, Attlee the Movie sounds a tad fanciful. I'd watch it. This version of Churchill gets 7/10.

Nothing new can be said about the next film but I greatly enjoyed watching it for the umpteenth time. The Godfather is schlocky fiction converted to genuinely great cinema. Notwithstanding its length I think you can argue that not a single scene is wasted - all serve a dramatic purpose. It never drags. That the sequel to it is marginally better is one of the miracles of cinema. Is Brando hamming it up or is he brilliant? Well, both to a degree - his character has to exude a charismatic and benign evil. Brando's extreme method achieves that difficult fusion. 9/10.

Now to get all seasonal and saccharine. Yesterday the Groupie and I watched the modern(ish) remake of Miracle on 34th Street - Mara Wilson and Richard Attenborough both acting their socks off at either end of the thespian age range. Nicely done and it brings back fond memories of viewing it with the girls when they were young. 7/10. It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. We even went to mass this morning.  

Advent 16

The food is exquisite and cheap. The wine likewise. The scenery is arresting. Admittedly the walking is tough (it's bloody hilly) but that is the only thing to be said against Porto and the hills, of course, add to the interest. Best meal I had was the salt cod in a kind of glorified fish pie, washed down with something from the Douro Valley.

Advent 15

This one is as much about a time as a place. The time was 2006 and I felt myself, immodestly, at my professional peak. We holidayed in Denmark, spending a week by the coast and a few days in Copenhagen. Loved Copenhagen but it was the coastal resort of Smidstrup that I most marked.

We rented a house in the pine forests that lie behind the beach. I would wake early, leaving the Groupie to sleep (this was before my now permanent state of semi-sedation) and would run on the forest tracks before swimming in the sea and then returning to brew myself coffee. As I drank my coffee I would read management texts and plan mentally for my role as Managing Partner. As I say, the peak of my powers. Sadly I did not foresee my legal career crashing about my ears. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

As for Denmark, a decidedly civilised place

Advent 14

I talked of Sydney as a 'liveable' city and when you see surveys that purport to measure such things, today's location is another that is always reckoned to be up there with the best.

Like Sydney, Vancouver is an ocean city. There is something irresistible about a city where the ferry is one of the standard modes of transport and where seaplanes can be seen wheeling over and around the bay.

Advent 13

In 2001 my accommodating business partners allowed me to take a month off in defiance of the Partnership by-laws. We set off (OG, Groupie, DN1 and DN2 ie the whole family) to Australia, flying (courtesy of the Groupie's air miles accumulated in her jet-setting days) at the front of the plane. Big Fat Pig/OG likes room to spread out.

First call was Sydney and then we moved on to Noosa in Queensland for a fortnight. What a stunning place. I'm a sucker for a scenic beach. Probably best visited in the off-season since it has long-since ceased to be an undiscovered gem. Go running (as BFP did) on the coastal boardwalks; go to the cinema at Noosa Junction Plaza (as we all did - Shrek); drive inland to Eumundi and buy a didgeridoo (as BFP did - can still play it - it's a gift). Gorgeous.

The Outpourings Of A Furious Farceur

It has been a while since I last read Tom Sharpe but have just finished Wilt in Nowhere. My copy is a first edition in passable condition bought for pennies from a Birmingham City Council library sale - thus an exhibit for the prosecution in the charge of cultural vandalism that can be levied against our civic leaders of all political hues.

It is a scabrously funny novel, falling short of greatness but the work of a consummate professional. Nobody in the assembled cast of characters avoids the barbs of Sharpe's misanthropic pen. Good stuff if probably already unfashionable a mere fourteen years after its publication. If still alive Sharpe would have been good value on Brexit.

Advent 12

A good picture is worth a thousand words - I'm not sure I believe that old saw but it works for today. The picture shows a group of bridge climbers on their way up the superstructure of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. If you get to Sydney and have time for nothing else, do the Bridge Climb. A beautiful and generous city.

Advent 11

Don't get me wrong, I like the countryside but I'm a city boy at heart. Wellington NZ struck me as one of the world's most liveable cities - a horrible phrase but one that works. In fact it feels more like a bloody big village than a city - after all its population is less than half that of my beloved Birmingham.

JRS and I were there for the glaringly unsuccessful 2005 Lions tour. We enjoyed one particularly glorious day that started with a long walk to Poneke Rugby Club before taxiing back into town for the evening test match at the Westpac Stadium where we were privileged (and I really do mean that) to witness Dan Carter's masterclass - (I know I've said this before but that doesn't make it any less true) the single greatest game of rugby football ever played by one person. 

Advent 10

Paley's Place in Portland, Oregon comes close, and The Marram Grass on Anglesey even closer, but the best meal I have ever eaten was in the glamorous county of Essex. Heston Blumenthal's Fat Duck is the locus of gastronomy as theatre. The picture is of the punningly titled 'Sound of the See'. The food feeds all the senses. It may be fashionable not to be impressed but nobody could ever call me a dedicated follower of fashion. Seriously good

Advent 9

The best memories are about people and place. I am lucky to have been in special places with my own special people, most particularly my family. Bologna is a remarkable city and my fond recollection of it is heightened by having been there with the Groupie, DN1 and DN2.

Italy's seventh biggest city, Bologna is home to the world's oldest university, founded in 1088. It is a glory of red stone towers and cloisters, The food is pretty good as well. You can find my more detailed recollections of the place elsewhere on the blog under the subject line, 'Bologna'. Funny that.

Advent 8

I was with Viperjohn, Mikey B and Big Willy yesterday, drinking and eating curry. Seeing that formidable threesome put me nicely in mind of today's nominated place. Dunmore East was our destination for the final week of April during twenty over-indulgent years.

Whether it be in The Strand or The Haven (our two favoured drinking holes) fun was always on the menu. The golf was a mere incidental. Most memorable of all are those days when we stayed up to see the dawn and walked back up the hill in the weak morning light before catching a couple of hours of sleep and then starting all over again. Great days indeed.

One of Dunmore's most estimable citizens, Tony Boland, was fond of describing his home as a drinking village with a fishing problem. Amen to that. 

Advent 7

May 1st 1978. This is an important date. A very important date. OG, still then a callow youth, and the Groupie, even younger (she still is - funny that), went on their first date. The plan was to see Saturday Night Fever but that had sold out so insead we watched a superior film, Annie Hall. Venue - Sutton Coldfield Odeon. I still get a warm fuzzy feeling every time I drive past this mildly dilapidated picture house.

In all its monochrome glory

Advent 6

The city of my first university. The city of Hyde Park. The city of Sam's Bar at Imperial College. The city of the Zetland, my local pub for two years. The city of the National Theatre. The city of the Globe. The city of 2012. The city of the National Gallery. That London. Love it.

Chapel at King's College London - OG did not spend much time here

Advent 5

I am a Brummie and not even vaguely ashamed of it. This great and much derided city gave me my education to age eighteen and then (in a very different atmosphere from that prevailing today) paid for my first university experience.

Form and function perfectly married

A great civic building should be functional and, ideally, ceremonially good to look at. Today's place answers that description - the Birmingham Symphony Hall lifts your heart and expectations as you enter. Some things are all the better for aiming beyond the merely functional. I believe the 2022 Commonwealth Games weightlifting is to be held at the Hall. Brilliant.

Advent 4

There has to be a golf course in this list. From a peak, many years ago, of near competence, my personal golf game has descended to the point of farce. Sometimes I think I should walk away from the game altogether and spare myself the embarrassment inherent in my uselessness. But that would be to deny myself the compelling atmosphere of the game and the playground of people watching that is the clubhouse.

Guess where Big Fat Pig put his ball?

And nowhere is the game more fun and the watching more pleasant than at Cavendish Golf Club in Buxton. Not the greatest test of golf (though estimable) but the place and its denizens are rather lovely - an old-fashioned adjective for an old-fashioned place.  

Advent 3

It won't come as a surprise to anyone to hear that I am a big fan of Shakespeare's Globe on the South Bank. However if you pressed me to name the best place I have watched Shakespeare, I would point you to Southern Oregon and the town of Ashland, home to the ten month long Oregon Shakespeare Festival. The Groupie and I visited as part of a blissful Holiday and we even got to see my favourite bit of Bard - Antony and Cleopatra. Favourite that is until the next time I change my mind.

 

Advent 2

Let me take you back to the Summer of 1981. The Overgraduate does not yet exist - he is an undergraduate waiting for his degree result. On  a June morning he bids a tearful farewell to the Groupie (she of course is not yet the Groupie but she and OG are already together) and heads off on a great adventure. He is to work as a counsellor at Camp Half Moon, Great Barrington, MA, USA. He coaches basketball, acts as a lifeguard and works hard, playing even harder at Graham's Bar in Barrington on nights off. He makes life-long friends and learns to love the USA, a country with optimism at its benevolent heart. He returns to Thatcher's Britain to an uncertain future (he has not yet determined to be a lawyer) but is an important step closer to being a man.

The picture is of beautiful Lake Buel, on which stands Camp Half Moon. God Bless America, Trump or no Trump.

Advent 1

So here we are again pop-pickers. The snow is not laying all about and is not therefore deep and crisp and even. It does not exist. Instead December has arrived with what you might term typical November weather - grim skies and a permanent fog of fine rain.

Which is all to the good because it puts me in mind of the climatic conditions I liked to encounter when I visited the first place to be honoured in this year's calendar. This may very well be the only time that anyone has listed Nuneaton as a place they loved visiting, but if I had to name my favourite away fixture it would be Nuneaton Old Edwardians - a tough match played in heavy mud and usually in the rain, in fact once and memorably in the snow with the lines swept clear.

It tells you a lot about Big Fat Pig as a player that what he really needed to enable him to thrive was mud that slowed the game to his pace. It's a dirty old job but someone has to do it. Happy, happy times. Favourite iteration - Nuneaton OE 1st XV: 6, Aston OE 1st XV: 16. The Pig was captain that day in what everyone who saw it deemed a dreadful game of rugby to watch. The true glory is in playing. I still miss it. 

There Now Follows An Advertisement From Big Fat Pig

BFP Productions are proud to announce the subject for this year's Overgraduate Advent Calendar.

With your indulgence (well, without you too I suppose but you can always stop reading - please don't) I am going to write of twenty-four places that have happy memories for me and as I do so I will attempt to describe those positive feelings.

We start tomorrow with somewhere distinctly unglamorous.

On another topic, I confirm that I have dutifully finished watching Black Earth Rising. I find admiration and ambivalence wrestling to be my prime reaction. Admiration for tackling its excruciating subject matter (the Rwandan genocide) and ambivalence because of its self-conscious styling and some overwrought acting. Well above the televisual norm though one has to say. Would I watch it again? Very possibly.

Also on at the moment is yet another Le Carre adaptation, The Little Drummer Girl. I've read the book but enough years ago not to remember how it will end. I'm enjoying this though the Groupie found it too slow to get anywhere. I can see her point but the prevarications are half the point with Le Carre - I'm still not sure about the need for Ricki Tarr in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy but I've loved watching the television adaptation whenever they show it. In Drummer Girl I also enjoy the loving recreation of the drabness of the 1970's - every sighting of an Austin Allegro stirs a nostalgia in me. We didn't know any better - which is rather what made the 80's even more fun.    

The Last Cut

I think that's going to be it for this year. I cut the lawn today, more a matter of mulching and collecting the remaining leaves from the lawn than a serious manicure. If I say so myself, it looks pretty good - the patches killed by the summer heat have all now recovered and the whole suits its autumnal deep green.

Mind you the cutting was not without its mild sadness - my precious petrol mower has served me well for two decades and on three lawns, the old scabby affair in Streetly and both the original lawn here in Four Oaks and the beautiful new one that was laid when we had the garden re-done. My Christmas present to myself will be a nice new mower - not a sit-on, that would be de trop, but definitely a powerful petrol self-propelling model. Stripes a-go-go.

By the way I bet you're all salivating at the imminent prospect of the Overgraduate Advent Calendar. It will be all systems go on Saturday morning. This year's subject is ... I'll tell you later in the week. 

The Critical Tide ... And Swimming Against It

I really enjoyed Killing Eve, so on that score I was with the critics. Phew.

However I must confess to struggling with Black Earth Rising. Now in my defence I am a few episodes behind so perhaps it will rescue itself but, whisper it only, I think it's just a tad (and damagingly so) overwrought. Now I can hear the howls of anger from my miniscule readership - of course it's overwrought you idiot - the subject matter is so ghastly (and I accept therefore important) that the series has to shout when other dramas might favour subtlety. I don't agree - the shouting can be alienating. It's all a bit Oliver Stone if you know what I mean.

Mind you, I will keep watching. 

One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest

I've just revisited One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and must admit I had forgotten what a stimulating film it is. As a mental heath patient myself (no point being coy about it) I think I had told myself that this movie took liberties with an important topic. I was wrong - it is thought-provoking, affectionate and uniformly well-played. That final shot as the escaping Chief Bromden disappears over the horizon is arresting and all the better for the lack of dialogue. 8.5/10.

I refer You To My Earlier Answer

Today's unavoidable headline is the draft Brexit Agreement. I've been watching the proceedings in the Commons and have to admit to a grudging admiration for our poor beleaguered Prime Minister - she has dealt politely with a queue of backbenchers all waiting patiently to ask the same specimen of question - 'You no longer enjoy the confidence of this house, please therefore let us off the hook of doing our job by mandating another referendum, which will hopefully give a different answer and we can get on with the job of ceding our sovereignty inch by dying inch.'

I said grudging admiration for she has, of course, been comprehensively out-manoeuvred in negotiations by the EU mandarins. May is right up there with Major and Callaghan in the running for the title of worst PM under whose yoke we have laboured during my lifetime. Could be worse. Couldn't it? Corbyn anyone?  

Two Films Recently Watched

I've pondered for a week since watching Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, and I've decided that my initial reaction was correct - this film is brilliant. Frances McDormand fully deserves her Oscar bur there is so much more, not least a stellar turn from Woody Harrelson. This film has dark humour, horrible tragedy and a realistically small hint of redemption. As, I say brilliant. 9/10.

From Here to Eternity achieved something that eluded Three Billboards - it won the Best Picture Oscar. Mind you there has been some right old tripe that has triumphed at awards time. From Here to Eternity is decidedly not tripe, in fact it's rather good. Sadly when the film you had last watched before revisiting From Here to Eternity was Three Billboards, you are still bedazzled by the brilliance of the latter. Still, as I say, not remotely tripe - 8/10.

Small Moments Of Perfection

I finished my last entry by ruminating on what to put in this my thousandth blog offering. I needn't have worried.

At eleven o'clock yesterday morning a crowd of all ages formed a disciplined semi-circle around the monumental dedication stone at the Aston Old Edwardian Memorial Ground in Perry Common. The carving on the plinth records that the ground was acquired and dedicated in 1927 in memory of one hundred and twenty-three Old Boys of the School who died in the Great War.

At eleven o'clock the two minute silence was beautifully observed. A boy bugler from Camp Hill RFC, in his full rugby kit ready for the match to follow, sounded the Last Post. Wreaths were laid by every section of the Rugby Club and by The Association President.

At three minutes after eleven a fine low November sun broke through and dazzled me. After the small but moving ceremony the youthful players dispersed across the playing field to enjoy our wonderful sport. I felt proud to be alive to see such courtesy and gratitude afforded the dead and the delights of the game afforded the young.

I've Heard Of Winning Ugly But This Is Ridiculous

England -12 South Africa - 11. One can only assume that Eddie Jones played his Get Out of Jail Free card at half-time. In the first half the team was plain dreadful: out-muscled; out-thought; out of it generally. Maro Itoje started as if brain-dead, giving away puerile penalties and getting sin-binned. That bane of modern technique showed its annoying face (I speak as an old coach here) - tackles were routinely aimed at the torso when the situation cried out of for the good old-fashioned low (or 'chop' as the absurd vernacular would have it) tackle. Edge of the seat stuff. Did the better side win? No, but who cares - rugby, red in tooth and claw, just as it should be.

A more than passing word of credit as well for the Springbok captain, Siya Kolisi, who must have been absolutely gutted but spoke magnanimously at the finale.

losing with style - respect

Finally, that 'tackle' by Owen Farrell at the climax, which the referee adjudged legal. For me, this was both the right and wrong decision. Right so far as my own stance on our game is concerned. Wrong by all the indications from matches I have seen in the early months of this season. Our sport should not be emasculated -but that is a debate for another day.

Next week New Zealand - and if that doesn't scare you nothing will.

Please note this is my nine hundred and ninety-ninth blog post. I am trying to think of something spectacular to mark the thousandth. Suggestions welcomed.

The Last Jedi

Episode VIII. Good but not as good as Episodes V and VII. Nice recurring tropes from Episodes IV and V. Enjoyed it. 7.5/10. That's all folks.

That Rule Of Law Thing I Mentioned

I finished my last blog by saying that Peter Hain should know better. I am delighted to find my view echoed by several legal notables. Philip Green gives every impression of being a rough-edged, chippy gobshite but he stands equal before the law with the rest of us. Peter Hain gives every impression of being a smooth, chippy gobshite who enjoys privileges before the law because he is a peer of the realm. I do not begrudge peers their advantages - they are there for a reason. However when those privileges are exercised in a spirit of arrogance and self-righteousness we, the great unwashed, should shout our heads off. And please don't tell me that if the allegations against Green are later proven (I know where my money's going) that such an outcome will justify Hain's presumption - if you think that, I'm sorry, you've missed the point.

Big Fat Pig looking swell

Cheerier news - after an absence of a few weeks I've been out running this week and, a twinge in the knee aside, I feel quite good for a fifty-eight year old with a body ravaged by four decades of rugby. And today, shamed into it by the Groupie, I went to the gym and swam (drowning stylishly maybe) a dozen lengths. It's a start - I hadn't been in a pool for an age. Next year: a couple of triathlons. Watch this space!

Writers Write

Which, as those who have been with me from the outset of this journey will recall, is the First Law of Marchant, he being the man what schooled me in writing. I think you'll agree, he did a bang up job.

By turns this brings me to the crux of my dilemma (do dilemmas have cruxes? Is that the right plural? How did I get here? That last one a knowing crib from Talking Heads): of late I mostly feel just so low about the fate of Planet Big Fat Pig that I can't be arsed to write. This is silly (that's an understatement) because all is golden domestic-wise - the Groupie is still with me (she must be bonkers I know) and Daughter Number One and Daughter Number Two are both thriving, a credit to their parents in fact. No, it is the wider world that aggravates me. No, not just bloody Trump (doesn't help though); no not bloody Brexit (doesn't help though); No it is the sheer asininity (one of the Pig's favourite words - mind you, if you've been with me on the journey this far, you'll know that) of what passes for adult discussion these days. Just listen to serious radio news and hear what I mean. We live in interesting times but debate takes place behind a screen of mediated PC bollocks. Brexit is, I suppose, the biggest and best example - a major constitutional moment being mishandled by a failed political class whilst the unlovable and the condescending (work out for yourselves which is which) are pitched at each other in the deepest circle of Hell by a flippant commentariat. Too serious to be funny.

I'm avoiding the Trump business most of the time but he still makes me sick - how's that for a telling response to asininity! In that connection however my eye was taken by this:

[He] has been honest, but he has been vulgar; and there is no greater external misfortune ... than for a great nation to be exclusively represented at a crisis far beyond previous, and perhaps beyond future, example by a person whose words are mean even when his actions are important.

You may have guessed that this is our old mate Walter Bagehot. He was writing about another Republican President - one Abraham Lincoln, no less. You have to wonder what the Boy Bagehot would have made of the ghastly Mr Trump. Walter, by the way, had the decency (and one has to admit, unusually for him, the modesty) to recast his views on Lincoln as the full scale of Lincoln's political genius unfolded. I'm not even remotely persuaded that I will have similar cause to repent of my opinion of Trump.

On the subject (which I sort of have been) of the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable (another favourite BFP aphorism) Baron Hain (Pete to his mates) has used the cloak of parliamentary privilege to out Philip Green as the beneficiary of a super-injunction preventing his being named as an alleged serial racial and sexual discriminator. I could bore you on the rule of law on this one but, you know what, I can't be arsed. Green should know better - and so should Hain.

What's Not To Like? No. 3 - Of Red Wine And Trifle

Storm Callum is today battering Ynys Mon so the Groupie and I have been housebound, her doing some housework (which, yes, does make me feel guilty) and me clattering out a few hundred words of the thesis - actually clattering is the wrong word of course because the modern keyboard does not sound the percussives of old-fashioned labour. How many of you who happen upon this will wonder quite what the old fart is on about?

More good times have been had here on the island and indeed on the mainland. Bodnant Garden: another bloody brilliant experience - been there umpteen times but it still enthralls and we actually managed to find a part of the garden that had eluded us on previous visits.

Church Bay in the rain - spendid. Robinson's Blonde Ale at the Trecastell Hotel - splendid. Coronation chicken on white bloomer with side orders of chips and onion rings - even more splendid. Red wine for supper with Tesco trifle - food of the gods. That wasn't all I ate but those are the bits I can recall. Lovely.

Schitt's Creek. Heard of it? On Netflix. Rather good.

It's still pissing down but storms do have an attraction. Weather is transient, scenery is permanent. 

 

What's Not to Like? No 2

There is beautiful and there is bloody beautiful. Take the A4080 to Pen-lon and park at the end of the road. Walk from there through dune and forest to the beach at Llanddwyn. Stop and take it all in. Bloody beautiful. Thereafter take in some good English fizz (Leckford Estate 2013) and eat the Groupie's home made chili con carne. Bloody beautiful - or Sunday as we call it.

Next, proof of the miracles of modern technology - have a look at the photograph below as taken by the Groupie on her iPhone. Compare it to the stock picture of the same aspect which I used in my last blog. The Groupie's is better, don't you think?

    
Yesterday we mooched round Beaumaris, one of those towns that put the 'Ee' in genteel, and a reassuring experience compared to the urban decay that is Bangor lying across the Menai Strait. A pint of Hartley's Cumbrian Ale in the George and Dragon before home to more of said chili. Bloody beautiful.

Today the Coastal Path from Lligwy to Dulas and then a pint of Unicorn to wash down sausage, egg, chips and beans at the Pilot Boat. The Groupie has baked some scones while I tackled the thesis. Did the Romans sanction human scrifice or was Shakespeare (or more probably George Peele - it's a long story - only ask me if you're bored) just make it up to spark the atrocities in Titus Andronicus? Another blody beautiful day.

What's Not To Like?

A bracing walk with the Groupie around the Treborth Botanic Garden (under the care of Bangor University) and down to the Southern side of the Britannia Bridge. I love this coastline and its human interventions.

A benign intervention

Shopping at Waitrose - such a civilised store even if the parking bays in Menai Bridge are too narrow.

Late lunch/early dinner at the Panton Arms in Pentraeth. Excellent food (as ever), great service (as ever), washed down with Glaslyn Ale from the Purple Moose Brewery. The Groupie had hake and a glass of sauvignon blanc.

Paddington 2. I loved the first film and I think this sequel might even be better. Ben Whishaw as the voice of the lovable bear is a very fine actor (a brilliant Richard II) but he runs the risk (as per the Robin Williams example) of his greatest work being as the voice of an animation. Altogether a warm and uplifting movie, viewed at the end of a day when I already felt uplifted. 8/10. Slept the sleep of the innocent - quite something for a gnarled old lawyer.

Cultural Artefacts And The Zone Of Sanity

You have heard me whinge before about the world going to Hell in a handcart and in the past ten days we have had to bear the twin peaks of desperation that are the party conferences of our benighted major parties. First up we had Labour who announced a new piece of state sponsored larceny dressed up as widening share ownership. Hopeless and gormless as the Tories can appear (actually it's not an appearance - they are hopeless and gormless) it is them to whom we must look if we are going to avoid the Labour wrecking ball being taken to the economy. Cue an assembly of forced rictus smiles as the Tory party faithful attempt to put on a brave face whilst they destroy each other over Brexit. The brazen Boris Johnson makes shameless play for the leadership and poor old Theresa May essays as dignified a stab as one can manage at retaining some dignity. What a complete shambles.

So here are things to cheer us up. I've been listening to The Beatles blue album while I work - some paid labour and rather more work on the old thesis - will it ever be done? Quite possibly not. Now I know that the cool kids don't approve of compilation albums but the blue album can be excused since it reminds us just how sodding brilliant The Beatles were. Go on, search it out, ideally using it as a gateway to their entire oeuvre.

And another artefact to recommend. The Martian is the cheery and comprehensible side of sci-fi. Beatifully shot and deliberately not as portentous as the genre can be at. Behind the science (and there is a lot of it) there is a story of human endeavour and redemption. There are even some well constructed jokes. Worth a look. The bigger the screen the better. 7/10. 

A Television Revolution

By the way, I still reserve the right to call it the 'tele' rather than 'telly', the former, to this writer's mind, being the more acceptable diminutive of 'television'. Deal with it - as fans of the Buffalo Bills used so aptly to put it (sorry haven't got time to explain that one).

There is a glut of really quite passable drama on the tele at the moment. Most notably the big old beast of the BBC is kicking back at the mooted hegemony of the subscription services, in particular Netflix and Amazon. For what it's worth, we prefer Netflix, the Amazon interface not being as user friendly, at least to this sad old e-cripple.

A selection of these new dramas competing for our attention: Bodyguard; Black Earth Rising; Killing Eve; Jack Ryan.

Bodyguard is attracting much of the attention and prompting the discussions in the broadsheets. It has garnered huge (by modern standards, that is to say miles short of the old Morecambe and Wise Christmas Show gold standard) viewing figures for the Beeb. It's quite good, no more - laden with just too many implausibilities. From the enviable mind and pen of Jed Mercurio, it is not a patch on his earlier and brilliant Line of Duty.

Black Earth Rising is a joint production between the BBC and Netflix - the latter screeening it everywhere but the UK. It has a stellar cast and suitably dead serious pretnesions. I've only seen the first episode and that wasn't quite as good as it obviously thinks it ought to be, but since that would be an impossibly high bar, I think this one has potential.

Killing Eve - Again the BBC but this time BBC America, hence presumably the forty-two minute episodes and the casting of the excellent Sandra Oh. Two episodes into this one and for me this is the best of the lot. Quirky, disturbing, amusing, all at the same time. It's an odd sort of target audience that will stay tuned after two such venerable shows as Strictly Come Dancing and Casualty, but let us asume that the schedulers know what they're doing. We watched it on iPlayer, whereat you can get the whole series if you're impatient.

Jack Ryan - I have to confess a guilty pleasure here - I am a fan of the Tom Clancy novels which introduced Ryan to the world - an everyman hero who (spoiler alert) rises to become US President. In the age of Trump this seems more than mildly attractive. This show is more old-fashioned with a lot of big bangs and deafening gun-play, but it's well done.

So all in all, no bad thing for Big Fat Pig to have lapsed back into couch potato mode. There are extenuating crcumstances - a deadline at university is looming and it is BFP's long-practised method to leave things to the last minute. Plus, indignity upon indignity, having set off in my habitual lycra and wholly necessary Oakleys the other day I went arse over tit over an uneven paving slab and had to beat a cowed retreat back to base, dripping blood from hand and arm wounds. Groupie has not been entirely sympathetic particularly as I left some blood stains on the clean bedding. I still bear the scars but I'm being a very brave soldier.  

A Tour De Force Followed By A Bloody Big Meal

Sunday: still feeling flabby and lazy in the aftermath of a major session on the beer on Friday. The Groupie stirs me from my torpor with the suggestion that we go to the pictures. We discover that there is a cinema cum cafe at Barton-under-Needwood of all places, part of the marina complex no less. The Children Act is showing. We go. Sat nav sends us up a dead end but we get there unscathed and with time for a glass of wine before the show. We sit too close to the screen so suffer from cricked necks but this is nonetheless two hours spent in communal darkness that is decidedly worthwhile. As for the film, well, Emma Thompson, bloody hell. Woman can act. Superb. This is by some margin her film although the support of Stanley Tucci and Jason Watkins is understatedly competent. Unlike the Groupie I have difficulties with the novels of Ian McEwan, but this translates better to the screen than most critics seem to have asserted. Film - good. Thompson - brilliant. Whole thing - 8/10.

As for the cinema at Barton - recommended - not a popcorn machine in sight and no wankers on mobile phones. Post screening we walked down to the Waterfront pub and had really good pizzas and a mountainous portion of fries. Top draw.