The Secret To Better Golf

Two weeks ago I went (under the wing of the Groupie) to my first ever Pilates class. I'll tell you what it's bloody difficult - my balance is embarrassingly poor and I've stretched parts of me that haven't been stretched in years, if ever. At one point we were doing an exercise that theoretically involved a controlled roll in a prone position from left to right. As I do when I concentrate, I closed my eyes and only opened them as I completed an inelegant lurch to the right. Opening my eyes I was greeted by an unpleasant close-up of the face of a chubby man in his late fifties - I had rolled up to the mirrored wall. I've since been to a second class and have another scheduled for this afternoon.

But I tell you this not to boast but to impart a startling discovery. On Monday of this week in the humble environs of Pype Hayes Golf Club I played the best golf I have played for a decade. Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Never mind the mechanics of the golf swing and all that jazz, try Pilates.

Whether Tiger Woods has been to Pilates I'm not sure but, having paused for reflection, I am with those who have designated his victory last weekend in the Masters as the most stunning comeback in modern sport. Whilst acknowledging his supreme gifts, I have never warmed to Woods but I think John Hopkins (in The Times) got it right when he concluded that this latest and most improbable victory has made us admire him all the more and dislike him rather less. GOAT? Arguable but I'm still a Nicklaus man.

A Good Walk Spoiled

It's a funny time of day to be watching it but I have my eye on the BBC coverage of the last day of the Masters where forecast violent weather has them teeing off early in three balls and from two tees. Whatever next?

The glut of televised golf gives an opportunity to consider that now rare beast, BBC golf coverage and to compare it to the slick Sky product. The Beeb gets the nod, notwithstanding the excellence of Sky's Ewen Murray and Paul McGinley. The good work of those two is undone by the sincere but shallow Nick Dougherty, the horrible narcissism of Butch Harmon and the pathetic gurning of Robert Lee. Even Peter Alliss seems to have reined himself in a little on BBC though I stick to the view that he should be retired, forcibly if necessary.

Do you know what, the Big Fat Pig ran for just over the hour yesterday. He can hardly bloody walk today (particularly with a bit of gardening thrown in) but he feels righteous. He's having a glass of sauvignon blanc and some scones now. He is the Pig after all.

 

This Morning I Shot An Elephant In My Pyjamas ...

I don't know what he was doing in my pyjamas. It could only be Groucho Marx, in this instance as a supposedly intrepid explorer in Animal Crackers. Great fun which I rewatched with my dear old Dad yesterday morning. Not perfect of course (the film not me you fool) and I suppose incorrect on the modern scale, but the greatest fun. At this distance in time (it is eighty-nine years old) it probably comes down to whether or not you like the Marx Brothers, or indeed whether you have even heard of them. Their very presence predisposes me to mirth so 8/10.

A very different kettle of fish, The Godfather Part III, was today's fare as I took a break from reading up on Darwin and Huxley. I could explain why I am reading about these distinguished Victorians but I have to concede that my reasons are pretty obscure and you know I like you to be entertained, so we'll wait for a day when I feel disposed to dress it all up. So Godfather Part III - any good? Taken on its own, yes it is, but in the context of its two predecessors (both of which are right up there with the very best of all time) it disappoints. The narrative drive gets lost around the middle and the climax is then cinematically botched. Sofia Coppola is, I'm afraid, woefully miscast as Mary Corleone. Coppola has of course since redeemed herself several times over as a director. 7/10 but definitely one for completists to acknowledge and enjoy.

Now then, a little quiz for those of you who have read me before - on which three mechanical devices does the Overgraduate bestow the sobriquet 'Precious'? That's right there is the Precious Jag (now into its third decade and beautiful to behold as ever), then there is the Precious Bike (neglected of late but  I'll soon put that right if the sun persists), and finally there is the Precious Mower - petrol of course and self-propelled. Well the original Mower is dead, long live the new Mower. Quieter than its predecessor and on the initial evidence a better cutter, let me introduce you to the Honda Izy HRG466. May it give me service even half as good as the old one which came with us to this house and had a near twenty year career.

And one final announcement - today's blog is brought to you with the more than acceptable assistance of Paul Jaboulet Aine Syrah 2017. As we experts say, yum yum.

I'm Giving Up Gambling. Well ...

For any of you daft enough to follow my advice on the Grand National all I can say is that surely you ought to know better. For what it's worth (nothing in truth) I apologise.

For the record, my sure-fire tip, Vintage Clouds, was the only faller at the first and compounded its felony by bringing down one of its innocent competitors.

I'm giving up gambling. Well, at least until the next time.

matchless

On a more positive note, loud plaudits to all concerned in the matchless (Red Rum never won at Cheltenham) achievements of the sporting legend that is Tiger Roll. I even feel well-disposed to Michael O'Leary. Steady on there Dave.

The Unbearable Lightness Of Being A Binman

As I was running earlier this week I encountered several good burghers of the People's Republic of Four Oaks walking out onto their drives and fatalistically lifting the lids of their bins and thereupon raising their eyebrows in mild unexpected pleasure at the fact that the bloody things had actually all been emptied. For us (and I assume most of my near neighbours) this prompt double satisfaction (we have two bins - one for general detritus and one for recyclables) was being enjoyed for the first time since early December. All collections since that time have fallen victim to delay or cancellation due either to industrial action or plain old-fashioned inefficiency.

All of which made me smile sardonically as I contemplated our Council Tax bill which is knocking on three thousand of your English quids. I'm only saying.

Meanwhile our political class continues to bend itself out of any useful shape as it persists in its preferred intention of thwarting Brexit. And if any of these prize wankers mentions a wealth tax or a mansion tax (yes I'm talking to you Vince Cable) then I won't be responsible for my actions. Well actually I will be responsible - because I'm rather Olde England about these things. I'm only saying.

Meanwhile, back in my world, Grand National tomorrow. I'm due a change of luck (have been for about a decade) so take note folks - Vintage Clouds each way. I'm only saying.