More Bardolatry And More Booze

I think I might have promised you reporting from my student digs in Swansea on the progress of the British Shakespeare Association Conference. In the end I got taken up in the doings of the conference and will have to settle for this summation delivered three days down the road.

This was a good conference. In its organisation it perhaps fell slightly below the military-like discipline that characterised Hull two years ago but, at least to this aged consumer, this iteration delivered more fluently on its conference title - Shakespeare, Race and Nation. Serious stuff but, as it turned out, also compelling. Kudos also to my new mate P who delivered his paper with aplomb and suggested that Portia probably voted Leave. Good old Portia.

Only one downside to the conference -it does get a tad tedious to be reminded by the terminally woke that it (whatever it might be) is undoubtedly all the fault of bloody middle-aged white men like me. Give me a break - a chap could get a complex.

The 1st at Royal Pype Hayes

Golf is occupying my mind at the moment, both as spectator and as player. As a spectator I doubt anyone could fail to be swept up in the romance of Shane Lowry's march to victory in the Open at the brilliant Portrush. But even better and as a player has been the company of good men and true at Pype Hayes on balmy Monday evenings. Last night I played closer than the recent norm to the game I used to play. For now I have decided to be optimistic. There will be the weekly games at Pype Hayes to play and then in early September Mikey B has organised a trip to Northumberland for Big Willy, Viperjohn and Big Fat Pig. Bring it all on.

Bardolatry And Booze

My previous and only encounter with the city of Swansea was a visit to the Land Registry office to discuss a particularly difficult first registration of a massive mountain estate acquired by a significent client. Much more detail would be improper but suffice to say that the title involved some alienated coal - that will excite my property lawyer readership. That meeting was in the height of summer and on a sweltering afternoon the Registry oficer and I spread the plans all over the floor of his office and walked our way round the represented estate while listening to the test match commentary on his transistor radio. I remember it with pleasure and as an example of how negotiation need not be abrasive.

Well here I am again, this time in my role as super-annuated Shakespeare scholar. A good conference thus far and I am, of course, in awe of the serious minded young people who are at the heart of the gathering. I envy them their optimism and their capacious memories. Mind you I am even more in awe of a new acquaintance, P, who has a couple of years on me and will tomorrow be presenting his paper on The Merchant of Venice. Big Fat Cowardy Custard Pig is here merely as a spectator, although my guilt has prompted me to ask questions at two of the panels I have thus far attended.

When I attended the British Shakespeare Association conference in Hull two years ago I ventured the opinion that this gathering is, for these committed academics, rather what rugby tour used to be for me - party hard! Last night I learned a new piece of jargon - ECA stands for Early Career Academics. P, C (another geriatric PhD candidate and an alumnus of Christ Church Oxford - there's posh) and I managed to wangle an invitation to the ECA drinks and pizza party at a local(ish - we got soaked walking back to the halls) pub. Worth the walk and hopefully some of the energy of these ECA's will rub off.

Off to see a new play at the university theatre tonight so just back in my room copping a bit of rest and catching a glimpse of the Open, where I see that utterly predictably Rory McIlroy has had a mare.  

Cricket, Bloody Hell

Well, well, well, the early favourites did in the end win the Cricket World Cup, though not by any means in the swashbuckling manner that their stellar pre-tournament form had suggested. No, it was back to the days of two hundred and fifty being a defendable score and bowlers at least getting some of the glory. Praise be to the person (if he or she actually exists and it wasn't one of those happy accidents) who oversaw the production of the pitches - now I consider it, I suspect that happy accident was involved.

So England triumphant after quite simply the most gripping game of one day cricket there has ever been. Death to the bastard child that is T20 and long live the one day international and its big brother, test cricket? Sadly I suspect not but for a few days we can at least bask in the sunlit glory of England's victory. Now, the observant amongst you will have noted that I was critical of the team when they endured their mid tournament blip. Do I now recant? No, not completely. They are still not the finished article (an unpleasant prospect for the rest of the teams) and some of them betray their membership of the snowflake generation but what they achieved on Sunday was resoundingly good news for cricket and sent the nation to work on Monday with a smile on its face. Our footballers needed extra time in 1966; the rugby team needed the Wilkinson miracle in 2003; our cricketers took it even closer to calamity before winning. What will we have to endure before we can celebrate another global team title?

the final act in a true sporting drama

Drama notwithstanding, I would select as the moment of the match Martin Guptill's immediate and sporting signal of six when his teammate Trent Boult carried the ball over the boundary. I know that television would have made certain that the runs had been counted but Guptill's actions were instinctive and honourable. Not enough was made of them by the television commentators.

Cricket bloody hell. Bring on the Ashes. I've got a ticket for day two at Edgbaston.

By way of a change I am now ensconced in a student hall of residence in Swansea as I await the British Shakespeare association conference. Bulletins to follow and hopefully this time I will manage not to offend any of the great and the good. There's always a first time.

A Star Is Born

The problem with a story that has been told several times before is that the later retelling may lack suspense. This was clearly going to be an issue with Bradley Cooper's A Star Is Born. It is a difficulty that the film overcomes by the weight of the underlying performances. Lady Gaga is terrific as the neophyte Ally. Her star turn should not however take anything away from Cooper's own effort as the fading, catastrophic rock star who falls in love with her and passes her rising star on his own way down. I found Cooper affecting, almost too much so - he captures the raw self-loathing and self-destructiveness that characterises the addict.

Worth watching. 7.5/10.

Bring On The Big Grumpy Fat Pig

The Pig was out on the streets this afternoon, quite pleased with himself actually because he managed (very slowly he has to concede) four miles. While he was running (he thinks we can just about call it that - he doesn't jog) he was honing his thoughts on the big issues of the day. Those issues are the fate of European professional golf and the problem with Boris Johnson.

I saw something toe-curlingly dreadful when channel-hopping last night. It was on the Sky Golf Channel and it called itself the Hero Challenge. This consisted of self-consciously miked-up professionals (and remember these poor lost souls will play anywhere if the price is right) hitting wedges into a grid of targets on a green while Vernon Kay (wtf) shouted an asinine commentary to the assembled masses. At one point we got the gem from Kay or his hired side-kick Anthony Wall (for like pigs and men they had become indistinguishable),"You could throw a handkerchief over Matt Fitzpatrick's two balls.' Truly awful - do it if you must but please do not attempt to pass it off as proper sport. Golf is a very silly but beguiling game with an unparalleled lore - don't ruin it. And don't start me on the self-serving banal bollocks that the fantastically gifted Rory McIlroy spews out every time he is confronted by a microphone. I admire him and his game but can't find it in me to like him. As I said Big Grumpy Fat Pig.

in search of an idea, preferably an electable one

Boris Johnson. Again, wtf. I couldn't put my hand on my heart and tell you one thing he seriously believes in aside from the advancement of Boris. But maybe I'm wrong and a great statesman is going to appear from beneath the shambolic carapace. Big Grumpy Fat Pig advises you not to hold your breath.     

Flat Track Bullies Do It Again; The Island; Salmon Fishing In The Yemen; A Crappy Small World

We are only two days away from England's Cricket World Cup semi-final against Australia so it would be wrong of me not to mention that Jonny Bairstow scored another hundred at the tail end of last week - clearly if this is how he reacts to perfectly justifiable criticism then we should lay it on with a trowel. As they say on the terraces (or rather as they used to say when terraces were still permitted) Ing-ur-land, Ing-ur-land. The Big Fat Pig is right behind you boys.

Ynys Moelfre - where the walk starts and finishes

The Groupie and I had a joyous weekend in Anglesey - great weather for walking and, of course, great terrain to walk in. We did Moelfre to Lligwy and treated ourselves to a pint (glass of white wine for the lady) and a portion of chips on the way home. Bosting.

Salmon Fishing in the Yemen starts with a great advantage - the title is enticing. I have not read the book but we did watch the film at the weekend (available on Netflix) and it is perfectly diverting without living up to the promise of that title. Ewen McGregor and Emily Blunt are good but the best thing about the piece is Kristin Scott Thomas as a foul-mouthed government spin doctor. National treasure material. 7/10.

There is an unedifying little spat going on at the moment on the back of leaked memoranda from the UK's ambassador to the USA, in which said diplomat made the hardly startling observation (and here I paraphrase) that Donald Trump is a bit of a twat. Trump has responded to all of this with his customary finesse - that is to say no finesse whatsoever. Meanwhile Jeremy Hunt who is busily losing the Conservative leadership election to the disappointing Boris Johnson (A man lacking any moral anchor I'm afraid) has been an unexpected beacon of rectitude in calling Trump out for his impropriety. And by the way, they should find whoever it was who leaked this stuff (my bet is s die-hard pinko with an Assange complex) and sack them with all pension rights removed. The ability to speak frankly and in camera is the necessary subtext to the negotiation that is inherent in democracy.

Flat Track Bullies Redeemed, As Is The Snowflake Generation (For Now) ... Oh And More Films

My reference to the snowflake generation is made in the context of those flat track bullies, better known as the England cricket team. Only a few minutes ago they completed their return to national approval by soundly beating New Zealand so that they are guaranteed a semi-final place, most probably against India, the very side they beat on Sunday to announce their resurrection. Prior to that victory they (most particularly Jonny Bairstow, bless his cotton socks) had reacted in true snowflake manner to the justified criticism that had come their way after two supine defeats. The poor little loves would have it that they were unlucky against Australia and how dare anyone (especially that nasty Michael Vaughan - what would he know about cricket) criticise their game plans. What tosh boys - you were murdered by the Aussies and you copped nothing more than you deserved from the commentariat. May you now blaze a trail of glory to lift the World Cup. The Overgraduate is firmly behind you but fair criticism comes with any trade, so man up.

Operation Finale dramatises the capture and removal to Israel of Adolf Eichmann. It is a worthy film somehow lacking in real drama, but nonetheless notable for Ben Kingsley's calm portrayal of Eichmann - an essay on the general banality of evil and its suave interludes of charisma. An important story but regrettably not an important film. 6.5/10. 

In similar vein another perfectly passable piece of cinema but not a great one. Christopher Robin is what we might deem a nice Sunday afternoon film - that indeed is when the Groupie and I watched it. A downtrodden (by the exigencies of his employment) Christopher Robin is revisited by Pooh (if this makes no sense to you then you are lucky because you still have ahead of you the joy of reading the Winnie the Pooh books - arguably the funniest things in the English language) and an adventure ensues both in and out of the Hundred Acre Wood. By the end a more than passable amount of fun has been had and the eponymous hero has learnt a lesson that he might have learnt much earlier if he had watched Mary Poppins. 7/10.

The sun is shining on our little land today, a fact I celebrated by taking the Precious Jag for a spin while wearing the Precious Oakleys. They do, quite naturally, make one a better driver.