Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky

But I can't. Or more precisely I cannot go to my beloved Plas Piggy, where I can wake up to the scent of sea air and the view of the bay, best taken with that first good coffee of the day. Because, you see, nothing better illustrates the downsides of devolution than the fact that though the Welsh Assembly has deigned to allow us to use the property (on which I will remind you we pay a punitive Council Tax), our English masters prohibit us from travelling. Thus the Welsh economy is denied the pent-up spending power of eager English wallets until after the first bank holiday of the year. I know that the powers that be are concerned for my health but some consistency wouldn't go amiss. Anyway, let's hope that I can get there when the English shutters go up in a couple of weeks.

But fear not, it is not all bad news. The golfing Pig is back. Eight of us (socially distanced into two groups - honest) headed to Pype Hayes yesterday to celebrate the re-opening of the golf courses. I hit our first shot of the year - at a forty-five degree angle, into a tree and obediently back to my feet. It got better, in fact I played sporadically good golf. When I was good, I was very, very good but when I was bad - well you get the picture. 

Still on golf. I was watching the WGC Matchplay at the weekend. Why are American spectators (well some of them) such knuckle-dragging morons? 'Get in the hole' is assinine but mitigated by some small sense, but 'Mashed potato' - wtf? And as for the shit-for -brains who yelled 'Get in the water' at the top of John Rahm's backswing - well, this actually makes me reassess my view on American gun laws. People should be permitted to bear arms for the sole purpose of shooting these pricks. There you are - Big Fat Pig, the voice of reason.