A Rainy Day At The Seaside

Well actually the closest I got to the rain-lashed reality of the beach was the car park at the Co-op. I spent the rest of the day closeted here at Plas Piggy drinking a 2019 Catena Malbec (92 points from Parker - this is apparently a good thing) and rather enjoying myself. I am here without the Groupie for an extended stay built around the need to do some work on the thesis and the absolute necessity of watching Six Nations Rugby and, tonight, the Super Bowl. These are all selfish activities, well perhaps selfish is the wrong word, solitary might be better.

Anyhow yesterday turned out to be one of those days that went well. I had endured a fractured drive up here on Friday night (A55 closed for works) but slept well enough. I got the work on the thesis out of the way first of all. I'm really not sure that it's any good but I've come this far so I might as well finish it. My latest surprising discovery is that Shakespeare's Henry VIII (actually it was co-written with John Fletcher, but it's in the First Folio so that's good enough for me) is rather good. I re-watched the ancient BBC production last week with a new eye and, yes, it's nicely provocative. 

On next to the Six Nations. I don't know if it's me mellowing with old age but there still hasn't been a viable candidate for a Ronan O'Gara Gobshite Award so far this seasoon. Given that O'Gara has now emerged as a multi-lingual and brilliant coach, we may even have to think of a new name for the award. A previous recipient, Stuart Hogg, came the closest yesterday but no anti-cigar. Scotland manifestly failed to repeat the control of the breakdown that so illuminated their win over England and they lost narrowly to Wales. Most notable for this critic was the refereeing of Aussie Nic Berry. I thought he was excellent, and given what I think of Australians' general grasp of rugby union, this was quite something. And then lightning struck again with a similarly assured display from Angus Gardner in the France v Ireland fixture. France won a high-octane encounter in which the proper ferocity of both sides induced understandable errors. Despite those errors this was a match played at a higher plain than anything that had preceded it.

I passed my evening well. I watched Sam Mendes' brilliant 1917. Much has been made of the technical trickery that allows this to unfold as if a single two-hour tracking shot. I think that in fact it would be truer to say that it is a distinct pair of long tracks but that is to quibble. The technical achievement is arresting, if at first rather giddying. The whole is underwritten by Thomas Newman's score. This is high-grade film- making. 83/100.

I've just had my first beer of Super Bowl Sunday - there's ten hours to kick-off. Pace yourself Dave.