It Catches All Of Us Eventually

That at least is how I feel at present. On the very morning (yesterday) that I was looking forward to a knock at the Belfry, I felt a tad ropey so dutifully took a Covid test and, Sod's Law at work, I joined the infected millions. I have felt more than just slightly ill today and I'm unwarrantedly knackered but, all in all, I think I'm relieved to have had some symptoms - it would feel wrong to be asymptomatic. So here I am, feeling that masculine self-pity (the Groupie is powering through the virus) and writing for your delectation. You have been tuning-in to the blog in greater numbers recently. Not anything earth-shattering but thank you anyway.

Sean Connery has more presence than any other actor I can think of (and I have considered Brando and Bryner) and he brings this to bear in The Hunt for Red October. He plays a Russian submarine commander with a distinguished Scots brogue but none of this matters - the camera devours him. The movie is based on Tom Clancy's Cold War pot-boiler and does it s job very nicely. I have to confess that, despite my dubious status as a student of literature, Clancy is one of my guilty pleasures. The man can do plot. As for the film, 69/100.  

A Culinary Discovery

You all know me - I'm a world recognised connoisseur of fine food. You knew that didn't you? Well, that being so, how is it that only as I approach my sixty-second birthday (I know, it's kind of you to say so - that's clean living for you) have I discovered something as delicious as Chinese Takeaway Salt and Pepper Chips, also known as Salt and Chilli Chips. I was introduced to these on Saturday evening by Daughter Number 2 with whom we were staying in that Manchester. Bloody Hell, these things are magic. I swilled mine down with a Reserva Rioja, having had an earlier pint of Timothy Taylor at the pub. Life's been good to me so far.

It has finally caught up with us - the Groupie has gone down with Covid. She feels quite a bit ropey but is handling it better than I would. Thus far I am testing negative and hope to maintain that status to allow me to play golf with the lads tomorrow. Got to get your priorities right on these occasions.

DN2 was on good form at the weekend and we had a satisfying time getting her garden into shape. I can't get over-enthusiastic about gardening, preferring to let things get just out of hand so that you can wade in and enjoy the full fruits of the labour of tidying-up. I exclude lawn-mowing from this sentiment - because, as any fule kno, ownership of a petrol mower is one of the greatest things known to man. DN2 doesn't have a lawn but she does know how to handle a petrol mower because her doting father taught her this vital life skill when she was back home last year. Chip off the old block. DN1 (resident in that London) doesn't have a lawn either but she is a keen horticulturalist and lives with copious plantage. They do make you proud. Behold the only things greater than yourself.

 

I May Just Have Been A Very Small Bit Wrong ... Perhaps

You have to admire (well almost) our shameless politicians and their inability to admit any error. I, you will be relieved to hear, am not cut from that cloth. No, the Pig is wrong quite a lot and, if forced/shamed to do so, will admit as much.

And no, I am not about to ask forgiveness for my failure as a tipster on the second day at Cheltenham. Put it this way, you have been very lucky that I didn't belabour you with my selections for the final two days of the Festival. Thanks to that semi-stellar first day, I finished well up on the whole thing but we were playing for small stakes so my lifestyle (already rather cavalier) hasn't changed.

The Pig in academic mode

As I said above, that was not the subject of my confession. The true subject is Cymbeline. I have been reading, watching and thinking about this play a lot for the past few weeks and I must recant of my view (expressed here and elsewhere I am ashamed to say) that is not a very good play. You already knew this but the Bard of Avon deserves a better critic than the Pig. It may be the least satisfactory of the five Roman Plays on stage but it rewards careful attention. Here's the shocker - it's a good play. Now all I've got to do is to redraft the chapter in my thesis and put the record straight.

Don't you just hate it when I'm wrong.

The Secret To Successful Gambling

A slightly odd feeling this morning as the build-up to the Cheltenham Festival cranked into full motion. Odd because I know that I am not going this year. I have other commitments. So today I played golf at The Belfry courtesy of the largesse of CDL who was kind enough to share a gift fourball with JRS, BH and your correspondent the Pig. It was on the Derby which is the least of the three courses at The Belfry but made a nice change from the mud-bound Pype Hayes and reminded us all what decent greens are like. I played quite passably as it happens.

Look very carefully and you will note that the Pig is not there.

Anyway I promised you the secret to successful gambling, to be precise successful gambling at Cheltenham. Well here it is - don't go. I confined myself to a £2.40 worth of penny accumulators and managed to show a 2500% return on my investment.  So for those of you who want to be ahead of the game, here are tomorrow's horse for some penny investments - Stage Star, L'Homme Presse, The Shunter, Shiskin, Prengrade, Editeur du Gite, and Poetic Music. Small print: you may get back less than you invest, in fact judging by previous form, you may get back precisely bugger all. But you'll never win the lottery if you don't buy a ticket. 

Alexei Sayle's Imaginary Sandwich Bar

I've been for a walk. I avoided the rain and the beach is lovely at this time of year - winter has finished washing it clean and the littering crowds have not yet returned. This will set me up for an afternoon of watching rugby and drinking Barolo - two of my favourite things.

After my walk I read a golf magazine for a few minutes and drank coffee made in the stove top espresso maker that I have only this morning realised is in the top cupboard. Lovely coffee. Then I did another of my favourite things. I had a shave. Most particularlyI like having a shave here on the island. I don't know what it is (maybe the lovely Welsh water) but a shave here is deeply satisfactory.

And I'll tell you what else I did. Whilst shaving I listened (on BBC Sounds) to a re-run of Alexei Sayle's Imaginary Sandwich Bar. Now you might have sussed it by now but Big Fat Pig (that's me not Alexei) is not really a creature of the political left. Alexei Sayle most definitely is. Nonetheless I love him. He is genuinely very funny and I admire his convictions. But let's stress the important bit - he's funny. The braying uncomedic participants on The News Quiz should listen and learn. 

Finally last night's rugby. Wales can count themselves unlucky not to have defied the odds and beaten France at the disgracefully part-empty Principality Stadium. France started like a train but for the second two thirds of the match were the lesser side. Matt Carley (a referee I like) had a difficult night and, for whatever reason, never got to grips with the scrummage. Still, be thankful for small mercies - Jaco Peyper was running the touch. Two words that convey excellence - Taulupe Faletau. What a player.

Stripes: The First Rite Of Spring

It's a bizarre time to be alive. For the first time in my life (and let's face it, despite my boyish good looks, I'm no spring chicken) Europe is playing host to a trans-national war and, even scarier, one of the protagonists is quite possibly enough of a demented shit to push the nucleat button. I have decided that the best thing to do is to carry on as normal (or as near to normal as the life of the Pig allows) and I have even stopped watching the value of our investments yo-yoing up and down as the kids in the City keep pissing about. Mind you, if and when this horrible Ukraine situation is sorted, we will still have to deal with a problem that I have experienced before, that is to say the ruinous inflation our lords and masters have allowed to be stoked-up in the economy. I did warn them but quite clearly they are not amongst my readers.

So Spring has sprung. And the lawn back at Casa Piggy has got its first stripes of the year. Stripes give me feeling of remarkable well-being. And, lo and behold, I arrived here at Plas Piggy last night (here for a writing camp and to watch the Six Nations) to the pleasing sight of the lawns and the hedges here having been clipped for the first time this year by my faithful retainer (well actaully a bloke from Amlwch who's brilliant).

At the moment it's raining but, this being Wales, we are only ten minutes away from the first of two televised rugby matches tonight - a club match preceding Wales v France. I note with dismay that the magnificent Principality Stadium (so much better than Twickenham) is not expecetd to be full tonight for what should be a cracking match. That's what happens when you sell your soul to television. God, listen to me. So old.