The Pig Is Falling Apart ... But Not As Quickly As He Had Feared

I was at Plas Piggy over the weekend, doing some thinking and writing. Nothing very creative, just some stuff (technical term) for the King Edward VI Foundation. As ever the island proved a starter for my writing muscles. God, I love that place. Just to make things better, the flying vermin seagulls aren't yet bouncing around on the roof. I know they are nesting (apparently they are monogamous and return to the same nest for up to twenty years) but the chicks and noise haven't started yet. Small mercies.

Which is not what I am going to tell you about. No, my latest little melodrama commenced as I drove the precious Bigster back to Casa Piggy on Sunday - an enjoyable journey listening to Leonard Cohen on Spotify. The only thing that discomforted good old Chortley Chuckles was a growing awareness of a large floater in the left eye - a sort of spider's web hampering my vision. It didn't take long on the old interweb thing to diagnose myself as having a detached retina. Thus was Chortley (Knuckles was left at home) subject to a mild panic. So he joined the queue at the Birmingham Eye Hospital at 8.30 yesterday morning. It opens at 9.00. I was thirteenth in the queue. All was efficient and everyone (except two over-lively children) was on their best behaviour. I was triaged (I assume that's s verb) swiftly and then saw first a nurse and then a doctor within two hours. All thorough, all reassuring. When it works like this the NHS really is a thing of wonder.

PVD

Upshot? Chortley the manic depressive now has another diagnosis to drag around with him - Posterior Vitreous Detachment (PVD). This is much less serious than a detached retina although the symptoms are similar. Basically the jelly behind the eye has detached itself from the back of the eye. Apparently my brain will adapt and learn to live with it although this may take a few months. Phew. Just another signifier of getting old.

They had put some drops in my eyes for the examination by the doctor and warned that my vision would be blurred for several hours. They weren't kidding. I'd had the good sense not to drive (train and taxi in) but it was only when I exited the hospital that I realised I couldn't read my phone well enough to order an Uber. Thus Chortley embarked on one of his tragicomic routines. He phoned the Groupie but she (as Chortley should have remembered) was working and also waiting in for the carpet fitter (Groupie's office - it looks great). No matter, Chortley Chuckles was feeling quite chipper (he had been more scared of the possible diagnosis than he had admitted to himself) and so decided to get a bus into Town and then to get a train. He started towards where he thought the hospital entrance/exit could be found. He got this wrong and was soon in a building site. He turned his blurry eyes back to the hospital and then a blinding (see what I did there - puntastic) idea came to the boy Chuckles. From the dissolute past of rugby Saturday nights, the Chuckles memory dredged up the phone number of that saviour of many a weekend - Star Cars of Erdington. They got him home.  

Phew What A Scorcher!

BFP was quite clever when he arrived at the golf club this morning, at least he thought he was. He parked in the lee of a tree because even at 7.45 it was what we meteorologists call bloody hot. The resultant shade would keep the precious Bigster as cool as might be possible. Not if the sun goes the opposite way to that you had imagined. So when BFP came off the course at midday, feeling not a little sweaty and knackered (the Pig always carries his bag - it's point of principle), he opened the boot and was greeted by a wall of captured heat. When he clambered into the driver's seat his legs and back burned. The Pig is a fool.

What of the golf? Well, acceptable since you ask. Not stellar but acceptable. Let's leave it at that and move on.

That bloody hotness. Record-breaking apparently - the old records for May heat dating from 1944. Does this prove anthropogenic global-warning or is it just an outlier? The Pig doesn't know. Probably he should. He drives a hybrid but would not seriously consider going fully electric until the refuelling infrastructure is up to scratch. But which, comes first, the chicken or the egg?

And here's another thing that's bothering me. If the Pig fleeced his employer of £400k, one thing that is certain is that the Groupie would notice pretty quickly, particularly if both Pig and Groupie had the same employer. So what's wrong with Nicola Sturgeon. All this proves is that, as we have known all along, the Groupie is a lot sharper than La Sturgeon. 

    

Weird World

It's a bloody good job that I inhabit the same skin as Chortley Chuckles and am ensconced in marital bliss with the Groupie. The great triumvirate (that's OG, BFP and CC in case you haven't been paying attention) finds itself wound up in the paradox of modern living, wherein the good things are very good and the bad are frankly dreadful. As we (the triumvirate - for today I am all three at once) sit here typing we are listening to Maddy Prior's heavenly voice. This is a good thing. On the wall are various movie posters and an Aston Old Edwardians club shield. These are good things. Fresh in Pig's memory is yesterday's golf when he actually played quite well. This is a good thing. Rather than play again this morning (my shoes are letting in water and there was a drizzly fug) the Pig went for a gentle run in the rain and felt the better for it. This is a good thing. The OG then took to his keyboard and ordered a new pair of golf shoes (rather an overdue purchase), a new golf bag (zip bust on the old one), and some golf balls (didn't lose any yesterday but supplies are looking a tad thin). Such retail therapy is a good thing.

So we feel quite well. A state of mind that makes me feel a little guilty because the world outside Casa Piggy is going to hell in a handcart. The Labour Party seems intent on self-evisceration as a quite unlovely cast of characters hovers over the near-carcass of the mass of inadequacy that is Keir Starmer, each member betraying a revolting ambition and a lack of political morals. The Conservative Party, well what can we say about them? You're right - nothing. They are a quivering mass of nothingness. Lurking in the shadows is the curious beast of Reform - an inchoate sub-moral sliminess. The Greens? If you're going to tell me that Zac Polanski is a potential PM, well, sorry, you need your bumps feeling. Anarcho-syndicalism anyone? 

The triumviarate is bipolar - does that mean there's six of us? It's getting crowded in here. 

Eating Out And Coming Down

That well known trinity of OG, BFP, and CC has returned to leafy Sutton Coldfield after what can only be described as a magnificent week on Mon with the Groupie. None of us (meaning Overgraduate, Big Fat Pig and Chortley Chuckles) can recall being happier. We had a great time. Back home and there is a slight sensation of let-down but we did have a very fine Chinese take-away on the evening of our return and that helps - indeed there is still enough left for my supper tonight.

Conwy Marina

We ate out twice last week and both were noteworthy, cementing the conclusion that pub food is these days really very good. After our visit to Bodnant we called in at Conwy Marina and had a meal at The Mulberry, which sits at the edge of the marina. I was slow to twig that the pub name is on account of the D-Day Mulberry Harbours being developed and tested at Conwy. My meal was by way of a nautical pun, the 'Big Buoy' burger - it had a portion of most burgerish things within and even BFP was satisfied.   

The Breeze Hill

Our last night was even better. We wandered up the hill from Plas Piggy to our local, the Breeze Hill. A good test of any pub kitchen is whether they can handle a request for a steak done medium-rare. The Breeze Hill can. The Pig was very satisfied. and the side-order of onion rings was epic. The Pig is a connoisseur when it comes to onion rings and these were large in number and quality. Decent beer as well.

Introducing A New Persona

You will know me as the Overgraduate (OG) or possibly as Big Fat Pig (BFP) but today I want to introduce you to another of my split personalities. Chortley Chuckles has emerged from my subconscious and will now take his place in these ramblings. He was beckoned to the front of my mind when the Groupie amiably commented that she liked the way I laugh at my own jokes - a sort of chortle cum chuckle. Thus was Chortley Chuckles brought to life. He is a down-at-heel entertainer. He entertains all ages but his act for children also comprises his unseen but faithful dog Knuckles. Thus he has a theme song, its precise tune known only to OG, BFP, and to Chortley himself - the refrain runs 'Chortley Chuckles with his prize dog Knuckles'. This line is by way of an oblique tribute to the briliance of Clive James' haunting chorus, 'I have the only cure for life, and the cure for life is joy, I'm the crying man that everyone calls laughing boy'. 

Chortley Chuckles and his prize dog Knuckles

If you encounter Chortley Chuckles (CC) please be gentle with him - as with many clowns there is a serious man hidden beneath.

Living La Vida Loca

I read a translation of the phrase I have used as today's heading and I note that la vida loca is exemplified by spontaneous debauchery. Well, I am neither young enough nor energetic enough for such behaviour but I haven't entirely given up hope so I'll stick with it as way of laying down click-bait.

Actually what I wanted to convey is that I am having a splendid time with my soul mate. The Groupie had been working ridiculously hard on a big commercial transaction that threatened (as these things do) to get totally out of control. She eventually stewarded it over the line and, I am pleased to relate, she has been properly rewarded. Upshot - we are in our beloved Ynys Mon for a week of rest and recuperation - For her that is - I have been doing the better part of bugger all as usual, which is surprisingly wearying.

On Monday we walked at Treborth, the botanical gardens of the University of Bangor - an underestimated attraction. Yesterday was even better. We were at Bodnant Garden. We have been there countless times before but this time we hit a sweet spot. The famed laburnum arch is not quite in full flower but the rhododenrons are in their pomp. Superb. So superb that I am attaching pictures, taken, of course, on the Groupie's superior phone.

Today we walked at Porth Lynas - rugged and magnificent, rather as BFP appears on the appended selfie. The Groupie, naturally, just looks magnificent. Immodesty compels me to mention that I had earlier been for a run round to Red Wharf Bay.

I have revived myself from the earlier walk with a cup of damned fine coffee and next on the agenda will be a stroll down to Benllech beach, just to emphasise to ourselves how bloody lucky we are. Cymru am bloody byth.

Sartre A Parfois Tort

'L'enfer. c'est les autres'. This is one of my favoured borrowed maxims and that fact goes some way to illuminating my misanthropy. It came back to me as I took the train to Brum last Saturday with the Groupie and Daughter Number Two. Deftly avoiding the puddle of puke on the exit stairway from the platform did nothing to divert me from my usual snobbish reaction to the late Saturday denizens of our city centre. DN2 is particularly scathing about my attitude on these occasions so I kept my counsel and treated only myself to my shafts of Wildean wit about modern life. The news is this - DN2 has a point - of course she does.

Why this Damascene conversion on the part of the Pig? To a small degree I have to acknowledge that I was a young tearaway myself (in a deeply ironic manner you have to understand) and have been an elderly disgrace at times. But no, the major balm to my disaffection on Saturday was the event that took us to town that night. We saw To Kill a Mockingbird at the Hippodrome. Brilliant. This was the Aaron Sorkin adaptation - wordy (as is Sorkin's way) but quite brilliant. Deeply humane, deeply moving. The production is still on tour for another couple of months and it will be well worth a journey to see it. The acting is excellent, the writing is clever enough to wring humour out of the tale's inherent tragedy, and, oh, just as an aside, the staging is jaw-droppingly clever. The full house erupted into proper cheers at the conclusion - quelqeufois l'enfer ce n'est pas les autres. We were united by an uplifting production - it is proper to get out and remind ourselves how plain bloody clever human endeavour can be and how generous can be the reception for that endeavour.       

Apologies For Absence

I have been away from this blog for a few weeks. I apologise. The world has been in a catastrophic mess. It still is. It has not really seemed that I can add anything to the commentary on Trump's war in Iran. By calling it Trump's war I am probably doing a disservice to Netanyahu. Hey ho. I will say only this: this war has been prosecuted on a vainglorious whim boosted by a misunderstood Zionist zeal; the Americans have not come even close to articulating a proper reason for their attack; Iran is a crazed theocracy but the way to deal with it is not Operation Epic Fury.

Enough of such things. Reasons to be cheerful, one, two, three. Last week BH, MS and RW were kind enough to let me join the Appleby Renegade Tour, a golfing trip of sheer fun. The history would bore you, suffice to say that Appleby was the venue for the early QMT golf tours - I have blogged about that before and, as I always say, it's a long story so I won't weary you with it.

Immodestly I have to relate that the Pig won the golf. Not through any great competence but by sheer obduracy. Enough of that. The courses. First up was Bentham, comprised of nine old holes and nine newer. I'm glad to say you could not really see the join. The Pig got the tour off to an inauspicious start by blasting two out of bounds from the first tee - thereafter a degree of sanity and good fortune came to his rescue.      

A god meal and a few pints were followed by a goodish night's sleep (I'm not as good as I used to be with an unfamiliar bed) and we even went for a walk around Appleby on the second morning before our afternoon outing at Appleby Golf Club. I had played Appleby twice before and thought it adequate. I was wrong - this is a fine golf course on wild moorland. We played through a blessedly short but biblical storm and under high winds. I should also record that the Pig produced an improbable clearance break of twenty-two to clinch a frame on the clubhouse snooker table. Great moments in sport.

More food. More beer. Another truncated night's sleep and then an early start on the journey home. We broke the journey at Breadsall Priory which is where QMT Tour is to be held in June. Very much a hotel/resort set-up with two courses. We played the Priory course. A perfectly decent lay-out but very hilly. Not remotely as memorable as Appleby but a good end to the trip. I slept well back at home and woke as stiff as a board. I was till sore on Sunday morning but dragged myself out for a thirty minute run and that made me feel much better. You're not getting any younger Pig but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The Evil That Men Do - And An Uplifting Coda

Harriet is a biopic about Harriet Tubman, an enslaved woman who fled to freedom and became a ferocious activist in the liberation of many others. It is a tale of heroism and of human bondage. It is decorated by two stellar performances - Cynthia Erivo in the title role and Joe Alwyn as an adamantine slave-owner.

The film does nothing flashy or overtly clever - it lays the true story before us and if this sort of thing doesn't make you ponder man's propensity for evil, then you have a heart of stone. Find it on iPlayer. 70/100.   

6N 23.5

Here's a thing - Sean Edwards' much-vaunted France defence shipped ninety-six points in their last two matches of the Six Nations, fifty away to Scotland and then forty-six to the previously impotent England attack. That France still won the championship and, of course, the match against England says much for their searing pace and almost as much for England's imbecile indiscipline. Leaving aside my frustration (this puts it mildly) at the brain-dead behaviour of England's finest, we do have to concede that the two matches (Scotland v France, and France v England) did serve up proof that rugby union can still be thrilling even when it falls into the hands of the mirthless pragmatists. Mind you I could do without advertisements popping up in the middle of play - ITV, stop it please.

Here's another thing - England won only one match. The stirring effort in Paris should not disguise this.  

6N 23.4

On 23 February I blogged about England's brain-dead capitulation to Ireland. I said that I might have a potentially consolatory bet on Italy to beat England. I did. They did. I'm still angry though. Italy are a decent side but I thought the sheer emotion of what they were doing (they had never previously beaten England) actually hampered them - England were so predictably shite that Italy did not have to be anywhere near their best to win. I've said enough.

Let's concentrate on a match that revived the love for the game. Scotland 50 France 40. Rugby - bloody hell. As far from England's constipated box-kickathon as one might imagine. And remember this is a Scotland team who also lost to Italy. I told you Italy were good. 

Pride Comes Before A Fall

Big Fat Pig is nothing if not an entertainer. Yesterday he slopped around the golf course in the mud and the puddles - for once it wasn't raining but we are going to need a very prolonged dry spell to get Royal Pype Hayes back into shape. Now the Pig's game has been in pretty shabby order for the past couple of years. Much of this is down to age and an inherent lack of talent but I do also have the excuses born of my own clumsiness. First I fell down the stairs and damaged my back. Next up was the infamous bike crash when I cycled into the back of a stationary Merc and wrecked my knee. Finally I somehow ricked my foot so that I could hardly walk. These misfortunes meant no running and no cycling for a lengthy spell but I persisted with the golf and got progressively (quickly in truth) worse at it. Only recently do I detect some green shoots of recovery. This may not be totally unrelated to an encouraging amount of running and the resultant mental wellbeing.

So here's the story. By my low standards, I started yesterday's round well. By the time we reached the ninth tee I was playing comfortably under my handicap and feeling rather good about it all - the ball was under control and the company was excellent - GB and JW thank you. Hole 9 at PH is stroke index 18, that is to say it is the easiest hole on the course. The Pig had the honour after a deft up-and-down for par on the 8th. All was well in Pig World. No need for any heroics so the driver stayed in the bag and Pig aimed to lay-up with a calm 2 utility. It is at this point that Pig's recollection becomes blurred. The tee shot travelled all of a yard and nestled in front of the tee mat. No matter, Pig would take his medicine and lay the second shot short of the ditch at the front of the green. From there he would make a five. The problem was that Pig then pulled his second shot miles right (the Pig is left-handed) onto the roof of the greenkeepers' hut, off which it bounced back but settled down three yards out-of bounds. Sharp intake of breath. Repeat. The next swipe took the ball even further out-of bounds. By the time the Pig had effected that sensible lay-up he had already played seven. There was more playing indignity to come, but we will park that for a moment. You see the first ball out-of-bounds was findable, perched on a muddy mound. The Pig retrieved it nonchalantly having scrambled the mound still with his golf bag slung across his shoulders (the Pig always carries). This is where it gets worse because the Pig then slithered down the other side of the bank and landed on his back. Have you ever tried to rise from a prone position with a golf bag pinioned on your back? The Pig has to tell you it's bloody difficult. So difficult that if there is a nearby bed of nettles, one might roll into them. This the Pig promptly did. One might go so far as to say that the Pig looked not unremotely like a bit of a fool. Brushing the dirt off his back and legs and trying to get some undergrowth from out of his belt-line, the Pig returned to the ball in play - I would remind you it had taken him seven strokes to get that far. Never mind, down in two more and the indignity of a ten is avoided. Pig therefore, took a deep breath, swung slowly and ... deposited the ball into the ditch. By the time he finished he had used a dozen strokes. You ought to get some sort of award for such persistence.

As I say, pride comes before a fall. For the record, I played neatly for the rest of the round.   

6N 26.3

Saturday was a funny old day. I seem to have a lot of those - I think I often fall victim to my own contrarianism and also to my bipolarity. In fact the latter was accentuated last weekend because I was in Anglesey and had forgotten to take my anti-psychotics with me. Keep taking the pills Pig, they work for you.

Anyway, Saturday. I awoke early after a fitful night (that's another benefit of Olanzapine, it helps you sleep) and was determined to go out for a decent run, during which I was going to undertake the mental composition of a blog entry excoriating England Under 20s loss to Ireland on Friday night. I even had a title - 'Brainless Behemoths'. Those of you who have been with me on this journey will recall that this is not a new theme. In the end I abandoned the task as my running (up towards Storws Wen Golf Club, for those of you know the local geography) became more and more a painful exercise. At twenty-five minutes I turned back from my route and headed home to Plas Piggy. But stubborn old Pig then willed himself to take control and I embarked on a series of deviations from the straight route home. I reckoned that if I could count my steps to twelve hundred on these deviations I would add enough time to get me to an hour. I did it - bloody knackered but I did it. And I felt a good deal more sanguine about the previous evening's rugby. So mood was now up.

Then England played Ireland in the Six Nations. Mood down again. What a calamity. I counted twenty handling errors from England and lost count of the missed tackles. Outplayed, outthought, outmuscled. Garbage. At moments like these I am relieved that I am at least Irish by marriage. In my defence of this shameless abandonment (I'll be back) of my homeland, I can point out that both of my daugters have Irish passports. 

Wales v Scotland cheered me up. I would have preferred it if Wales had clung on to win but it was an estimable game to watch as a neutral. Mood back up again. Sunday, back home to Casa Piggy to take in the ultimately comfortable French Victory over Italy. But let us get this straight - Italy are no mugs and if England play again as they did on Saturday, they will lose to Italy. I might actually have a bet on that - it makes the game more bearable to watch.  

Pig's last game of golf

Good night's sleep last night and I am due back on the (soggy) golf course early tomorrow with the Seniors at Royal Pype Hayes - I have had a few weeks off to get over the effects of a very poor slog in the mud last time. These things should never become a matter of arduous habit. Keep taking the pills. 

6N 26.1 & 2

I used to have a routine for Five/Six Nations rugby matches. I would usually be playing at my own low level (to take a week off would have been an act of sacrilege) so I would set the video recorder to tape the England game. Now that of itself was a considerable act - there was none of this single-button-programming, much less catch-up services on which you could rely. But the next consideration was this - I don't like to watch sporting events when the result is known to me. So I would play my game (please bear in mind that pitches were far muddier in those days) and then retrieve my car keys from a secret location, clamber into my car and drive home to a hot bath, all without being fore-warned of the result. Then I could enjoy the match at leisure.

I mention this because it serves to remind me just how much magic adhered to the old championship. It felt somehow attached to the amateur game I loved so much. Those days are gone and I have no wish to sound like one of the much maligned old farts who used to run the game. Yes the opportunities to play the game for a living are nice for a tiny minority but the 'product' (as one must so odiously term it) is dangerously lacking in romance. One has only to look at the crumbling edifice of that once enviable structure, Welsh rugby, to know that something is wrong. All of which, in a counter-intuitive manner (certainly for an English patriot like the Pig), makes the result of the Calcutta Cup match last Saturday rather grand. The much (and deservedly so after the Italy defeat) Scots simply ploughed the shell-shocked English into the Murrayfield turf. Galling for the English, yes, but, in the final analysis, rather splendid and redolent of an earlier age.

Don't worry lads, it's only a game

But now let's get to the problems of the England team. Maro Itoje -a titan but one who is coming off a draining Lions Tour as captain and a draining personal tragedy (the loss of his mother). Should we be surprised that he looks drained? Sam Underhill - an old-fashioned sort of a player. He had a bad game - that just doesn't happen. He deserves another chance. I would pair him at flanker with Henry Pollock. Let's address the elephant in the room - Pollock gives every impression of being a bit of a gobshite - but he's our gobshite and just at the moment the force seems to be with him. The centres are a conundrum. There is no disgrace in being outplayed by Jones and Tuipolotu, a pair who rather inconveniently (for the English) overcame their previous torpor with a relish. Don't worry lads, it's only a game - as Ray Prosser used to say, 'Well what the f*** do we have points for?' Big Fat Pig will watch with renewed interest as the defeated England and the (for once) deflated Irish meet this weekend.

France? brilliant.  

You Are The Athlete First And The Rugby Player Second

I think it might have been that other great solicitor/rugby coach, Alan Jones, who coined this phrase. On the other hand it might have been someone else - either way it stuck with me. Let's unpack it and then consider it in the context of last night's England U20 v Wales U20 age-group international.

Athleticism - I think we can take it as read that to function at the top of rugby these days you need to be fit and strong. Yes there are differing types of athleticism (just as shot-putters differ from pole-vaulters) but you have to have some fitness. But being a rugby player, a true footballer to use the old parlance, well that is a mater of mental acuity. I have known some very fit people who were poor footballers and some superb footballers who cared not a jot about physical conditioning. These latter types cannot function at high levels. Not these days at least.

Last night's match was played in appalling conditions - pouring rain and a muddy (by the standards of modern curating) pitch. England won19-16 having been 0-16 down at half-time. England were manifestly the better athletes, you could tell this by the way that these gargantuan young men filled their shirts. The Welsh team equally manifestly contained the better footballers, most particularly Carwyn Leggat-Jones, who looks to be the latest fly-half to be mined from Max Boyce's legendary seam of No. 10s. 

For forty minutes England played a pre-planned game utterly unsuited to the conditions. It was brain-dead rugby. Wales feasted on the English stupidity, most particularly when England gifted them a try. One can only speculate what was said to the England team at half-time, but whatever it was, the result was a direct and forceful display from superior athletes. Had mental acuity been allied to athleticism, the margin would have been much greater. The problem is that sometimes you just can't teach these things - as the great Gary Street once remarked (to a passing opposition back-row) after a particularly notable clearance kick: 'You can't teach that - it's genetic'. As with so much else, Gary had a point, even if his insolence did place his No 8 (your correspondent) at risk of a smack from the aggrieved flanker. I can forgive Gary everything. Genius.  

A Personal Boast

It was only on 17 January that I shared with you my resolution to get back to being able to run for an hour non-stop by the end of May. This was based on adding five minutes to my longest runs each month. It was not exactly an earth-shattering ambition but I would point out that by the time we get to the end of May I will be sixty-six and in grateful receipt of my state pension. I own an old body hampered by a rugby player's accumulation of physical afflictions. Wouldn't change that last fact for the world.

Anyway, what I am building up to saying is that the Pig is back in Benllech and set forth this morning in high winds and pissing-down rain and rather surprised himself by running for one hour and sixteen seconds. To say that I am pleased with this outcome is an understatement. Just thought I would share this with you.

While I exult in this minor achievement, the world lurches from one undignified crisis to another. Will Keir Starmer survive as PM as what I presume someone will shortly dub Mandygate unfolds? It is very tempting not to give a shit but there's a country to be run. Any volunteers? Oh, by the way, I've just done a cursory Google search and 'Mandygate' has been doing the rounds for days. So much for my political antenna. 

Even I Am At A Loss For Words (Well Almost)

Anybody with half an ounce of perception has been able to tell for in excess of two decades that Peter Mandelson is very talented. But it has been equally obvious for all that time that the the man is a preening, vainglorious shit who thinks himself above the confines of what passes for common decency, Why could our Prime Minister not tell this? He could have asked me, or indeed anyone at the court of public opinion. I despair.

Keir Starmer has managed the near-impossible by his ineptitude in the appointment of our most important ambassador - he has made Kemi Badenoch look competent at PMQ's. I despair. And don't get me started on Ed Davey or that sinister yob Nigel Farage. We deserve better, much better.

An Enviable Fiction; A Damning Fact

 

That Stench Coming Off Your Screen - It's The Foul Smell Of Conscienceless Vaulting Ambition

 

 

The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

The Search For The Good Nazi

I have been watching my way for the umpteenth time through the magisterial World at War (as an aside this reminds me that such compelling yet educational television just would not get made these days) and I am most intrigued by the contributions of that seismic fraud Albert Speer - a high-ranking Nazi who escaped from the Nuremberg trials with his life. It was the enigma of Speer that was brought to mind by recent cinematic encounters with interpretations of two other prominent National Socialists.

The Desert Fox is carried by James Mason's charismatic portrayal of Erwin Rommel, presented to us as an honourable and brilliant military man who came to see that Hitler was leading Germany over a cliff. When one considers that the film was made in the shadow of the War (1951) this is a balanced and generous work. 70/100. 

Nuremberg (2025) has an expert turn from Russell Crowe as the charming but malignant narcissist Hermann Goring. This is top grade acting. Rami Malek's efforts as the psychiatrist who endeavours to know Goring have attracted contrasting reviews (The Guardian is particularly hard on him) but I think he keeps just on the right side of manic. Juristically speaking the Nuremberg trials pose interesting questions for any sentient lawyer, particularly one like me who has always opposed judicial killing in the domestic setting. I still don't know where I stand on war crimes trials and I am grateful that I am not compelled to articulate one way or the other. Another worthy film. 70/100. Watch out as well for a fine subsidiary performance from Leo Woodall.    

You Cannot Avoid Stopping To Think

If you read my entry for yesterday you will have gathered that I was in a rather good mood. Today feels different. I had a disturbed night and, no, it wasn't the bottle of Malbec or the home-made broccoli and stilton soup (home-made by the Groupie you understand). No, it was that foul oaf Donald Trump. His latest effrontery is to impose trade tariffs on his supposed allies if they will not connive with him in the annexation of Greenland by the good old U S of A.

It does not need repeating that I am no fan of the EU. However I have always been steadfast in applauding the work of the (admittedly imperfect) NATO alliance. The United States has been the generous cornerstone of that alliance and, notwithstanding the inelegance of how he has said it, Trump has been quite justified in coaxing his allies to increase their defence spending. But this latest megalomaniac attempted land-grab is utterly immoral. The man has no shame, not an ounce of decency. And I'm totally fed-up of having him spoil my sleep. Now, I'm going to church.    

Shining On The Self-Righteous At Plas Piggy

Here on the island for the first inspection visit of the year. All is well, in fact it seems even better than that. In marked contrast to last week's covering of snow at Casa Piggy, Benllech is bathed in glorious winter sun and the Pig is feeling very good about himself having run for forty minutes this morning. By way of climatological proof I reproduce the rather crappy photograph taken from the front window showing the waters glistening on Red Wharf Bay and the Great Orme looming in the distance. I can't give you any documenatry proof of my run - you'll have to trust me on that one, but why would I lie?

It is on a day such as this that one glimpses the illusion of the runner's high. Actually that is unfair - the high really does exist, it is just that you feel it less frequently as age and lassitude restrict activity. On the basis that the public sharing of a new year resolution makes compliance more likely (because failure is so much the worse when suffered in the open) I will admit that I have the ambition to get back to running for an hour by June this year. My other resolutions are for me alone.

I will say this - running here in Benllech is even tougher than back in the environs of Casa Piggy (which is atop a hill) as the village climbs steeply out of the Bay. Today I ran/staggered half-way down to to Red Wharf Bay and back. I feel good.

Another reason to feel content - I have realised that itvX harbours Once Upon a Time in America in its listings. I'm too mean to pay for the ad-free version but I may watch it tonight and put up with the adverts. I haven't seen the movie for a decade or more but I remember it as Leone's masterpiece. Am I right? 

Deep and Crisp And Even At Casa Piggy

I have started the new year with the usual slew of resolutions. More exercise, less eating, more reading, blah blah blah. Thus far I have been pretty good and I am even keeping a regular check on my blood pressure - this is going particularly well as it happens - the drugs seem to work. But plans for my third run of the week have been well and truly scotched by Storm Goretti (who thinks of these names?), as can be seen from the photograph of the drive at Casa Piggy taken by our staff photographer (aka the Groupie) yesterday evening.

I said last week that the film of Charlotte Gray is a bit of a dud. Instead you might look for Operation Mincemeat on iPlayer - a nice bit of staunch Britishness in the factual context of WWII. 63/100. 

I have now almost eaten my way through the remains of the Christmas chocolate (it would be impolite not to eat it all, resolutions or nay) and I shall next do some reading. I already have an ambitious literary project in mind for this year's Advent calendar but you will have to wait until 30 November to hear more! If that doesn't keep you reading, well what on earth will.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 11 & 12

And so the story ends. With two films directed by the great David Lean as it happens, one his epic masterpiece and the other a much more constrained ensemble piece expanded from Noel Coward's theatrical text.

Let us start with the older monochrome film, This Happy Breed. Modern criticism latches onto what it sees as miscasting of upper-middle-class actors in the working-class leads. That is reductive. What we have is a taut journey through an England fractured by the aftermath of the Great War coupled with clues as to how that society had the sheer bloody guts to resist fascism. It is a happy film. 70/100.

I have reviewed Lawrence of Arabia before - 22 May 2013 to be precise. I did so then in a spirit of recrimination against a small man who had taken pleasure in belittling my intellect. I shall not name him but my rancour remains. He is part of that small class of people I wish I had struck. Even as I write that sentence I feel diminished by the sentiment and the victory is his. That is how small men triumph. Enough.

Lawrence of Arabia is a truly geat film. It is about faith; it is about betrayal; it is about masochism; it is about imperialism; it is about parochialism; it is about masculinity; it is extraordinary. I did not give it a rating in 2013 but I do so now - 96/100.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 9 & 10

Christmas is officially over here at Casa Piggy - the lights and the trees came down at the weekend. There is a tinge of sadness in seeing them go but a greater urge (for the Pig at least) to look forward and to make 2026 a good year. As I now realise I have had a discreditably lengthy period of sunning myself in the minor glory of completing my PhD. This is not a good look and there is some catching up to do on some cherished projects. Onward and upwards!

But before anything else I need to tidy up the strand of films watched over the holiday. Thay have been a good bunch with only one dud and even that not too bad in truth. I refer to Charlotte Gray, which turned out to be a sadly uninvolving adapatation of Sebastian Faulks' well-received novel. I'm not sure that it is anyone's fault in particular but, you know how it is, some entertainments just never come together. This is one such. 58/100.

Now for something very different and very good. BlacKkKlannsman is directed by Spike Lee (not automatically a recommendation) and borders on the superb - actually I think it just topples into that category. It is strident and chillingly funny about the dangerous clowns in the KKK. Highly recommended. 82/100.