More Rain, More Seaside

I'm back home at Casa Piggy after a pleasant enough drive back on the A55 - A525 route. I had been planning to take the classic A5 route but I found myself listening to an interesting documentary about Elvis Presley's 1968 comeback television special and didn't want to lose the radio signal. It was a good piece of cultural materialism, whatever that really means.  

I digress. Just a brief line to comment on England's Six Nations performance on Sunday. The good thing: Italy were kept scoreless; the bad thing: most everything else - imprecision masquerading as ambition. They should expect to be judged by high standards. On that basis this was, in academic terms, a solid 2:2, nothing more.

I had another bottle of that Malbec and stayed awake for the whole of the Super Bowl - a tight tussle that rewarded my patience. I could do without all the half-time shenanigans mind you. I made myself a hot-dog at that stage and took in some of the Winter Olympics. Also boring.

I've discovered a new food group that I like - the Ginsters Bombay Potato and Spinach Pasty. Vivid proof that vegetarianism isn't always good for you. I have been trying (mostly successfully) to avoid eating meat during the week (I don't drink alcohol either) because of my blood pressure. Not at all convinced that it does me any good but I do feel vaguely virtuous.

Sorry, I've just looked at the title I had given this piece - it was raining at the seaside.

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.    

'We Are Penn State', Other Sporting Triumphs, And A Significant Anniversary

Number nineteen ranked Penn State travelled to number twelve Wisconsin and won 16-10 with a glorious defensive performance. After last year's near disastrous record, things look better for the Nittany Lions. We are Penn State.

While the cosseted stars of the PGA Tour spent their weekend chasing the obscene $15m prize at their Tour Championship, the better spectacle was to be found in Toledo, Ohio where the women of America and Europe battled it out without recompense for the Solheim Cup. For once the often anodyne Iain Carter gets it spot on - Solheim Triumph 

Can you remember what you were doing fifty years ago today? As it happens I can - 7 September 1971 was one of the very best days of my fortunate life. On that date I started at King Edward VI Aston School. Not a day goes by without me being grateful for the companionship and learning that School gave me. Long live the name of Edward, our founder and our king. Silly but you've got to love it.

A Further Retreat From Hell

(Let us paraphrase) Let's talk about sport baybee, Let's talk about you and me, Let's talk about all the good things, all the bad things that may be.

The various purveyors of radio entertainment I was listening to on my drive back from the island, were at pains to designate today as Black Monday, the most depressing day of the year. Well, (and again I paraphrase) I have the only cure for life, And the cure for life is joy, I'm the sporting boy that everyone calls laughing boy. Which is a very roundabout way of saying that sport touched the stars last night. Forget about the stratospheric salaries and the hype and feel the quality of the drama in the small hours as both NFL conference championship games went to overtime. You couldn't script it. The day of the two conference finals is actually my favourite of the NFL season, better by far than the Super Bowl. A late night that was worth the staying up.

Before I watched the American Football I viewed another example of a film that won the Best Picture Oscar that isn't that good. Long, worthy and beautiful to look at The Last Emperor flits around Chinese history but never locates its soul. 6/10.

6N18: Week 1

What a weekend! Not for you necessarily but for me I mean. I was in Anglesey, did a bit of walking with the Groupie and rather more eating and drinking. And in between times (thanks to the boon that is catch-up television) I watched all three of the rugby internationals and rounded things off with the Superbowl.

The eating and drinking first - walked around the bay from the family estate to Red Wharf Bay - bracingly cold, inspiring high tide, and just a bit of rain. Bosting. Ship Inn: pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord to whet the appetite, then a very good seafood chowder, banoffee waffle, washed down with sauvignon blanc. Bosting but definitely slowed me down on the walk back - a bit more rain but not so much that you would complain.

some second-string

Next, the rugby. A stolid affair in Paris, where Ireland were markedly better than France but almost conspired to lose. This Irish side is potentially very good and after years of scepticism I'm beginning to see why they make such a fuss of Johnny Sexton. My favourites for the title, but only just. Wales v Scotland was oddly funny because it made complete charlies out of the alleged experts. This was to be the new dawn for Scotland, and Wales would be hobbled by injuries. As it was, the bad old Scotland turned up and got duffed up by a very impressive Wales team. Rhys Patchell is a player I have long liked and I think the injury to the always impressive Biggar may have done Wales a favour. International rugby is a hard school. It could all have been even worse for the Scots, what with Wales knocking on two scoring passes due to over-enthusiasm. As for the supposed lack of strength in depth in Welsh resources, I would say only this - anyone would miss Faletau but Moriarty is some second-string and if you can afford to leave Tipuric on the bench then things can't be all bad.

some third-string

On Sunday England won tidily enough in Rome but, as ever, there were errors and omissions. Mind you if Richard Moriarty is an impressive second-string, then Sam Simmonds is just as mighty a third-string at number eight. It all makes for a resounding clash between England and Wales next Saturday. Before that we will no doubt have to endure the childish mind-games of the two coaches. Paddy Power have the spread at eleven in England's favour - that strikes me as ridiculously optimistic and worth a punt on Wales. But what do I know?

Two very good things to come out of this first weekend: nobody won the Ronan O'Gara Gobshite Award and there were free-kicks awarded for not straight in the scrum. Good grief, they'll stop allowing New Zealand to get away with forward passes if things continue like this. We can hope.

Finally the Superbowl. I dutifully sat myself down in the company of several beers and a surfeit of hot dogs with no great expectation of a great match. Wrong again. A high scoring and dramatic clash. Some weekend. 

Sport, Bloody Hell

I've been musing on a weekend of rather pleasing sporting drama. On Friday night an inspired Llanelli eviscerated Bath on the rugby field. Simply beautiful. And rugby was not finished with us, still to come was a bloody-minded Harlequin victory over Wasps - Quins had nothing to play for whereas their opponents could keep alive their prospects of qualification for the European Cup quarter-finals. The explosion of delight from the Quins players when they scored the late and decisive try was a perfect illustration of the joy that is to be had from spoiling a rival's party. Cherishable even if it does leave us perilously close to there being no English team left in the competition. Hey ho, a bit of humility never goes amiss in English rugby.

Moving on to football, of the association ilk. The January transfer window is open so we are constantly reminded of the quite obscene bucketloads of cash that players and their agents take out of the game. But Sunday also saw lambent evidence of why this is the 'beautiful game' - Liverpool - 4, Manchester City 3. Beautiful, skilful, joyous.

And on again - the NFL play-offs, that mixture of ballet and brutality. Did you see the final and decisive play of the New Orleans/Minnesota match? Thrilling.

R.I.P

Finally a mention for an old hero who has died too young. Cyrille Regis was a muscuar Christian who graced the West Bromwich Albion shirt. In an age before footballers made millions, he lived round the corner from us and used to nod to me when he was out washing his car as I ran by on a Sunday morning. Football was played at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, end of.

Advent 15

Some sportsmen become surrounded by an aura of near-invincibility - no one is perfect but some get close. Joe Montana for example. He started four Super Bowls, threw not a single interception and was three times the game's MVP. All of this from someone drafted eighty-third overall in the third round of the college draft amidst doubts about his athleticism and his arm strength. Joe Cool indeed.

Advent 6

 My contention yesterday was that Martina Navratilova is the greatest tennis player of all time. I can hear justifiable grumbles on behalf of other notables, but what the hell. It's my list

On the Greatest Of All Time (GOAT) front I suspect that today's bold assertion may be less troublesome. Jerry Rice is the GOAT amongst wide receivers. If you ever get the chance, find out about the murderous off-season regime that Rice put himself through to assure his enduring physical prowess.

A tad prickly off the field, Rice was devastatingly elegant on it. And all of this having been drafted out of unfashionable Mississipi Valley State University. Poetry in motion.

Played With An Oval Ball

We are ... Penn State. 109,898 - I'll put it in words as well so that you can see I mean it - one hundred and nine thousand, eight hundred and ninety eight. That was the announced attendance as Penn State downed Pittsburgh yesterday afternoon at Beaver Stadium. Raucous and joyous.

Perhaps twenty people (I didn't count them) watched the lower team game at Sunnybank Avenue earlier in the day. Dad and I were amongst them. We repaired to the bar in the second half and the throng greeted dad like the hero he is - one of Aston Old Edwardians' Honorary Life Vice Presidents, an honour we don't just fritter away. Where else would you rather be?

I was fulsome in praise of the start to the Aviva Premiership last weekend. Weather and human weakness intervened this weekend although there were exceptions - not all was as dire as Friday's Sale v Newcastle. Still the best sport in the world mind. No matter what all those people at Penn State might think.  

Lucky Generals

I'm having fun today, in fact yesterday evening as well. That evening was spent at Sunnybank Avenue watching a riotous (almost literally) game of floodlit rugby and then catching up with a lot of old friends.

Today starts with driving the Precious Jag to Anglesey (a solitary inspection visit), no traffic hold-ups and snow gleaming in distant Snowdonia. I find all well here at the country estate and then settle to watch another game of rather more elite rugby - England v Australia. Which brings me to lucky generals. Bonaparte wanted such generals and Eddie Jones seems to have found a similar quality in his players. The Sky pundits were purring over England's victory but it would be wrong to overloook the good fortune that underpinned a deceptive (37 - 21) scoreline. England got the rub of the refereeing green (does Jaco Peyper ever have a good game?) and were gifted two of their tries. All that aside, one has to say chapeau to the sheer bloody-mindedness and professionalism of Jones' team. It's all rather un-English. And most welcome.

A word also for Stephen Moore the Australian captain whose after-match interview was a model of bloodied and magnanimous modesty. Chapeau also.

We Are

And now I am bingeing on American College Football on ESPN. One of my teams (I favour quite a few because there's a lot to choose from and it's nice to have an interest in each conference) is Temple and they are presently demolishing Navy in the conference championship. Go Owls. These multiple preferences should not however disguise my prime loyalty: We Are Penn State. 

Same As It Ever Was?

Well yes and no. Six Nations passionate and raucous as ever but never quite hitting top quality. A typical opening weekend to that extent to. But untypical, it is now only the French who have not fallen for the habit of appointing a foreign coach. Eddie Jones a rather pleasant change in his media approach (though his mischievousness will soon lose him friends) but his England side gave us nothing much new - indeed did anyone seriously expect it in the face of the usual frenzied anti-English opposition? This last is not meant as a particular moan, rather a weary observation. The ingrained hatred (what we are conditioned to regard as a quaint and acceptable form of racism) of the English works peculiarly - it inhibits England unless they have one of those rare moments of steely inflexibility (Alf Ramsey, Martin Johnson, Ian Botham) and motivates the rest of Europe to excess, such that they are too easily satisfied with putting the bloody English in their place. The Welsh remain the worst and serial offenders on this score, the Irish have come furthest in overcoming it and, I suppose, in fairness we should exempt the Italians from this lazy categorisation since they don't give a fig for such daftness.

My favourite forum of rugby discussion is the Welsh Scrum V on BBC 2 Wales. It is far more knowledgeable than the mainstream BBC Rugby Special fronted by the sadly diminished (as in: he used to be good but has become pretty shit) John Inverdale with its determinedly tabloid grade of analysis. Yes Scrum V is, by definition, parochial and the format pays unnecessary lip-service to the forced bonhomie of Top Gear, but Wales has a ready supply of pundits who understand rugby and want to take it seriously. The pre-Six Nations show (still available on iPlayer) had Gareth Thomas (a very good player and an even greater cultural icon without ever wishing to be such) and Jeremy Guscott as the tame Englishman. I still don't think the Welsh have quite understood how tragically they are underselling this current team. Warren Gatland has had eight years in the job and has been granted a stellar cast of players. I see no material improvement in that time in their tactical acumen. They have been very, very good but it is the final few inches of development that are the hardest and thus far they have not managed the full ascent. This can be a matter of bad luck (for example the execrable sending-off of Sam Warburton by Alain Roland in RWC 11 - a decision which still offends my tender sensibilities) but Napoleon was right in his preference for lucky generals - in rugby terms this was never better illustrated than by the career of, much as I venerate the man, Clive Woodward.

Icarus falls. OG still loves him.

Sorry, as is my wont I've wandered off the straight and narrow of my piece. So what I'm saying is that I've watched all the matches and imbibed all the punditry and, yes I'll confess, I've even waded through the screeds of drivel on various message boards. And what I think is this. Number eight play is my pet topic and this was a great weekend for all us eightomanes (I think I've made that word up). We saw the unfeasibly brilliant Sergio Parisse flying too close to the sun - scoring a try, leading from the front, giving away two vital penalties and finally attempting a ludicrous drop goal. Magnifico. We saw Jamie Heaslip (whose descent from Olympus I had posited here last week) give a few hints of the old fire. We saw Taulupe Faletau do everything well. We saw Billy Vunipola doing an impression of a force of nature. Tellingly we also saw Louis Picamoles limp early out of the French match against Italy, seemingly leaving France without a focal point. Focal points matter - even the justly vaunted 'Total Football' had Cruyff.

I'm still rambling. So let's venture a few conclusions: Ireland remain the best coached team (Schmidt not Gatland would be my Lions coach); Wales still have the best players but will miss Biggar during his injury (that focal point thing again); the crowd at Murrayfield demean themselves by booing opposition kickers - this surely doesn't matter to professional players but some traditions are just nice, and to counter that the French do it has never been an effective defence to anything; England's back-row balance is wrong and Eddie Jones knows this; Scotland need a focal point, preferably a fly-half given the talent available outside; likewise France; early leaders in the Ronan O'Gara Amusing Gobshite Back Award (journalists call this 'feisty') are Stuart Hogg and Liam Williams.

As if all of that were not enough the my weekend also had space for a game refereed in the teeming rain which I greatly enjoyed and Super Bowl 50 which was a game dominated by harsh defense and cowed offense. My sort of sport.           

Rogue Male + RWC Bulletin 6

Courtesy of ITV I watched Quantum of Solace last night. I had previously enjoyed Skyfall (quite a lot actually) and Casino Royale (less so but quite enough) so it was disappointing to find this Bond rather a mess. I suppose it did herald the darkening of Bond so notably continued in Skyfall but it was a bit too worthy in its painting all men (goody or baddy) in shades of grey and Bond himself was a rather a sulky rogue male.  The plot was a morass of non-sequiturs. Set pieces predictably bold but somehow uninvolving. 5/10.

Tonight we have one of those London Bus moments - you know the thing about them turning up in twos. Insofar as I follow a baseball team it is the New York Mets. Insofar as I follow a college football team it is Penn State. At 1.00 am tonight thanks to BT Sport (which we get courtesy of our broadband contract) both will be shown live - the Mets in the National League Championship Series against the Cubs; the troubled Penn State (the institution has still not fully recovered from a ghastly abuse scandal surrounding a former assistant coach) at the number one ranked Ohio State. What is a sports addict to do? All of this on the same weekend as the RWC quarter-finals, kicking-off of course without the pitiful host nation. If pushed to bet I would find it difficult to see beyond the bookies' favourite in each of the four matches, which would mean a semi-final line-up of Australia v Ireland and New Zealand v South Africa. However there are factors counting against this less than bold prediction: New Zealand seem habitually to be weaker at World Cups than they are between; France are a basket case capable of anything from heavenly to horrific; Argentina are ferocious; Sexton is missing for Ireland (and I count this an even heavier blow than the loss of O'Connell); Wales have the armoury (but possibly not the belief?) to down South Africa. The only one I cannot envisage going against the odds is Scotland v Australia. Don't get me wrong Scotland are an improving side but they have been cruelly dealt with by the laughing stock that is the RWC Disciplinary Committee and Australia have the wind in their sails. As for that Disciplinary Committee - well here's the news boys - it's a contact sport.

It's Raining, It's Pouring, My Love Life Is ... None Of Your Damned Business Actually

It's tipping down or more exactly it's coming down only just beyond the horizontal so strong are the winds. The cover has blown off the barbecue twice today and I have had to venture out to retrieve the situation.

But despite the ghastly weather a middle-aged man's thoughts turn to mid March and the Cheltenham Festival. Now less than four weeks to go until the roar that greets the first race. I will be going for the first three days and a smile adorns my face just typing about it. Get on!

It's been a busy old time and I've enjoyed the last two weekends in Anglesey. The first I went with JRS for a highly convivial few days of beer and sport. We partook of the former and watched the latter. We did have our golf clubs with us but the weather dissuaded us from using them and instead we confined our exercise to walking round to the Ship Inn at Red Wharf Bay for Sunday lunch. We managed to fit that in around watching three games of international rugby, two live rubbers in the Davis Cup and a disappointingly one-sided Superbowl. A capital weekend. Thanks John.

I made another lunchtime appearance at the Ship last weekend but this time it was Saturday and I was with Sharon. The landlord paid me the compliment of remembering my face. We even went back to Red Wharf Bay on Sunday but this time gave the Old Boathouse a go. Most excellent fish pie and a fair enough bottle of Sauvignon blanc. It's a hard life.

My vague prognostications on the Six Nations are looking mildly wise. France have improved, England are competent but don't score enough points when in the red zone, Ireland are zealous and well-prepared, and Wales came an almighty cropper in Dublin last week. Utterly predictably Mike Phillips got into a scuffle. Poor little soul.

My thoughts are turning to purchasing a new car now that Sharon no longer has a company car. It must be my age because I am most interested in value for money and fuel efficiency. However, fear not, the Overgraduate will not be divesting himself of the precious Jag. It shall remain a weekend indulgence.

God And Mammon



Premier League eat your heart out

Nobody, or at least nobody who has watched and understood Bull Durham, will fail to appreciate that there is a poetry, spirituality even, to the playing of competitive sport. Especially team sport. That poetry is sorely challenged by the intrusion of money but it does survive even the most extreme exposures to the forces of avarice. As witness to which please see Exhibits A and B, yesterday's AFC and NFC championship games. Pats and Giants Win Classics The day of the conference finals is a far better day's sport than the overblown and stamina-sapping Superbowl. The blood lust of home fans and the absence of the ludicrous half-time show combine to make this proper raw sport notwithstanding all the money sloshing around the players. At another extreme please also see last Friday's Heineken Cup tie at a dog track in Galwey wherein Connacht beat up a perplexed Harlequins team in a stinking gale. Brilliant. You can't make this stuff up.