The Return Of The Grown-Ups

Alexei Sayle is back doing stand-up, or at the very least he has launched his Imaginary Sandwich Bar for the delectation of radio listeners. This is decidedly good news. Sayle has more wit in his little finger than many of the self-loving modern stand-ups put together. Sayle and I stand at opposite poles of the political world (I exclude the lunatic fringe right from my analysis) but I have always had an admiration for sane socialism. And he never forgets the underpinning rule of comedy - it's supposed to be funny. 

A far cry from comedy (well, on reconsideration, probably not) is the state of British politics - tragi-comedy perhaps, that difficult bastard child. Much of the time I give way to the counsel of despair and just roll my eyes sagaciously when politics intrudes into my life. Well, what would you know - I turned on the television to watch the parliamentary debate on the Autumn Statement. I should declare an interest here. For the record, the provisions of the Statement materially and injuriously affect the finances of the life of Pig. I neither expect nor seek any sympathy. What struck me about the debate was that before the infantile shriekers of the back-benchers took their turn, there was the spectacle of adult speeches. No matter what James Naughtie may think of him, I estimate Jeremy Hunt as a serious politician. And lo, I give unto you, his Shadow, Rachel Reeves. Another adult and one not tainted by service in the joke Corbyn Shadow Cabinet. Unlike, of course, her pudding-brained leader, the pathologically useless Keir Starmer. Sayle's show included his slam poetry offering - I Hate Keir Starmer. Quite.

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.

The Death Of Stalin

Now that the vaunted Clive James has shuffled off the proverbial, I suppose I ought to nominate a new incumbent for the post of my favourite living cultural commentator. Come on down .... Armando Iannucci.

Iannucci's The Death of Stalin is not for those of a delicate moral disposition. This is black comedy (very, very dark) about the death of, and subsequent rush to succeed, one of the twentieth century's great monsters - and let's face it, that century produced some considerable competition in the monster field. Bloody funny. 8/10.

Big Fat Pig And His Gloom

A definite problem with BFP's obsession with Trump is that every piece of news or cultural artefact, every damned thing, becomes a prism through which the villain's rule is observed. Thus the following in Jonathan Bate's (we are not worthy as Wayne's World would have it) The Genius of Shakespeare had the Pig reaching for his highlighter pen:

Righteous dude

Iago is Shakespeare's pre-imagining of a world that is no longer anchored by the moral order made possible by the reflective principles of good and evil. Iago does not commit himself to a contract with the devil in the manner of Dr Faustus. He inhabits a world in which there is no moral principle , there is only the fact of life and death. (p. 292)

Apropos of nothing at all do you know what? I have literally only as I type this made the connection between the Eagles and Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (currently being repeated on 4Extra) - the Hitchhiker theme is track 4 on side one of One of These Nights. Which definitely has nothing to do with Trump, so that's good - every day, in every way, I'm getting better.

Some Good Stuff From Yesterday

Rodding blocked drains is by definition a foul task but its successful conclusion, that moment of gurgling whoosh, is immensely satisfactory. Yet more satisfying is achieving this effect with a new claw tool acquired from Toolstation for the princely sum of £2.10, that's two guineas in very old money. Toolstation therefore joins the OG list of approved suppliers.

Viewing treats last night were first War of the Roses and then an episode of Third Rock from the Sun. The former is worthy even as nothing more than a primer on 1980's style and excess, but in fact offers rather more than that. It is a black, black comedy narrated by a lawyer from which the institution of divorce emerges blacker than black. Funny and relentlessly unromantic. 7/10.

Third Rock is a reminder just how good the high production values of American sitcom can be. Clever and funny.

National Treasures

Two comedians recently deceased should be marked.

Ronnie Corbett was perhaps lost both literally and figuratively in the shadow of his accomplice Ronnie Barker, but Corbett was a real trooper in his own right. My favourite joke involved his grandfather having died at the Battle of the Little Big Horn - 'He wasn't involved but he was camping in the next valley and went over to complain about the noise.' National treasure.

Victoria Wood was beautifully funny. We had the pleasure of seeing her live many years ago and she was side-splitting. Bloody, bloody clever as well. National treasure.

There's plenty of both of them on that YouTube so go on, knock yourself out.

Decency And An Indecent Stunt

Sir Terry Wogan died overnight. An absolute master of his art and by all accounts a man infected by decency. Decency, the reason Graham Norton is so much better a broadcaster than Jonathan Ross, and the reason that Kevin Bridges is better than Frankie Boyle. Being a shitbag is not of itself admirable.

Someone else who comes across as intrinsically decent is Andy Murray. He lost another Grand Slam final to Novak Djokovic this morning - Ausralian Open - no crime in an age when three of the very greatest players of all time are plying their trade: Federer, Nadal and Djokovic. Murray has won two Grand Slams, an Olympic title and, almost single-handedly, the Davis Cup. Why has he not been knighted? Perhaps just a matter of time but the delay seems churlish.

An indecent stunt - Mcdonnell tax return - John McDonnell has published his tax return, with which I have no problem (it's not very interesting and that, of course, is why he feels safe doing it), but more to the point he has challenged Gorgeous George Osborne to do the same - the mealy-mouthed implication is that not to do so somehow unfits a man for public office. This is bollocks. Any old reader of the OG will know that I don't like George Osborne but the fact that his family has money is of no relevance. It is relevant to question (as the self-flagellating McDonnell does but never out loud) whether it is right for anyone at all to be what he would define as 'rich'. By all means, let's have that discussion if we really must, although it's pretty wearying stuff to those of us who grew up with hyperbolic Marxist jealousy. What is not manly (another word that will upset my old bien-pensant mates, and, yes, I confess that is precisely why I've done it) is to indulge in this sort of low attack.

Tax adviser visits HQ

And since you ask, no I strongly doubt that the Google tax deal is a good one for UK plc but I do understand the massively unbalanced nature of the negotiation that led to it. Being a tax collector used to be a respected trade for the intellectually gifted - now the brightest and best work on the other side of the fence for the shit-bag lawyers and accountants who sponge off the behemoths like Google. They are immensely clever and tragically soulless. It is my generation (God damn us) that has made the world like this. For someone at least trying to shed a little light on the topic, try this as a starting point - Sales Tax?

More cheerfully and, as usual several years behind trend, I have just discovered Pramface on Netflix. Has anything ever been quite so comprehensively well cast?

Advent 20

It's starting to feel a lot like Christmas. This afternoon the Groupie and I make our annual trip to the Symphony Hall for the CBSO Christmas concert - a lovely, warm, mushy event.

Today's entry represents writing of the highest stamp and near faultless playing across the whole extended cast - take, for example, Joe from next door in his limited appearances. The Royle Family manages to be provocative but affecting. Here we have the incident of Dave's van but I could equally have chosen any of the occasional mentions of Beverley Macca - ranking alongside Frasier's Maris as the best unseen character of all time.

Advent 12

There are only twelve episodes of Fawlty Towers but they amount to a near perfect televisual tour de force. Cleese and Booth's finest hour. Brilliant performances and several great comic creations, not least the raging Basil. Here we have the fabulous wildebeest scene. Priceless.

Train Delay

We're on the way from Portland to Vancouver - slowly as it happens. We are three and a half hours in and already two behind schedule. But at least the internet thingy is working so I can bore the world in the accustomed manner.

Not in the Michelin Guide

It occurs to me that I omitted to mention the epicurean inconsistency in yesterday's eating. As I last blogged, we ate in the evening at the outstanding Paley's Place. Which was nice. At lunchtime we had nachos, fries and a beer (well the Groupie had wine) at the salubrious Buffalo Wild Wings sports bar franchise in downtown Portland. Which was also nice - and that, I think, is my point.

I've just watched the first episode of Phoenix Nights. Peter Kay, genius.

Je Suis Charlie

No matter how scurrilous (and I would not be at all surprised unfunny) Charlie Hebdo may be, there is only one thing that this blog can properly trumpet tonight - JE SUIS CHARLIE. See - Je suis charlie

... Are Brilliant Mark XIII

Match of the Day - where it should be, that is to say, Saturday night on BBC1, watched through a boozy haze after an afternoon on the rugby pitch. My haze wasn't particularly boozy this weekend but you know what I'm getting at. One odd observation - why do so many Premier League managers favour the wooly-pully under jacket fashion statement. They look silly.

I mention that the Saturday afternoon in question should be taken up with rugby. Which brings me to my second item - many thanks to Evesham RFC whose match I refereed on Saturday. As fate would have it I found myself having to make a crucial and unpopular decision on the final play of the match. Any rancour was most decidedly kept from me afterwards and I commend both Evesham and their opponents, Old Wheatleyans who seemed to be on the cusp of a proper old style rugby club night when I left them to it. Thank you gentlemen.

Flanders and Swann. I was listening to this amusing duo on the drive up to Anglesey on Saturday night. If you have never heard them, you should track them down. From a more innocent age undoubtedly but nevertheless bloody funny. Not an expletive in sight or sound either.

Nigel Owens - I've said this before I know, but he really is the dog's proverbials as a referee. I caught him in domestic action on S4C.

Are Brilliant Mark VI

Ed Reardon's Week. You can catch it intermittently on Radios 4  and 7. By matchless serendipity last week's episode gave Ed a new girl friend played by, wait for it, Jenny Agutter. This is inspired casting since I'm pretty sure the producers must know that she has long been the favourite of the show's target audience, that is to say blokes like me. And don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. You know who you are.

Next up is an American, Rich Hall. I have been reminded how sagacious he is as I rewatch his documentary  How The West Was Lost on the excellent BBC4. This should be shown to film students in lieu of lectures on the western. It is partial, provocative and precise (within the first five minutes he looks straight at camera and deems George W. Bush a fuckwit) and gets you thinking. Which is a good start to the subject. Not, as others have expertly averred, that this is an area on which I am an expert, but that's not going to stop me having a go. Tough.

Ynys Mon. Or the Isle of Anglesey to us English oppressors. I'm on an extended break here because I'm going to see Derek Jacobi in King Lear at the improbable locus of Llandudno on Tuesday. Sharon and Helen were with me for the weekend but have gone home leaving me to a pile of books on Shakespeare (I counted them last night - twenty-two of them) and my supply of red wine. I have had what passes for a thrilling evening considering every reference to 'Rome' in Antony and Cleopatra. There are thirty, not to mention nine to 'Roman'. Just to prove how far into sad bookishness I have fallen, last week I spent a book voucher on my own copy of The Divine Comedy. I've even read some of it. And enjoyed it. Do I need help? No I need more book tokens and I need more shelf space, because as we all know, books do furnish a room.

This last one will cement my place on the naughty step but what the hell. Jenny Agutter. Sexy even on the radio. In a comedy. The photo is from Logan's Run which is not  a good film but I couldn't really put up a picture of the Railway Children now could I. Not without squads of social workers descending on my island strongness and embossing my name on some sort of register that Dave Cameron wants to make unamendable for ever and ever and ever. 

Advent 9

It's deja-vu all over again. I refer you to the entry for 14 October. It's happened again. So no I haven't had a good day thankyou. Truth be told I've had a right shitty day and I don't deserve it. There I've said it. Isn't self-pity pathetic.

What I need is cheering up. So here it is, the very best scene from the very great Green Wing. I feel better already. Just double click on the video box to get full screen if you don't want to see the cropped version. This seems to be a problem with my embedding technique but hey you're bloody lucky I can do it at all.

.... Are Brilliant Mark V

Angela Carter. Danielle (a very wise young woman of my acquaintance - a point I mention by way of boasting that I do actually know some young women) told me an age ago that Carter was brilliant. I did not initially act on this information but the degree syllabus eventually left me with no choice in the matter - well God bless the reading list is what I say. Oh and God bless Danielle whose advice I will henceforth heed. Carter's is writing so good that it leaves you breathless and envious of its sheer bloody audacity. Read anything of hers but make sure you don't miss Wise Children which is very,very funny. Wodehouse funny (yes that good) but with lots of shagging.

Belly pork. Once unfashionable and reassuringly cheap. Now de rigueur (no matter how many times you look at it that word looks like it's spelt wrong) and a bit pricey. Used to eat it a lot when I was a student. Nothing wrong with a bit of fat. Years ahead of my time of course. My next prediction is a fad for Dundee cake and instant custard, which I used to have for pudding every night until the cake had run out and I would go home and get Grandma to make me another one. Sadly my dealer died a few years ago. Proud Yorkshirewoman my Grandma - knew what she liked and liked what she bloody well knew.

Old films. This of course is a bit of a generalisation but what the hell, they're better than new films. It's a matter of soul and style. I can't put  a date on when old films stop and new ones start, which rather gives the lie to my argument. How about 1960? If that's the case smart-arse how do you explain The Godfather? Or M*A*S*H? Or Hoop Dreams? Or Toy Story? This is a post I wish I'd never started. What I will do is put in a word for Now Voyager (1941) - melodrama has its place in the pantheon but is it ok for men to cry? The new man Overgraduate thinks it is but he's rather a weed when all is said and done and hopes the rugby club are not reading this.

Red wine. Another sweeping generalisation there but I've had a couple of glasses and it doesn't half aid the creative process. In that regard it works far better than white wine. On the down side it gives you a worse head-ache. One's life is bedecked with such problems. No doubt Hemingway felt much the same.

Snow. A contentious one this because the currently fashionable response is to curse it and also to bemoan our inability to carry on doing whatever it is we do as soon as it is inconsiderate enough to fall. But work with me here - it looks lovely, particularly from the window of my edge of the countryside middle-class redoubt. I'm looking at it now. God bless us one and all.

The Republic of Ireland. If a country is to go bust it should do it with a certain degree of style and a marked lack of self-pity. The Irish way is so much more dignified and proper than the Greek. As for the benighted Euro, well I've been singing this song for ages - the question of a single currency is not one of economics it is one of politics and above all sovereignty. That he kept us out of it will be Gordon Brown's monument. That he wanted in should be one of Blair's. One does wonder what those twin buffoons Heseltine and Clarke make of the present fiasco. There's no fool like an old fool.

Amateur dramatics. Recently finished a brief run as the pater familias in Little Women. This was a very small role and one I made a solid attempt to cock up but all was alright on the night(s). Perhaps the most reassuring thing about it was the young cast, several of whom were uniquely hopeless in rehearsal but blithely assured us they would be fine in performance. The young were right and we old gits need not have worried. I'll be back for more if they'll have me.

Sideshow Bob. A great comic creation. It stands to reason that I would like The Simpsons because I am after all a man of taste and discernment, but when Bob is in town the comic ante is upped. Kelsey Grammer's finest hour. True aficianados will also appreciate Bob's brother Cecil. The two are here shown together in a tender family moment after Cecil springs Bob from prison.

Finally, red wine. Oh, done that already. Say goodnight Sooty.

.... Are Brilliant Mark II

Green Wing generally but especially episode 5 of series1. This contains the single funniest scene in the history of British comedy - between Sue White and Martin Dear on the subject of Martin's wardrobe. Watched it again last night and it still works.

Also last night (favourite comedy night for Sharon's birthday) re-watched the last episode of Summer Heights High. This isn't just funny but poignant - watch the whole series but then check out the scene in which Jonah says goodbye to the remedial English teacher. Beautifully observed and played.