Advent 4 Non-Fiction

Maurice Garin

The First Tour by Isabel Best is a short and rather shoddy account of the first ever Tour de France, staged over six gargantuan stages in 1903. The competitors covered an unimaginable 3000 kilometres in those six instalments on fixed gear bikes and were responsible for their own repairs - no support cars or domestiques. The winner (by what remains a record margin of two hours and fifty minutes) was Maurice Garin. Notwithstanding the infelicities of the text, this booklet does just about manage to do justice to the super-human efforts of Garin and his competitors.

Henri Desgrange called him The Bulldog, but Garin, a chain smoker, was also known as 'Le Petit Ramoneur' - the little chimney sweep - owing to his job prior to turning pro. He was one of nine children born in a French-speaking village on the Italian side of the Alps. Legend has it that his parents swapped him for a large round of cheese when he was 14, possibly in order to smuggle him into France. Ten years later he set up a bike shop in Roubaix with two brothers, one of whom supported him at the 1904 Tour. Garin was tough enough to survive the harsh realities of early cycle sport. As an amateur in 1893, he grabbed another rider's spare bike when he punctured in Namur-Dinant-Givet, riding on to win.   

In Defiance Of Age

I fell of my bike last year - but that is an old tale, told in earlier entries. I hurt myself, most problematically my left knee. That knee is now properly operative (or as near as is possible for an old wreck) thanks to the ministrations of the physios at Little Aston. Thank goodness for private health insurance. 

Big Fat Pig redux

But where fitness is concerned, there is always something waiting around the next corner to sabotage our hero, Big Fat Pig. Most recently it has been a painfully damaged right ankle (the injured knee was my left), an injury I further aggravated treading on a large pine-cone in the trees to the right of the 11th fairway at Royal Pype Hayes. It is still not right but I today judged it sufficiently stable (having strapped it up inexpertly) to go out for a run/shamble. You will be pleased to hear that the Pig survived thirteen minutes of what seemed massive exertion.  

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXVIII

It must be my age because here I go again repeating myself. However as a small tide of wisdom laps at my weary feet, I have to concede that certain things are worth repeating, especially if they relate to sanity (mine not yours).  

My own experience of manic depression is that you are never rid of it. It lurks and some days it stands up and slaps you in the face. In my particular case it is the depressive side of the coin that has to be watched out for most often, though, just to keep my poor minders on their toes, the manic stuff comes ranting out of the shadows when you least expect it.

All of which is a way of saying that for no reason at all I found myself feeling shit this weekend. Thanks to my medical and spiritual minders (chief amongst these the Groupie) I have got much better at dealing with these incursions into my well-being. Which in turn brings me back to the subjects of this blog - most of them things I have touched on before. 

OG's precious mower

The precious petrol mower has been serviced by the estimable people at Hughie Willett Machinery. On the basis that good service should be applauded I recommend Willett - Hughie Willett . The precious mower is cutting beautifully and the act of cutting the lawn dipels depression. 

OG's precious bike

This one will not surprise you - after a moderately major crash last Summer (see blog 5 August 2024) I am at last back on the precious bike. Having head-butted the highway as part of my crash, I have done as advised and thrown out the old helmet (which bore the brunt of my arrested decent) and bought a new one. I also had the bike thoroughly gone-over by Sutton Runner and they have done a bang-up job. New brakes, cables and chain and she's running like a dream. It is good to be back in the saddle and the knee that I tried so hard to ruin in my crash, is very much better. Running will be the ultimate test. One step at a time Pig. Bike repairs at Sutton Runner 

OG's precious Jag

Last of all and the most expensive item in my holy trinity of precious objects - the Jag. I took this out for a run in the countryside yesterday. The misfire that had plagued the car for several years has been cured by the good souls at Mere Green Motors and the full thrill of motoring has been returned to me. They also service my workhorse Kia Sorento (eleven years old and seemingly bomb-proof) and I cannot recommend them too highly. In a nice old-fashioned touch they don't seem to have a website! Don't let that put you off, they are seriously good at what they do and don't overcharge. 

So, in conclusion, (not that you would) don't worry about me, I'm feeling better already.

Back On The Mean Streets

You have to promise not to laugh. Last Sunday I was out on the precious bike, the vestiges of plantar fasciitis decreeing that running was out of the question. You really wouldn't credit it but I was attacked by a stationary car. That's my story anyway. Okay, I will admit some contributory negligence on my part. I had slipped a gear as I came to the top of an incline and I was being clever by unclippng and trying to persuade the chain back using my foot. I have done this before but this time it took longer than I had allowed for and that is when when the stationary car jumped out at me. I took a right old smack on the head (thanks goodness for the helmet) and drew blood (quite a bit of it actually) from leg, arm and left hand. I still bear the scars and my hand is too swollen for golf but all in all I got off lightly for this bit of self-inflicted stupidity. Most importantly the car and the bike were both fine.

Big Fat Pig Comes A Cropper

But it takes more than one act of crass stupidity to discourage the Pig. No I haven't been back out on the bike - The Groupie would not allow that. Give it time. No, I have started running again after a lengthy interval - a full three months to be precise. I have mastered the strapping-up of the offending foot and, touch wood, so far so good. Mind you I have thus far confined myself to two flat runs of 2.5k. And, do you know what, I feel all the better for it. I was even cheerfully greeted by one resident on my route who enquired why I had been absent for so long. That alleged canard, the Runner's High, turns out to have a basis in the truth. 

The Money Pit would not be anyone's idea of a great film but as fare for a Sunday afternoon it more than does the job. It relies on physical comedy rather than any degree of wit, scabrous or otherwise. 57/100. A nice alternative to watching the Olympics and having to put up with the ungrammatical inanity that passes for analysis in much of the BBC coverage - there are honourable exceptions of course but you do pine for the days of David Coleman and Ron Pickering. 

All of which is a welcome distraction from the seamier side of the news. In America, Trump manages to crawl lower and lower with his dog-whistle fascism. There is at least an ocean that separates us from that horror. But at home an opportunistic embodiment of race-hatred erupts into violence on our streets. Less than ten miles from where I safely type this, a hostel for asylum-seekers was attacked last night. Let me be clear, nothing, I repeat nothing justifies this immoral godlessness. Nothing. 

 

The State Of The Pig's Body

It was back on 23 May that I made mention of the latest calamity to assail Big Fat Pig's ageing body - plantar fasciitis in the left foot. I''ll tell you what, it's bloody painful. It has put a real crimp in my golf season (I wear a strap and layers of padding on the offending appendage) and I have had to admit defeat and use a trolley, something I loathe doing. I played (very unsuccessfuly) my first round without the trolley on Tuesday and was foot-sore aferwards but will persist. I'm such a martyr.

More trying than the injurious effect on my golf game, is the fact that I had been hoping to get myself a little slimmer for Daughter Number One's wedding in September in that London. Running is out of the question and even the precious bike was impossible when the pain was at its worst. However I am now back on the mean streets on the bike and thereby acquiring a feeling of outrageous well-being. I even mangaged an ascent of the Col de Hillwood this morning. Even better news for those of you who worry about the Pig's immense sense of self-esteem, he has been measured for a ludicrously expensive suit, so he will look gorgeous on the big day. The Pig's style guru (better known to you as Daughter Number Two) accompanied him to the fitting so everything will be in the best possible taste. Now let's turn our attention to that speech.  

  

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXVII

I've been awol from the blog for a few weeks. Sorry about that. Things happen - but I will tell you more once I am authorised to do so. That sounds a little portentous. Nothing to worry about but even the Big Fat Pig has to observe the rules from time to time.

I've been awol from the 'Are Brilliant' thread for even longer, so here we go. Older readers may detect some duplication (or even triplication) but, hell, I'm not a machine.

So here goes. The precious bike. I was out for a few hill-climbs yesterday. Enjoyed it. And along with the golf, this is the only exercise I am getting because my sore Achilles heel is into its fourth month of discomfort. There is no better explanation than that I am getting old (already there?) and that I have subjected this body to more battering than is good for it. That said, there is not a day goes by that I don't miss playing rugby. The ruck remains the father of the maul. 

Talking of battering, the Groupie and I had really disappointing fish and chips from the hitherto reliable Mere Green Takeaway. You must know how it is - you are really looking forward to something, you have a raging hunger, and then the food is all flabby. The disappointment is heightened because of the intensity of the anticipation. Well found the antidote only a few days later, which brings me to the second brilliant item - haddock and chips in the conservatory (one eighty degree sea views) at The Trecastell Hotel in Bull Bay. Washed down with a couple of pints of pale ale. Fish and chips redeemed.

Waitin' Around to Die, by the tragic figure of Townes Van Zandt. Search his stuff out.

Amlwch. I have a fondness for landscapes where the industrial melds with the natural. Amlwch is an old working port but if you head westwards from the port carpark you are soon met by cliffs and clear seas and, best of all, even on a beautiful Spring day, you are largely on your own. What you do after you have walked is to go to the Trecastell Hotel for fish and chips (op. cit.).

The National Trust. I put up with some of its woke inanities because of the cracking job it does in preserving places of interest. We called in at Bodnant Garden on our way home from Ynys Mon. Been there countless times before but there's always something new to observe. I do love a well-stocked garden. I'm attaching pictures of the fallen redwood and the helpful expanatory notice. In case you can't read the script (isn't age a pain) - it stood over 50m tall and was brought down in the Winter storms. 

 

Finally - the concluding episode of the awesome Derry Girls that aired last week. Even by the standards of this great show, the hour-long finale was funny, serious and, most importantly, moving. In amongst the dross of reality television, it is reassuring that such genuinely important work is still being done on television.

Being at The Top Of The Hill

I speak not metaphorically (could I be so immodest?) but literally. Casa Piggy sits at the top of a hill. Now this has its advantages - for example it never floods. It also has its disadvantages - the water pressure can be dodgy. But the principal drawback for Big Fat Pig is that when he is bent on exercise, be it running or on the precious bike, he always has to finish on an uphill stretch. For the serious athletet this would be a positive boon. The Pig is not that serious. Still this factor provokes a feeling of righteous well-being after a couple of decent bike sessions such as those undertaken by the Pig this weekend. The Pig reverted to the bike: a) because the weather has improved; and b) because he's strained his glutes with a fair bit of running. Anyhow, enough about my glutes and back to the precious bike. Yesterday I climbed the Hill Village Incline, Col de Hillwood Common, Mont Worcester, and the Gibbons Pass. Saddle-sore would be the best way to describe my condition. But being a brave soldier I went out for a shorter session today and decided to do some hiil reps - five passes at the Gibbons Pass. Very saddle-sore but smug. Rewarding myself with a couple of glasses of vino. Still being very disciplined about the old drinking - only indulging at weekends. More smugness.

I can report a good and newish film available on Netflix. News of the World is Paul Greengrass' venture into the realms of that quintessential Hollywood genre, the Western. This might be thought a tad presumptuous for a Brit but have no fear, it is arrestingly well done. It stars Tom Hanks who is himself a Hollywood institution. He is predictably good but has some thunder stolen by his young co-star, Helena Zengel. This is a thoughtful contemplation of the majesty and difficult morality of the making of America. It attracted mixed reviews. The nay-sayers are wrong. 76/100.     

Pig On A Bike. No Crashes. Another Two Films

It's been another mildly troubled week for the Pig. Out running on Monday when the right calf twinged again. He finished his half hour and then strapped on the ice packs. He hasn't been running since but managed a seesion on the cross-trainer and then this morning lasted the full two and a half hours on the precious bike, including four substantial (Pig standard) climbs. His porcine legs are very stiff.

Those films. DN2 and I viewed The Imitation Game on Friday. It's goes without saying that Benedict Cumberbatch is excellent as the tragic genius Alan Turing but it perhaps comes as more of a surprise to add that Keira Knightley is also very good. The cracking of the Enigma codes has become the stuff of legend but Turing himself remains, well, something of an enigma. This film relates a very British tragedy unfussily. A solid 2:1 - I'm thinking of films in degree terms I've decided. 69/100. 

Very different but another solid 2:1 is Bridesmaids. It contains some of the features of the gross-out comedy but has a tender heart and is well played by its ensemble cast. Makes you laugh out loud and also makes you smile without getting too lachrymose. 68/100.

I've just been thinking about that 2:1 analogy and it occurs to me that I have, by this new standard, probably been over-marking certain films in the past. Well what can I say  - I'm not a bloody machine, though perhaps I am an enigma. Is that a good thing?

Big Fat Pig In Anniversary Crash

It's wedding anniversary number thirty-six for BFP and the Groupie, the day when everyone asks why the hell does she put up with him.

The Pig (whose keep/get fit programme is still going strong) decided to mark the day with a long cycle ride - in Pig language that means two and a half hours on the road. Today he took on four climbs in his route and was feeling quite pleased as he coasted back to Casa Piggy with the clock ticking down to the allotted time. He arrived at the head of the road with thirty seconds left and therefore decided (stupid completist that he is) to throw in a tiny detour and u-turn to ensure the time was all used. It was the u-turn that brought about the crash, the Pig foolishly thinking he could match the turning circle of a London cab. He can't. End result: kerb clipped, slow motion crash and Pig lying on the pavement with the Precious Bike on top of him. Damage seems to be limited to the cosmetic (both Pig and more importantly Precious Bike) though the scars on knee and elbow look quite impressive. The Pig was helped to his feet by a nearby labourer who had witnessed the crash. He was kind enough not to offer the obvious advice that someone of the Pig's advanced years might want to be more careful.

And here's the thing. Some daft auto-pilot clicks in on such occasions - the Pig remembered to stop his watch as he lay on the pavement. Two hours, thirty minutes and forty seconds. Mission accomplished.  

Welcome To Hardy Country

It's an indicative confession that this man with a respectable first class degree in English has never before in his sixty years read any Thomas Hardy. This man, the Overgraduate aka Big Fat Pig (though getting slimmer - more of this below) has always struggled with the Victorian novel - loved David Copperfield but couldn't hack the rest of Dickens, fought through Middlemarch through a sense of obligation, etc.

Well anyway shame at this omission has caught up with me and I have pulled from the shelf a three novel collection of Hardy texts which I seem to have acquired for the princely sum of one of your English pounds. The nagging guilt must have acted upon me when I bought it, although I cannot for the life of me remember when that might have been. And now I've started on Tess of the D'Urbervilles, so I intend to finish. It's heavy going particularly as I came to this after the quick pleasure of re-reading Simon Raven's Fielding Gray. However I can see why Hardy has admirers and before we got to Tess's fall (I strongly suspect this will not be the lowest point of her trajectory) I was taken with one of the best descriptions of joyful drunkenness that I have encountered:

The fresh night air was producing staggerings and serpentine courses among the men who had partaken too freely; some of the more careless women also were wandering in their gait ... Yet however terrestrial and lumpy their appearance just now to the mean unglamoured eye, to themselves the case was different. They followed the road with a sensation that they were soaring along in a supporting medium, possessed of original and profound thought, themselves and surrounding nature forming an organism of which all the parts harmoniously and joyously interpenetrated each other. They were as sublime as the moon and stars above them, and the moon and stars were as ardent as they.

Now you have to admit that's rather beautiful.

So I mentioned, did I not, that the Pig is shrinking. He is playing a bit of golf (not too badly as it happens - not well but you know what I mean) and that is a help but more importantly the Pig is regularly gracing the mean streets of Four Oaks in his athletic gear. He is up to ninety minute runs and one hundred and fifty minute cycle rides. There is power to add. Hopefully.

 

Bloody Hell That Was Hard Work

Dave's go-faster shoes

I have taken the exercise allowance in lockdown as less permission and more mandate. I do two shorter runs (thirty minutes) each week and one long (by the Pig's standards) which I attempt to lengthen by five minutes each week. I got up to sixty-five minutes this week. I also get out on the Precious Bike once a week and I am adding time on each occasion. Today was bike day and you know how it is, sometimes it is just bloody hard work. I can't attribute today's difficulty to any particular reason but by the time I had come up Hill Village Road for the second time (at the culmination of my Little Hay/Shenstone/Four Oaks loop) I was totally knackered and (could it be a defect in my posture on the machine?) my arms and shoulders were begging for mercy. One hour forty-six minutes. I know it's not that impressive but it is making me feel better in mind and body. I've even invested in some new running shoes - Asics GT2000/8 again - I'm a creature of habit. My magic insoles (all the way from California at ruinous expense) have been transferred from the old pair.

I've just re-read that paragraph and realised that it is bald confession of breaching the one hour exercise dictum. In my defence I stress I am scrpulous in my social distancing and I never spit! As I type, Boris is on the television telling us all how the lockdown will continue. I think he will cut me a bit of slack. Blow me, he just did. 

Now for a word about a film we enjoyed. Well a couple of words - silly and enjoyable - that's three words I know but you will forgive me the conjunctive. The Bourne Ultimatum continues the Bourne saga into its third iteration. There is immorality at the top of the CIA (when is there not?) and it is down to Jason Bourne to stop it. But who is Jason Bourne? The film rockets along in its silliness but it is beautifully realised. 73/100.  

The Brummie Paris-Roubaix

My admiration is boundless for the riders who thunder over the setts of the Paris-Roubaix. This morning Big Fat Pig did his own down-scaled version of the classic. This involves steering the Precious Bike over the pock-marked roads of Shenstone and Four Oaks for an hour and forty-one minutes. I can tell you, you feel every one of the bumps. The roads are in a shocking state. And the run from Shenstone back to Mere Green is an unexpected killer - a succcession of false flats lulling our overweight hero into a misplaced sense of comfort. I did that stretch twice today and by the end of the second I was out on my legs. Mind you the Pig would have to admit to feeling a tad self-righteous after his ordeal. He also ran for an hour (yes without stoppping) on Thursday. Wonder Pig.

Pig and the Groupie enjoyed (without being bowled over) Tolkien last night. It is a biopic of the young author's formative years at King Edward's School in Birmingham and during the Great War. It carries no imprimatur from the Tolkien estate so perhaps needs to be accomapanied by a liberal dose of salt but I thought it considered and mildy affecting. 69/100.

The Groupie has tolerated my watching of all four parts of Jesus of Nazareth downloaded over Easter. I'm a sucker for the scriptures and there are good performances from Robert Powell and Ian McShane in particular. Spoiler alert - he dies in the end you know.

The good thing about getting quite a lot of exercise is that you can fool yourself (the Pig does) that over-eating is not merely permissible but compulsory. This is of course self-deluding bollocks. Tonight it will be chicken and chorizo jambalaya. The Groupie is far too good to the Pig.

On Ageing Disgracefully

Yesterday it rained. Today it has not, although the temperature has been sharp to say the least. Still I saw quite a few hardy souls out for a walk as I ran four miles (yes you did read that right - the Pig is back) this morning. I traded greetings with various people and exchanged knowing nods (the stock in trade of the self-righteous) with a few fellow runners - this is an exaggeration of course, what the Pig does these days is not so much running as shuffling. It is, in the Pig's defence, moderately faster than walking.

At what age does middle age end? I will hit sixty next month. Will I pass from being a MAMIL (middle aged man in lycra) to some other status? Is wearing lycra after passing six decades on the planet an affront to decency? Do you know what - I don't care. It makes me feel good, even if the pre-exercise stretching and the post-exercise recovery take longer and longer.

And another thing - I'm off the midweek vino at present. Sodding hell I feel smug! And the FTSE went up today so I am moderately richer than yesterday and still substantially poorer than one short month ago. You can't take it with you but I'm thinking of living for ever.

This Morning I Shot An Elephant In My Pyjamas ...

I don't know what he was doing in my pyjamas. It could only be Groucho Marx, in this instance as a supposedly intrepid explorer in Animal Crackers. Great fun which I rewatched with my dear old Dad yesterday morning. Not perfect of course (the film not me you fool) and I suppose incorrect on the modern scale, but the greatest fun. At this distance in time (it is eighty-nine years old) it probably comes down to whether or not you like the Marx Brothers, or indeed whether you have even heard of them. Their very presence predisposes me to mirth so 8/10.

A very different kettle of fish, The Godfather Part III, was today's fare as I took a break from reading up on Darwin and Huxley. I could explain why I am reading about these distinguished Victorians but I have to concede that my reasons are pretty obscure and you know I like you to be entertained, so we'll wait for a day when I feel disposed to dress it all up. So Godfather Part III - any good? Taken on its own, yes it is, but in the context of its two predecessors (both of which are right up there with the very best of all time) it disappoints. The narrative drive gets lost around the middle and the climax is then cinematically botched. Sofia Coppola is, I'm afraid, woefully miscast as Mary Corleone. Coppola has of course since redeemed herself several times over as a director. 7/10 but definitely one for completists to acknowledge and enjoy.

Now then, a little quiz for those of you who have read me before - on which three mechanical devices does the Overgraduate bestow the sobriquet 'Precious'? That's right there is the Precious Jag (now into its third decade and beautiful to behold as ever), then there is the Precious Bike (neglected of late but  I'll soon put that right if the sun persists), and finally there is the Precious Mower - petrol of course and self-propelled. Well the original Mower is dead, long live the new Mower. Quieter than its predecessor and on the initial evidence a better cutter, let me introduce you to the Honda Izy HRG466. May it give me service even half as good as the old one which came with us to this house and had a near twenty year career.

And one final announcement - today's blog is brought to you with the more than acceptable assistance of Paul Jaboulet Aine Syrah 2017. As we experts say, yum yum.

Great Uncle Big Fat Pig

Rather as Margaret Thatcher might have put it - we are a great uncle. Welcome to the world Henry Owen Geraint Parfitt, born to my brother's daughter and for whom the world need hold no greater concern than whether he will play rugby for his mother's England or his father's Wales. Since both parents are fine cricketers perhaps the problem will not arise and he will simply play cricket for England. Let us hope he is of that forgotten breed, a staunch top order batsman. Even as I type, another engrossing test match against India is unfolding and England's manful bowling attack attempts to compensate for the manifest inadequacy of the batting. Test cricket, you can't beat it.

What else of moment is going on in the world? Well, I have been amusing myself reading Timothy Snyder's The Road to Unfreedom, a skilfully composed polemic which is fascinating on the phenomenon of Donald Trump but misguided on the nature of the EU. I will return with a more considered review in due course.

BFP is still on his exercise regime - A bike ride on Friday took in two turns up Hillwood Common and one up Worcester Lane. A seventy-five minute run followed on Saturday, which was very tough going. The old legs are feeling it today hence I am sitting at my keyboard and nursing the first glass of wine of the Sabbath - the Ned sauvignon blanc, good cooking white.

My bedtime reading is Len Deighton's Faith - I have read it before but I want to tackle as a unit the final Bernard Sansom trilogy - this is popular fiction produced at its best, the work of a great jobbing writer. He should be taught on creative writing modules. Perhaps he is.

We've found something good on Netflix - Rake, the doings of a degenerate Australian lawyer.

This Is The Age Of The Contracting Man

Big Fat Pig is keeping up with the latest of his exercise fixations. Nothing de trop you understand but a suitable commitment for a Pig of advanced years. I managed to clock up over an hour running on Sunday, helped in no small part by the most welcome and refreshing rainfall - only problem, I can't wear my Oakleys when it's raining - well, of course, I can wear them but then I can't see where the hell I'm going. Just concerned my image will suffer if I'm seen without the shades too often. It's tough being me.

This morning I wheeled out the Precious Bike and skittered my way over the potholes of Four Oaks for upwards of an hour and a half during which, and this is the good bit, I tackled Mont Worcester twice and Col de Hillwoood Common once. Thus is the Pig waistline shrinking a little.

Pig looking svelte

I've also been playing a bit of golf - at Pype Hayes, the municipal course where I played my first ever game more than forty years ago. I'm still crap but getting less so by small degrees and enjoying the company of good rugby men whilst doing so. The thirteenth has been stretched considerably since my youth and is now a very good par five. All in all, jolly good fun - which is rather the object of the exercise, an object I had overlooked in a dark past.

Talking of good guys (which I sort of was), what a joy to see Chris Woakes make a maiden Test hundred at the weekend. Woakes was coached as a youth at Aston Manor CC by no less a luminary than my dear friend ICW. I shall bask in his reflected glory the next time we share a long lunch.

Come on you Bears

Internet serendipity: I have just typed 'pig playing golf' into Google Images as I look to illustrate this blog. One of the first images thrown up is of Donald Trump playing golf. Fake news? I don't think so.

Football's Gone Away

It was all rather lovely whilst it lasted but now it's official - we're not going to win the World Cup. Statistically speaking it must be highly unlikely that we will reach another semi-final in my lifetime. Oh well, back to the day job - oh yes that's right I haven't got one - lazy Pig.

The positives: Southgate has the team playing a possession based game, or rather he did have until the second half of the Croatia match. All credit to the Croats who deployed a high pressing game and eventually condemned England to having Pickford lump long balls up the pitch. Harry Kane had a poor match - had he taken one of those chances when we were still 1-0 up you have to doubt that Croatia could have recovered. Another positive - so far as one can tell our hooligans never made it to Russia or if they did they decided (wisely) that Putin's police were best not provoked. Kieran Trippier and Harry Maguire also huge positives. Biggest of the lot, Gareth Southgate himself - a decent bloke not (yet) brought to his knees by the job. So now attention can turn quite properly to the best sporting event north of Cheltenham - the Open golf next week.

Big Fat Pig has lost a few pounds and is still managing to get some exercise notwithstanding the oppressive weather (my poor old lawn). Yesterday he did an hour on the Precious Bike including two unlikely ascents of Mont Worcester. He is girding his loins in readiness for attempts on the Col de Hillwood Common and, most daunting of all, Mont Hillwood. This morning he ran for over four miles. He's coming home, he's coming home, Fat Pig's coming home - try it, this actually fits the tune.

So what do you do in the immediate aftermath of the last semi-final you expect to live to see your country grace? Easy you slosh yourself a glass of sauvignon blanc (ripe and fruity) and watch an episode of the brilliantly bonkers Toast of London. And yes I can hear you Clem Fandango.
   

Days Of Wonder

I know you like me to keep you up to date with what is wrong with the world, keep you posted on endemic assininity. But you might also have gathered that planet earth is so beset by shitiness that it has become tiresome to highlight it - so good news, I'm not going to bother. Instead I'm pleased to report on some good days under the broiling English sun.

The QMT (Question Mark Trophy - it's a long story) tour took our particular brand of shoddy golf to Bridgnorth Golf Club. An excellent venue even if BH was dissatisfied with his breakfast egg, angst exacerbated by a wooden bench later collapsing under his welter weight. All of this organised superbly by my brother Bill, with AK winning the fabled trophy. As for Big Fat Pig, well I played very badly but had a great time and didn't fall into any ditches - which judging by my own disreputable standards is a triumph. As for the course, definitely recommended with its four dauntingly hilly holes on one side of the road and the remainder chokingly tree-lined on the other. Bosting track as they say in Bloxwich.

After two sleep-deprived nights (the first drinking on tour, the second providing a lift home to the Groupie who was at an awards dinner - she's so important) it was a tired Pig who headed to that London on Saturday to join both daughters in celebrating the thirtieth birthday of Daughter Number One. This took the form of an excellent lunch at The Ivy Cafe on Marylebone Lane. Only one tiny complaint - my bloody mary lacked oomph but this was a minor blemish. Food excellent, main drink (the house champagne) the same, and service even better.. Definitely recommended. Bosting caff as they say in Bloxwich.

Next on the agenda is a flying visit to the country estate where some surplus furniture is being collected. I will be travelling in the Precious Jag subject to the imminent fitting of a new battery. I shall wear my Oakleys. Quel dude as they say in Bloxwich.

Nice to note by the way that a hero of this blog, Cris Froome, has been exonerated of doping charges. This will not prevent the jealous French from attacking him during the Tour de France. Plus ca change.

Big Fat Pig Redux (Continued)

The Pig is feeling saddle-sore after taking the newly serviced Precious Bike for a spin this lunchtime. Managed just over an hour with a few hills thrown in for good measure.

if ever a bloke deserved a drink

On cycling, read the account of Chris Froome's heroic effort on stage 19 of the Giro - Giro Stage 19 . You may recall that I included Froome in my list of greatest sportsmen last Christmas and I stand by that classification (indeed the Giro victory endorses it) despite the loud accusations that he is a drug cheat. I don't buy that. Too much to lose. Perhaps I am guilty of wishful thinking but I find Froome's brand of unshowy courage and determination a perfect tonic in a world where some would have us believe that image is everything.

Meanwhile, chapeau to various American sportsmen who have declined to visit the Trump White House. Normally I would regard this sort of virtue signalling as tiresome but when directed at Trump I will make an exception.

All in all feeling a little more chipper then. Still not firing on all cylinders but the Pig hereby announces that he won't let the bastards get him down and that he is setting the satnav for Wellville. See you there.   

Happy New Year

It isn't really the new year until Big Fat Pig has acted upon his resolutions and started running and cycling again. We are pleased to report that this time has come. Yesterday BFP trudged for three miles without actually grinding to a halt. This is a good thing and not a twinge to be had in the old calf muscles. Felt pretty stiff of limb this morning mind. So what did BFP do today? He checked the tyre pressures on the Precious Bike and puffed and panted up and down the unimposing alps of Four Oaks for nearly an hour. Again no muscular disasters so all in all the world is a better planet. I am not making any public pronouncement of my resolutions but I can report that thus far I have kept to them. I undertake to let you know when I have fallen off my pedestal. It doesn't usually take long.

BFP in his latest photoshoot for Oakley

Political fun today. This blog's favourite shitbag Donald Trump is accused of referring to certain third world countries as 'shitholes'. He denies this but you tend to think that he indeed said something very similar  and equally indefensible. No matter, it is boring for me and (more importantly) for you for this blog to become an endless rant about Donald. No, today's fun is Boris Johnson having a pop at the risible 'pompous puffed-up popinjay' Sadiq Khan. Now that's more like it. Spot on. Welcome back Boris.