On The Road

Driving to Anglesey to do final prep for the arrival of the builders. I switch the radio over to take in a bit of Jeremy Vine on Radio 2 - I find him tolerable. What do I get? Ed sodding Miliband that's what. Whoever thought that was a good idea - you're a moron.

Arrive on the island and Very Big Fat Pig drags himself out to pound the streets of Benllech. He gets dive-bombed by seagulls and generally feels pretty shit but this is the fourth consecutive day with exercise (two bike, two runs) so the fight is now in hand. Watch out beer belly (more wine belly these days I suppose) - your days are numbered. Hopefully.

Also I've been dipping back into The Archers. Is there any young member of the Archer extended family who isn't a wanker? The writers must hate yoof. Still nice to be back in Ambridge again.

59 Days To Shape Up - An Uncomfortable Yet Comforting Ride

I laughed in the face of ill-fortune and took the Precious Bike out for a spin this morning. Drumroll - no punctures. The discomfort I refer to in the title was from the decrepit state of the roads juddering up through the highly inflated tyres via the frame. Result - sore derriere. The comforting effect comes from the knowledge/hope that I am free of the bane of constant deflation. And I'll tell you this - that final hill is several degrees easier on the Precious. For tomorrow's ride I am going to revert to the mountain bike and get that righteous burn in the thighs.

Here's something I didn't think I'd be saying - I heard that Andy Burnham/Scott Tracy dealing sensibly and illuminatingly with questions on Radio 4 at lunchtime. Instinctively I am not a fan of the franchise being extended to 16 year olds but I have to grant that there is an appeal to Burnham's soundbite "If you're old enough to be exploited by Sports Direct on a zero hours contract then you're old enough to vote." This is that rarity - a crafted soundbite that actually prefaces a serious debate.

Ed explains the voting system

I have avoided any lengthy pondering of the Labour leadership election, comparing interest in the event  to an intrusion into private grief. However it is now getting very arresting. Only now is it becoming clear to the dozy apparatchiks that they have somnambulated themselves into an existential fight for the life of the party as an electable proposition. All of this comes as a parting gift from the disastrous Ed Miliband whose legacy fittingly includes, or possibly comprises nothing other than, the plain daft voting system. So we now have the other candidates piqued into action by the prospect of actually losing to Jeremy Corbyn - a figure notably antediluvian in his policies and his friendships, Hamas, the IRA etc etc. Corbyn is a reminder of the student left of my youth, the sort who would miss an exam rather than miss the chance to throw eggs at Margaret Thatcher. I didn't make that up by the way, it actually happened with one bizarrely admirable loon of my acquaintance. Golden days.  

General Election VI

Well what a funny old night. Undoubted highlight: Vince Cable and Ed Balls both out of the House. Those who live by the sword indeed.

What to do about Scotland where the voters are now behaving as the English have learned to do in European elections, that is to vote for the party that doesn't believe in the institution to which they are sending representatives?

What to do about the electoral system, wherein UKIP can win four million votes (hugely outstripping the eviscerated LibDems) but only one seat?

The Conservatives have a scant majority and we will thereby live in interesting times - not always a curse. We will also live in a country where, when push came to shove, most people simply could not imagine Ed Miliband as PM.

A complaint about the timbre of the media coverage - in particular could the BBC please get rid of that smug twerp Andrew Neil, or at the very least compel him to drop the laughable comb-over.

Finally a thought (not mine) that I was saving up for the advent of a  Miliband led coalition:

Then you will see the rise of the men of the double standard - the men who live by force, yet count on those that live by trade to create the value of their looted money - the men who are the hitchhikers of virtue.

Hitchhikers of virtue - I love that.

General Election II: Labour

Somewhere in my archive (ok it's a collection of mouldering boxes) is my copy of the 1983 Labour Manifesto, memorably described as the longest suicide note in political history. Plain, stark-staring bonkers it may have been but at least, as I recall, it was literate. Its 2015 cousin is full of grammatical infelicities. Now these things probably don't matter to many people aside from me but it betrays a concerning lack of sincerity. The Labour Party is at its best when it is being socialist but even with Red Ed in charge they have lost the courage of their convictions. Instead we have the party of Ed Balls and Harriet Harman. God help us.

For what it is worth I believe Ed Miliband when he says "The fundamental truth that runs through this manifesto is that Britain will only succeed when working people succeed." I'm afraid I also strongly believe that he is worse equipped than even Cameron to deliver on the standard sententious drivel.

Now I have to have a rest and gather my strength to opine on the rest of the clowns. Actually they're not all clowns but I think you'll be mildly surprised in whose direction I doff my cap.  

Damned Fine Coffee

A mug of steaming hot Joe, a view of the sea and the company of my soul mate. It doesn't get much better than this. We walked at Newborough this afternoon, ate sausage baps at Caban Llanddwyn and drove back through the interior of the island. Happy Easter.

On a clear day you can see forever

My good mood offsets the shadow cast by what little of the Leaders' Debate I could stomach watching last night. What an array of shysters. But hold hard on the cynicism boy, you've got to vote for someone. I've come to the view that the only way to vote is that which makes a Miliband premiership the least likely. The man's gurning features and soft-headed interventionist leanings drive me bonkers. Have we really reached the stage when a berk like this can be PM? A man who thinks that it is moral for the state to confiscate half of a man's earnings; a man who thinks it practical to legislate caps on profitability of individual commercial contracts. Whoever wins, we deserve better. 'Twas ever thus?

Reasons to abhor Cameron, well try these four words for starters - Fixed Term Parliament Act. Nothing more or less than self-indulgent Blairite political vandalism.

Hey ho, the view is wonderful.

Livin' La Vida Loca

Or to keep up the foreign theme, we're terribly Maison Jardin at number 7B. Special Overgraduate merit points to the reader who correctly identifies that lyric.

None of which really has anything to do with what I'm going to write but the muse is, you will clearly divine, with me this fine day. In fact I've been in a goodish mood for a week or so which is a long run for old misery guts here. But the trouble is that all this relative happiness leaves me in rant deficit. And what am I without going off on one?

I've been out running four times in the last eight days and have only a stiffish back to show for it - not even the hint of a calf strain - says he touching the wooden top of the table. Mens sana etc.

But pull yourself together Dave. Very well, here goes.

Isn't this prolonged election campaign horribly tedious? Can you seriously imagine Ed Miliband as Prime Minister? He makes Cameron look statesmanlike. I can feel my mood lowering as I type this.

Putin v Obama - who would your money be on in a fight? The answer is terrifying for the West. But never mind, America is already gearing up for a presidential election and we have the prospect of a battle between another bloody Clinton and yet another bloody Bush.

So on balance, perhaps things aren't as good as I had allowed myself to believe. As John Bon Jovi would have it - keep the faith.

Looking For Reasons To Be Cheerful

They're hard to find, reasons to be cheerful at the moment.

On the home front I lamented the poverty of our politics a couple of weeks ago, but now that the party conference season is over (it ended with the poignant irrelevance of Nick Clegg yesterday) I should be permitted one more moaning spree. All over the place are the deafening sounds of silence, as truths are conveniently ignored. Bloody Ed Miliband, bless him, even managed to forget completely to mention the budget deficit. We were invited to admire the man delivering a speech without notes and instead found ourselves wondering from what planet he had landed. Looks weird, sounds weird, is weird. Earlier this week that prize clown Vince Cable was back to his best liberal flummery, although I suppose that to have being neither George Osborne nor Ed Balls as your unique selling point is not exactly bad marketing.

All of which domestic stuff can make us fail to notice the truly dreadful things that are going on in the rest of the world. In Hong Kong democracy protestors were beaten back by the weather, which might lead some to the uncomfortable conclusion that God is a totalitarian. The economies of mainland Europe are contracting back towards recession, dragged there by an inefficient single currency. Worst and most terrifying of all, ISIS (or whatever we are today supposed to call them) butcher their way towards their destiny of an all conquering Caliphate. Sadam, Gadaffi, Assad, Khomenei - all look to have been positively cuddly by comparison. The state of Israel will not survive unscathed in the face of a Caliphate and the attempted destruction of Israel will lead to global conflict.

So here are a few of the truths that go unacknowledged.

• We may negotiate with God.
• You can't have open borders and a worthwhile welfare state.
• Sovereign states can and will default on their debts.
• You either uninvent money or you have to balance budgets. The alternative is government as a gargantuan Ponzi scheme.

Toilet Humour

For those of a delicate disposition I warn you that things are about to get moderately lavatorial.

As any fule kno the bog is pretty much the best place to read. Thus I keep three books in our downstairs facility. One is a book of bad jokes, another is an early edition of Brian Glanville's magisterial History of the World Cup, the third is Taking Sides, a thrift store purchase and being a collection of Bernard Levin's journalism. It is to Mr Levin that I must give credit for today's bons mots - a phrase of his accurately captures the phenomenon that I have encountered over two tortuous afternoons. Levin talks of mental sludge and we're drowning in the wretched stuff.

This is, I have realised, the very apex of the season of mental sludge. It is party conference time. Yesterday was that unbearable git Ed Balls; today was the uber-weird Ed Miliband. Next week it will be Citizen Dave and the Boy George. Do you sometimes wonder if democracy isn't all it's cracked up to be?

But Balls first. Now Balls attended both Oxford and Harvard so we can pretty safely assume that he is quite clever. Which begs the question, why oh why did he presume to deliver such an intellectually lumpen heap of pudding-brained drivel? Does he really think that such crap can enlighten any intelligent audience? No, dear reader, he does not - the only people he wants to engage inhabit the floating centre of a few marginal constituencies. The rest of us can go hang.

As for Miliband, well he managed to say the word 'together' fifty-three times in his pile of platitudinous pap. Fifty-three effing times. We get it Ed. And the bogey men he fingered for our supposed ills? Well, the usual suspects - tax avoiders, fag manufacturers and owners of mansions. The current politburo speak is to drone on about those with the 'broadest shoulders' bearing more of the load. This is lazy insufferable twaddle. And next week we will hear more of the same  ... but different. Sod the lot of them.  A truly frightening conclusion.      

Thursdays Belong To Me

I work Monday to Wednesday and the plan is that Thursday belongs to me and Friday will belong to Walter Bagehot, Shakespeare and other matters postgraduate. That's the plan but as per my previous lament I'm generally shagged out by Thursday and manage nothing more than loafing about feeling sorry for myself. So last week I actually did something on Thursday and indeed I did something yesterday, even if it was working (reason for which to follow).

 damned funny old chap

I am in the early stages of directing a production of Noel Coward's Hay Fever (November 19 to 22 since you ask) and so took myself to Bath to see the Theatre Royal production. Lovely old theatre and an estimable rendition with Felicity Kendall in the lead. I can strongly recommend Bath and in particular the user-friendly Park and Ride scheme. No charge for the parking and £3.20 for the return ticket which deposits you in the centre of town. Had my habitual glass of sauvignon blanc before the show in a busy pub where, as in so much else, a Clive James lyric came to mind - 'I like to see a servile barman hustle'.

So that was last Thursday. And yesterday was work on account of attending Joy Collis's funeral on Wednesday. A bumper attendance and a just air of celebration for ninety-three years well lived.

There's a lot to have opinions about at the moment, not least the unedifying spectacle that is the Scottish independence referendum. Alex Salmond finally got his way and goaded David Cameron onto the hustings. It occurs to me that the most astringent analysis is that David Cameron is as odious to the Scots as Salmond is to the English. As for poor old Miliband, he is the same to very nearly all people - a tired joke. As for Nick Clegg, well, so what.

More Beginnings

A happy New Year to all our readers. Intoxication has been on my mind. I like a drink but sometimes it gets me into trouble so I shall try to be more careful in future. I like a nice dry white, a ruddy Barolo or a sound Claret. I should not however kid myself about the quality of my palate - I am often quite content to drink any old shit.

By one of those little accidents I have watched two dramas in the past week which are about intoxication and addiction. Both well made pieces of entertainment. The first was Flight, with the reliably brilliant Denzel Washington as a piss/coke-head airline pilot. A good piece of modern Hollywood product.

The other was the last series of Prime Suspect watched via LoveFilm. Proof that British television can be good.

I'll do Old Dave's Almanac another day but today I will share my most intimate new year thoughts with you. I'm resolving not to let the bastards get me down this year. It's the advice I always give others but I've never been too hot at taking it myself. In any event , who are these bastards of whom I speak? Well I'm not daft enough to name names even to my limited public. Actually I will make an exception of Vince Cable, David Cameron and Ed Miliband, all three of whom get right up my nose. But then you knew that already I suspect.

Twenty-eight pounds of avoir dupois. That's how much I think I need to lose. This sounds unachievable but I'm giving myself the whole year and I'm going to keep you informed. If I am to suffer then you must come along for the journey. In which spirit you should know that I ran for twenty minutes and forty-seven seconds of your English time today. I also got my hair cut today so maybe I'll have lost my first pound by weigh-in tomorrow. Oh brave new world. 

... 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.

Lions Led By Donkeys?

"Don't worry, all we have to do
is seem less preposterous than
Harriet Harman and John Bercow.
Piece of piss"

David Cameron is a muppet. Ed Miliband is worse. Nick Clegg is a tosser. That's it for the in-depth political analysis. Really though, I, like millions of others, have paid my taxes and (relatively speaking) behaved myself and now I get governed by a complete shower of shit. What happened? Consider these two chapters of utter incompetence both born of the Boy Cameron's desire to seem in touch. Act your IQ not your shoe size you muppet.
Killing burglars is cool
Gas price shambles