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.

And Before You Let The Sun In, Mind It Wipes Its Shoes

Under Milk Wood, a dazzling piece of, well actually that begs the question - what is it? Written as a radio play, it should of course be listened to but it also reads beautifully as an affectionate and amusing prose poem. It is a masterwork.

The book as appreciating asset? I picked up my copy of Under Milk Wood for 50p in a second hand bookshop and I have only just noticed that its cover price in 1972 was a mere 40p. Mind you the intervening inflation rather ruins this tale and explains why I am not an economist.  

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.

Today Not So Grumpy

I had a dig at Sharron Davies yesterday for her over-familiar style of swimming poolside reportage. I stand by that but the Overgraduate is nothing if not fair-minded. So I dutifully report that Ms Davies gave a balanced and sane interview to The World Tonight on Radio 4 last night on the topic of drug abuse in sport. Good stuff.

I was listening to the radio on my way back from yet another exercise in Bardology. This time it was the Lord Chamberlain's Men performing Much Ado About Nothing at a Shrewsbury Castle. Another good production and worth tracking down as they tour the country to various outdoor venues - website at Lord Chamberlain's Men

If you're forever bemoaning the intellectual maw into which we have descended, try this article for size - Hate Crime . And if you've never read any Kafka, well try that as well and then you can call the befuddled world the article describes as Kafkaesque. This is the land we live in, a land revered for its legal system. Go figure.

Ooh sorry, getting grumpy again.

And The Good Stuff Keeps On Coming

Tom Hanks

Desert Island Discs can bring out the best in people as well as catching out those charlatans such as politicians who have had their selections made by a focus group.

This morning's edition certainly cast Tom Hanks in a very favourable light. He came across as a thoroughly decent and deserving sort of a cove. Worth a listen at Tom Hanks Desert Island Discs

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance

Why hadn't I seen this before? It is a completely brilliant film. One of the best. Seriously, that good.

What's not to like? John Ford directs. Tick. James Stewart is the seeming conscience of the film. Tick. John Wayne (and in Ford's hands, let us be clear, this guy could act) is the tragic true conscience of the film. Tick. Lee Marvin is completely and convincingly conscienceless (no victim of society he). Tick.

Read Richard Brody in The New Yorker on what makes a great film - Great Films . Brody thinks Liberty Valance one of the great political movies. Spot on.

8.5/10. So watch it. The whole thing is on YouTube but better to download it on Sky or buy the dvd. I could even let you have my thoughts on the applicability of this marvellous film to the American election but I've bored you enough already. How about this as a suggestion - instead of the next tiresome wrestling-in-mud style candidate debates, make all of them sit and watch this film and then give them each thirty seconds to apologise for having been gutless tossers. I don't just mean the Republicans either. Next mission - a search for the best film to show to the EU protagonists.

And lo, a miracle! Whilst typing this entry I have been listening to the sadly smug Now Show selectively eviscerating the Donald, only to be brought up short by Marcus Brigstocke of all people with a timely riff on the lazy certainties of the left. Marcus, I may have misjudged you. Or perhaps we're both growing! Bloody hell.

Cultural Iconography: David Bowie

I woke this morning to the lead story on Radio 4 - the death of David Bowie. This was a fitting choice of top story.

The great, the good, the mediocre and the talentless will all by now have had their say on this great man via their Twitter feeds but little of it will throw any illmunation on one of the most important cultural contributors of my lifetime.

When I did my presumptuous advent calendar of cultural icons and influencers in 2014 (available on this blog at the mere click of your mouse) I included not a single musician, not even Mozart. Unusually for me I have an attack of modesty (self-knowledge really) when it comes to the case of music - I lack any technical competence to criticise. However of all the musicians who have practised in my life, I have the untutored view that Bowie was the greatest. It just feels that way. So here is my favourite Bowie video. I don't know why, it just feels that way.







His death is sad of course but the general appreciation of his talent is cheering. So as I walked back from dropping the Precious Jag at the garage I listened to my digital radio and Radio 4 continued to entertain me with Start the Week on the making of modern Russia. David Aaronovitch on the panel - always good value. That's what I pay my taxes for.

A Disturbed Night

I slept poorly last Saturday, kept awake to a marked degree I suspect by my gluttony at our old favourite The Ship Inn. As is usual I listened to the radio as I endeavoured to fall asleep. This generally works but on this occasion rather than being lulled to sleep I was still listening in the small hours. I encountered an adaptation of Iris Murdoch's A Severed Head. Murdoch is not an author with whom I am familiar, one of the many lacunae in my reading.

I found the story both brilliant and disquieting and I suspect this reaction says rather more about me than it does about Murdoch. Despite my liberal arts veneer I do have trouble with casual immorality. I can't remember being quite so disturbed by something since reading Ian McEwan's The Cement Garden. That experience left me with admiration at the craft but with no desire to read any more of his output. In this I am almost undoubtedly wrong, a fact not least signified by his being one of the Groupie's favourites. 

Time for the OG to grow a pair.

On a lighter note I ran for ninety minutes this morning without mishap. We're getting there. Slowly. Very slowly. 

That's What Radio 4 Is For

Just heard it, today's apothegm.

Think like an engineer - in theory there is no difference between theory and practice; in practice there is.

Self-Evident Truths

Deserves a quiet night

Count Arthur Strong's Radio Show has not survived the translation to television. This is a pity.

REM's Automatic For The People is a jolly good album.

Rory Bremner is very clever and talented. He was at King's at the same time as me. Our paths never crossed. Rory Bremner, sad to relate, is no longer funny.

People can very often be very bloody marvellous.

More often people can be very bloody annoying.

I'm not half looking forward to my holidays.

... Are Brilliant Mark XIV

The Golden Fry Chippie in Benllech - where on Sunday I ate the finest piece of battered haddock in history - and I speak as an expert witness on battered haddock. For people who know about these things I need only say that it was even better than Lewis's in Seahouses.

The Anglesey Coastal Path. We were up around Cable Bay on Sunday earning the appetite for the world-beating haddock.

Bangor Pier - it sticks out half a mile and the scones in the café are nearly as good as the Golden Fry haddock.

Dave Podmore's World of Cricket. Catch episodes on BBC iPlayer. There's a small touch of genius at work in this.

Baseball - courtesy of BT and ESPN I've been imbibing this most American of Americana. I don't understand half of what they go on about but I know I like it.

God Bless America ... Oh And James Naughtie As Well

It is hardly a novel observation that America is a frustrating contradiction. I veer from railing against its inanities (of left and right, of Obama and Ryan) to recalling how it welcomed my twenty-one year old self and tilted me gently towards manhood. Its sense of possibility is compelling and through all my world-weariness it again dragged me back to hope last week.

I sat in the corner of the Arden Hotel last Friday, a lone theatre goer, cradling a glass of sauvignon blanc (favoured pre-theatrical beverage) and passing the time before a performance of Pericles, Prince of Tyre. As with most poseurs I had as company a book of poetry - you know that game you play when you sit in a public bar and pass judgement on the other customers, well for others in the Arden last week the mot juste would have been wanker. So there I was, the wanker reading poetry, when America came riding over the hill like the cavalry. Frances E. W. Harper was the daughter of freed slaves and used her poetry to advocate racial equality. As with all the best writing, this lends itself to appropriation:

 

"Bury Me in a Free Land"

Make me a grave where'er you will,

            In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill;
            Make it among earth's humblest graves,
            But not in a land where men are slaves.

I could not rest if around my grave

            I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
            His shadow above my silent tomb
            Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

 I could not rest if I heard the tread

            Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
            And the mother's shriek of wild despair
            Rise like a curse on the trembling air.

            I could not sleep if I saw the lash
            Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
            And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
            Like trembling doves from their parent nest.

I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay

           Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
           And I heard the captive plead in vain
           As they bound afresh his galling chain.

If I saw young girls from their mother's arms

            Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
            My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
            My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.

I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might

            Can rob no man of his dearest right;
            My rest shall be calm in any grave
            Where none can call his brother a slave.

I ask no monument, proud and high,

            To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
            All that my yearning spirit craves,
            Is bury me not in a land of slaves.

Download at iTunes (other systems
are available, but I don't know how
to use them)

So that's America dealt with. Next James Naughtie. He did a model interview with the Prime Minister on Radio 4 this morning - catch it if you can because even the assiduously fair-minded Naughtie got frustrated with Cameron's smooth evasions. But it is not Naughtie as political interviewer I want you to revel in. No, I want you to download as many podcasts of Book Club as you can. I have just listened to J.G. Ballard and Philip Pullman in quick succession. That is why I pay my licence fee.

Wage Slavery

Last week I received my first payslip since April 1988. Qu'est ce que c'est le PAYE? Is this part of the global social democratic conspiracy? I've been rather more used to paying my tithe in lumpy sums in January and July.

Those twenty years of self-employment (succeeded by the Dave the Student Part II years of self-unemployment) had worn away memories of the good and the bad sides of working for the Man. The good side: you are contracted for set hours and the buck stops - over there; you get a fixed reliable income; membership of the masses; anonymity. The bad side: lack of ownership (all the guff about 'stakeholders' is so much Blairite bollocks); lack of excitement; anonymity; PAYE. Mind you I'm quite glad to be out of the enterprise community (or whatever it might fashionably be termed) in the current conditions: countries that can't/won't pay their debts; America dumbly failing to grasp that for the first time in its history it has a socialist president; banks that won't lend to anyone; America agreeing that it's in order to borrow $17trillion (wtf is a trillion anyway) on the never-never; Vince Cable bearer of the greatest misnomer in politics, 'Business Secretary'. Suddenly wage slavery doesn't seem so unappealing. Oh and for the past couple of days we have had capital markets in free-fall because the chinless wonders of the trading floors have suddenly twigged what the rest of us knew aeons ago, that there is no puissant political will to sort the mess out. But there is always good news if you look hard enough. Danny Baker was the deserving castaway on Desert Island Discs this morning, an accolade richly earned and a nice change from the self-serving bums more usually featured.

Triathlon: Iron Dave's day of destiny looms and ID is not ready. He has not done enough swimming. Or cycling. Or running. He has had two punctures in eight days. A spoke broke on the rear wheel of the dream machine. ID has a week to put all of this right, which cannot, of course, be done. Discretion is the better part of valour but stupidity is the better part of Dave. No more Doctor Faggot.

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 14

Saw the doctor this morning and the good news is I'm not mad - just dangerously sane.

I've been a good boy and tried to do a bit of work today but concentration is elusive. Tomorrow will be a better day but only because I am celebrating Christmas at university with my kind young friends. Planning to go swimming as an early morning prelude to an afternoon of imbibing. Lessens the guilt if not the headache.

Today we have a radio show. Bill Nighy is brilliant at playing, well, Bill Nighy but he also inhabits the soul of actor/detective Charles Paris. There are series of A Charles Paris Mystery running on both Radio 4 and Radio 7 at present. Radio 7 is one of the best things about the internet Radio 7 homepage. You have to sort through some tawdry old crap but the good stuff is well worth the effort



Advent 3

Video killed the radio star. Well actually it didn't, not quite. Radio remains the medium of choice at breakfast time and the Today programme on Radio 4 is surely Britain's most influential news outlet. John Humphries often infuriates but I can put up with that (and he never comes close to the Paxman scale of self-indulgence) while James Naughtie is a national treasure -cool, incisive and clever in an unobtrusive unshowy way (that's right Paxo I'm talking about you.) Naughtie should be on television more than he is but I'm afraid he doesn't really have the face for it. If you ever get word of a programme with him in it, particularly if it is about books, watch it. It is bound to be good.

I nearly elected Woman's Hour as today's cultural icon but wasn't sure how this would stand with my radical feminist credentials. Is it a subtle manifestation of the patriarchy, or even an insidious agent of an oppressive matriarchy? Buggered if I know. What I do know is that, especially when Jane Garvey hosts, it often makes me think. Sometimes I just think, 'that can't be right', but at least I'm thinking. This morning a guest baldly stated that 'there are 12 million disabled people in Britain.' This went unchallenged. It should not have done. Define your terms. Tell me where they all are. Do I count as one? Because noone asked me.

Tomorrow's calendar door will reveal a joke. Bet you can't wait.