Big Fat Pig Update. T+18

I went swimming this afternoon, an exercise I had put off for too long on account of the grumpy old women doing slovenly breaststroke who ruined my last visit. They weren't there today. Which was nice. Somehow I had forgotten the righteous hunger that swimming gives you. So for supper I have allowed myself a Pot Noodle. Which was nice. I ate the said convenience food here in Anglesey. Which was nice. Flying visit to check the estate. Which is nice.

Do you think people should be allowed to smoke? I do. Do you think that all cigarettes should be sold in plain wrappers? I don't but our government does. So we can be trusted to spend our own pension savings (A Budget measure which actually makes both sense and a difference) but not to resist the pictorial blandishments of Big Tobacco. I'm confused.  

The Kia continues to be a source of quiet satisfaction and behaved impeccably on the run to Anglesey this evening. I'm getting the hang of the controls (all on the steering wheel) for the digital radio and it allowed me to listen critically to The Archers wherein Brian could do with some advice from a decent corporate lawyer as Borchester Land is being stolen implausibly from him.

Good night sweet prince. 

Being Middle-Aged

I have before in this blog advertised my predilection for automotive pornography, most particularly The Jaguar XK8 (which relationship I have consummated), any Aston Martin and the Honda Goldwing. But I have to confess that I have most recently fallen for the siren call of the sensible purchase.

Big Fat Pig's Big Fat Car

Actually 'sensible' is probably not the wholly apposite word since no suburbanite whose children have grown-up and flown the nest needs a large four wheel drive. The category of car is determined by another  foible of my taste - I remember with affection the Land Rover Discoveries we used to have as Sharon's company cars. But once I had convinced myself that what I wanted was a f*** off Chelsea Tractor, my middle-aged sensibilities took over.  And so there stands on the gravel a great grey slab of Kia Sorento.

The thought processes were these - I want an SUV; the Kia has a seven year warranty; a big Range Rover is too expensive to buy and maintain (I spoke to people); the Kia has a seven year warranty; the Evoque is beautiful but not at heart a man's car; the Kia has a seven year warranty; Discoveries remain unreliable and we don't have the luxury of it being a company car; the Kia has a seven year warranty. And, of course, there is the seven year warranty. I find this one of the more compelling commercial offerings. The cars are either bomb-proof or the warranty is not worth the paper it's written on, and being a lawyer I've read the small-print.

So it was off to Sutton Park Kia (their proximity another selling point) for a test drive. I was prepared to be underwhelmed but the Sorento behaves impeccably enough. And there is the seven year warranty. The sales pitch from the dealer was neither neglectful nor overbearing. And there is ... well you get the picture.

So ten days into ownership what do we think? The high driving position is great and I look forward once again to being able to see the Menai Straits as I drive over the Britannia bridge. Fuel consumption isn't too damaging when you consider the size of the car. The interior is plain but acceptable. It has that new car smell. The reversing camera is much more useful than I had somehow imagined it might be. I would like an automatic boot release and close. The digital radio (an upgrade - the lack signifying that this car is really aimed at the American market) is fiddly but I'm getting there. For now I'm a happy camper but will keep you posted.  

The Tony Benn Phenomenon

I think at heart the thing about Tony Benn (aka Viscount Stansgate or Anthony Wedgwood Benn) was that he seemed a decentish sort of bloke and gave off the air that he might be amusing company.

I saw him speak at university (he might still have been Wedgwood Benn at that time) and he was compelling. Verging on bonkers but compelling. The only political speaker I ever saw who could hold a candle to him was Keith Joseph (aka KJo) who came with the same intellectual confidence but from the opposite direction. Also vaguely bonkers. Ultimately (and via the proxy of Thatcherism) Joseph did more to shape the land we live in and Benn achieved the greater fame.

There was a predictable piece about Benn on Feedback on Radio 4 this afternoon, people bemoaning the cancellation of a Rebus adaptation to make way for a Benn retrospective. The general tone was that this had been an exaggerated response to the death of a man who only briefly held ministerial post and never one of the great offices of state. But what all the complaints overlook is that Benn was an adept communicator, hence his piercing of our modern consciousness. He deserved his attention. Our toleration and respect for his philosophy speaks well of the British; far better than the vituperation that the Thatcher death engendered. Plus he was a pipe smoker and as the son and grandson of pipe smokers I've always thought that lent an air of gravitas.

Back On The Chain Gang

Three cracking days at Cheltenham, all involving degrees of inebriation, two culminating in a curry and one generating a profit. For four days every Spring it really is the best place on earth.

My age is catching up with me and the days at the Festival left me footsore and brainsore. I then refereed a decent enough game of rugby on the Saturday and I'm still stretching out the stiffness six days later. No rugby this weekend coming because I have the technical rehearsal for the production of Anne Frank's Diary wherein I am treading the boards next week. I know my lines but not necessarily in the right order. This can be very confusing for my fellow thespians. I put it down to my age. And no I'm not playing a nazi - why does everyone ask me that?

The beautifully prepared Ireland won the Six Nations and the richly deserving Brian O'Driscoll thereby got the send-off he deserved. If you bump into me I will explain how that arch poseur Steve Walsh once again got the last decision of a major international wrong. He is a very good referee with a peculiar gift for unpunished big errors. While we're on the subject of rugby, can anyone please tell me how it is other than confoundingly stupid for England to have agreed to play a test match in New Zealand less than a week after the Premiership final thus inevitably denying themselves a coterie of their best players .

On the subject of Brian O'Driscoll, Keith Wood opined that O'Driscoll has been one of the three greatest figures of the professional era, alongside Richie McCaw and Dan Carter. It is telling that an Irish commentator could so readily ignore the career of the only Northern Hemisphere player ever to have lifted the World Cup, Martin Johnson. This omission would be deemed a calumny if it involved other than an Englishman. Hey ho.

I was never conscious of him as Viscount Stansgate, saw him speak as Anthony Wedgwood Benn and observed him with grudging affection as Tony Benn. The reaction to his death has been interesting and will get a post of its own. As will my confession about the middle-aged good sense that underlay my recent purchase of a new car. Be back soon.

Mixed Feelings

As me. Go on ask me. What do I think of Harriet Harman? Ask me another. Go on ask me. What do I think of Piers Morgan?

Well since you ask, I can't stand either of them. Which means I ought really to be dead chuffed that both are enduring some discomfiture at the moment. But the bloody annoying fact is that my relish in their predicaments is severely qualified.

Harman first. I think we can take it as read that she's a sanctimonious windbag, nothing controversial about that. But the efforts of the Daily Mail to implant into the national consciousness the notion that she is some sort of paedo are pitiful. I've said it before and I'll say it again - the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable.

Morgan? I think we can take it as read that he's a preening, self-aggrandising shitbag, nothing controversial there. But if it really is the case that his CNN show is being pulled because of his having antagonised the gun lobby, then I feel the tiniest tinge of sympathy. I've said it before and I'll say it again - the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable.

To happier matters. A rewarding weekend for the rugby enthusiast. I speak not only of the Six Nations but also of the nice reception I got from the good burghers of Woodrush RFC where I strutted my refereeing stuff on Saturday. Thanks gents.

Six Nations: the Overgraduate is rather chuffed with himself thus far having stated before the whole shebang got under way that there would be no Grand Slam this year. Three weeks in and QED. Wales have taken a beating in Dublin and then administered one of their own to a bafflingly dull France. England and Ireland gave us a proper high octane test match at Twickenham. In analysing that performance it should not be overlooked that England won despite butchering a couple of gilt-edged chances. Ireland are beautifully coached. Even the basement battle of Italy and Scotland (whose coach does a very good impression of a buffoon - or perhaps it's not an impression) wound itself up to a thrilling finale.

By this time in two weeks I will be deep in the postmortem over the first day at Cheltenham. Remember you read it here first - you don't have to have a bet on every race..... Paging Dr Faggot!

Conspiracy Theory

The very odd couple

I was in Leeds a few days ago and I saw the damnedest thing in Macdonalds. There was a shiny faced, suspiciously dark-haired chap, understatedly well-dressed. He tried to appear normal but every pore of him shouted posh to anyone caring to look. He looked familiar as well. That forehead was memorable. He ordered a "large Mac". Clearly outside his comfort zone.

He was then joined by a rather jowly fellow who barked an order for super sized Big Mac meal with an extra box of nuggets as a chaser. I sat nearby and listened.

So what were David Cameron and Alex Salmond doing on what might be termed neutral territory? Stitching up the bloody referendum that's what. These very different men have a common interest in the Scots fatso getting his way in the Autumn. I think they missed a trick however - Lardy Face and Old Hair Dye agreed that the former would call the latter arrogant in his latest venting of spleen. This of course misses the point. Anyone can tell you Cameron isn't arrogant - patronising tosser is a better expression.

By voting yes the Scots can guarantee themselves no Tory government  ever ever ever. By voting yes the Scots can also ensure that the wrong Miliband never gets to be PM of the rump UK. Result. Where do I vote?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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