Oh Woe Is Me

One of those frustrating days today. I went out for a run and at pretty much the same point into the run (indeed on the same stretch of road) as when last out, the calf started to tighten up. I walked in but I could really do without this interruption to training that had hitherto gone pretty well.

One man went to mow

Anyway I wasn't going to let this setback get in the way of wheeling out the precious petrol mower and re-striping the lawn. But what did get in the way was the absence of the keys to open the door from garage to back garden. Since I am the only one who uses that door I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I must have lost them, but I will not completely abandon the search for somebody else to blame. Not just yet.

Uttering foul imprecations (etymological note to self: is there any other sort of imprecation) I had to move the precious bike, manoeuvre the precious mower around the precious Jag and then drag the precious mower through the gravel on the drive before negotiating the side entrance to the garden. Then it bloody well rained. Then it bloody well stopped and I was able to mow the lawn. Altogether a bit of a fag but the results are quite pleasing.

I had decided that yesterday's mot du jour was to be 'cant' but in the end I rejected it because, on more measured analysis, the specimens that were exciting my ire probably lacked the full blast of hypocrisy. I've been seeking an alternative but I'm afraid I've come up with nothing better than 'drivel'. The first instance was the plain blather of our esteemed Minister for Housing, one Brandon Lewis. It gives me no pleasure to report that this man holds a degree from King's. Still he was not the worst (or indeed most important) culprit in the news because St Barack of Obama was at it again yesterday. With his best "Trust me I'm a lawyer" face on he announced that something must be done about global warming and that it needs to be done - by somebody else. Now I think about it, Obama probably got closer to cant than poor old Brandon Lewis whose major offence was to have drawn the short straw of defending the government's symbolic and meaningless legislation to make private landlords do the job of the Home Office.

If you know where those keys are could you let me know soonest. I can't go through this rigmarole every time I want to mow the lawn.

Ooh, if you want some good news - I played golf again last Friday (I had the course to myself at Baron Hill) and played the best I can remember for years. I believe I have detected a pattern to this - I play strongly every decade.

Ludicrous Hair

I am scratching my head to decide whether there has ever been a more ridiculous political figure than US Presidential wannabe Donald Trump.

Flock of Seagulls tribute band

He is not the first candidate to say stupid things - I won't even give you a list of comparables because it's too long. However I genuinely cannot think of a more laughable hairstyle - not even Leon Brittan's comb-over.

Is his ability to make money even admirable? Does it give him a perspective from which to govern? Should more be made of those failed ventures where he utilised the bankruptcy laws to defy creditors? None of these questions matter in comparison to this one - can the Western world really afford to be led by a man who looks so downright bloody stupid? That's The Overgraduate for you, asking the questions that really matter. Tomorrow global warming, what's wrong with warmer weather? 

Cricket Lovely Cricket

As it turns out I don't have to leave the country to make our cricketers play well. I am still in the UK and they stand on the brink of a demolition of Australia, an improbable rejuvenation after last week's capitulation. Test cricket is where it's at - don't let anybody tell you otherwise.

There are worse ways to spend the evening

I took in most of the day's play on the radio (no sport is better suited to audio coverage) whilst driving to Anglesey for one of my inspection visits at the old country estate. All is well, indeed made better by the nine holes of golf I treated myself to under a blameless, cloudless sky. As I stood on the ninth green at Baron Hill I forgave myself the fluffed chip and took in the view of the Menai Straits. A chap could do a lot worse. I have suppered of chili con carne and Weetabix (not together you understand) and am washing it down with Waitrose Good Ordinary Claret. I have Evelyn Waugh with me to round off the night - Scoop.

My golf? Petty crap I'm afraid. But tomorrow is another day.

The Further Ballad Of Mikey B

You may recall Mikey B, he being the recently retired tax partner at KPMG who last year incinerated his golf glove in an attempt to dry it in an Irish oven. Well he is now taking advantage of his retirement by playing lots of golf at his home club, Woburn. This is a very plush set-up that is the only institution to boast three courses in the Golf World UK Top 100.

It transpires that Mikey B is a very poor judge of character and thus he invited the OG and Big Willy Mac (you've met him before, he organises the annual Ireland trip) to join him for a game on the Duchess Course yesterday. A cracking day of sport and one which the OG managed despite his lack of practice not to disfigure too much with his incompetence. Big Willy had one of his frequent on-days and took the spoils.

A lot of trees and not much room for cat swinging

The Duchess course is carved out of the forests of the Woburn Estate. It is apparently the narrowest of the three courses, which is just as well because I don't believe I've ever played a narrower. Each hole scythes its sway through the woods without being overlooked by any other. Any errant drive has no chance of finding another fairway. This is a strong test of golf and the mark of its quality is that I enjoyed it thoroughly despite its marked unsuitability for my own broad-brush brand of golf.

So, many thanks to Big Willy for doing the driving and particular gratitude to Mikey B and Mrs B who put us up and put up with us on Sunday night and ensured that no golf was played with an entirely clear head. This lack of mental clarity is a feature of all my golf these days but yesterday's pleasurable experience has made me vow for the umpteenth time to play more often and to get to bed early the night before I do so. Fat chance.

To Cut a Long Story Short

We treated ourselves to a new garden last winter. One of the casualties of the beautiful new arrangement was the rather scabby old shed. So far so, good but the lack of the shed (and my failure to erect the proposed new one - the story gets even longer if I expand on that subject) has meant the precious mower sharing garage space with the precious Jag. Pushed into the background and shamefully neglected has been the precious bike. So today I girded the old metaphoricals  and cleared out the garage thus liberating the bike. Now I can store all three of my preciouses and have ready access to each. I spent an oily hour changing a tyre and gave the bike an overdue clean and polish. She sits resplendent and tomorrow morning I plan to give her a gentle outing, judging this to be more tolerable for the calf injury.

All buffed up and beautiful

As I toiled inefficiently at the tyre I listened to the Alpe d'Huez denouement of the Tour de France. Brilliant and spoiled only by the infantile French tossers whose response to another British victory is to make wholly unfounded accusations of drug abuse and to gob on the toiling members of the ultra-efficient (and I grant thereby hard to love) Team Sky. The French have been waiting a long time for a Tour winner, though they might like to reflect that we waited a damn sight longer for a Wimbledon winner without feeling the need to start expectorating in the direction of the victors. Allez Froome. And chapeau to Nairo Quintana who attacked heroically on the Alpe but came up just short.

Au revoir one and all.

For Breakfast ...

Bosting

I have mostly been eating pancakes, bacon and maple syrup (which I cooked myself - except for the syrup obviously) washed down with prosecco and damned fine coffee.

After a foul day weatherise yesterday, it dawns bright and clear today. A bit of gardening followed by a barbecue beckons. Top draw.

Incidentally I have spoken to the Sugar Mummy and she prefers to be known as the Groupie, so we will revert to that.

The Advent Of The 1/3 Pounder

I forgot to write about it whilst in America but I was struck by the cultural symbolism of the radio advertisements for Macdonald's new third pounder. It may be apocryphal but internet legend has it that attempts to launch a previous such burger in the 80's failed due to American mathematical ignorance - focus groups established that a majority of punters thought a quarter pound was more than a third.

Two for my mate BFP please

The jet lag seems finally to have been defeated so today has been one of office hours even though I don't have an office to go to. I have filled the unforgiving minutes by: reading (how did I ever go off this?); getting my hair cut (usual number two buzz-cut); thrashing inexpertly at some golf balls (an invitation to play at Woburn on Monday has been procured from Mikey B and I haven't played a stroke since signal failure in Ireland); jump-starting the precious Jag (flat battery due to underuse), driving it around for a bit (nice) and peeling spuds for this evening's chips. Now waiting for the Groupie to return from work at which point the allegedly healthy fryer goes on. Actually now that the West Coast tour is over I suppose she ceases to be the Groupie, and since she is my keeper maybe I should shed my other aliases and go under 'Kept Man'. Does that make her the 'Sugar Mummy'?

Further evidence that I must be going soft in my dotage - I found myself mildly well-disposed to Noel Gallagher in his Desert Island Discs appearance this morning.

I had taken a hatful of dvd's with me to America but in the event only watched some Phoenix Nights and a solitary film - a Bette Davis melodrama The Letter. Rather good. Based on a Somerset Maugham story it is a clever little morality tale about the veneer of western decency contrasted to outwardly shabby oriental morality. Davis again confirms her willingness to play unattractive characters and, more than that, to excel at it. 7/10.

The Sugar Mummy has returned and the chips are nearly done. I'm going to have a dipping sauce of strawberry balsamic vinegar as bought at Pike Place Market in Seattle.

PS. Did I say strawberry balsamic? Who ever heard of such a thing. I meant raspberry balsamic.