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.

Reasons To Be Cheerful

The last forty-eight hours have conspired to be kind to me. An initial piece of ill luck set in train a sequence of pleasant events.

The ill luck first. Wet road, huge pothole, flat tyre. I was able to limp the car home and did what any sensible bloke in my situation would do - called the AA - why bark if you own a dog? They were as good as, nay better than, their advertising promises - with me in half an hour and the spare fitted with a minimum of fuss. Very reassuring.

As is the modern way the spare tyre is a weedy little thing which you are advised to get swapped off the vehicle pronto. So yesterday morning I went down to National Tyres at Mere Green whose praises some of you may recall I have sung before. Once again, good as gold, sound advice and swift fitting. Tidy.

All of which left me well disposed towards the tawdry business of earning a living, so much so that I worked until after eight to make up the time lost to fixing the car. I ate well but not too lavishly, took early to my bed and read Waugh's A Handful of Dust. Cracking.

I slept well and was up in good time to dress for my pre-exercise health check at the gym. I passed with surprisingly flying colours, in particular excelling in my lung capacity. Buoyed by this news I swam twenty-five lengths rather splashily and then took to the sauna. The only casualty of all this was my watch which has steamed up. Waterproof my arse.

Feeling on a bit of a roll and ignoring the snow now falling I headed to the Belfry where I thrashed not entirely unconvincingly at ninety golf balls. Perhaps this is the year when The Overgraduate finally masters golf. Is it bollocks.

So all in all I'm feeling rather chipper. Which is nice

This is that time of year when I usually inflict upon you my predictions for the Six Nations rugby but, you know what, I'm uncommonly light on opinions this time. It would be nice to think that England will excel but in the absence of the injured Corbisiero I harbour doubts about the front row. I still cling to the notion that France should be better and that Wales aren't as good as their more blinkered fans would have us believe. Yes I know they provided the nucleus of last summer's victorious Lions but one has to remember that the Australia they beat were, in technical terms, absolute pants. Ireland have a very sound new coach and would be my idea of a decent outside bet, but what do I know.

Back to the gym tomorrow morning to be given my personal workout programme. Viva Iron Dave.

Iron Dave Joins The Gym

As patronised by the
Overgraduate

It's what we middle aged, middle class blokes do in January. We join the gym. Fairlawns in my case. The main attraction is the pool (18m long and 1.40m deep all over so a proper swimming pool) but I have to admit the other toys and facilities looked nice when we toured this afternoon. Three types of sauna - who'd have thunk it. I go for my mandatory health check on Thursday - "Oi fatso get off the machines before you break them!" As our Tone used to put it - fings can only get better.

Vaguely on the fitness front I should have been running around after the good burghers of Bishop's Castle and Cleobury Mortimer yesterday afternoon and we very nearly got to start the game, having first been delayed by the most vicious hail storm I've ever witnessed in my shorts. However as I put the whistle to my lips to get proceedings under way there was a massive flash of thunder and an almost coincident clap of thunder. You know that thing you were taught to do as a child, counting from the lightning to the thunder to estimate how far away the lightning is, well you'd have had to go bloody fast to even get to one on this occasion. At which point thirty odd of Shropshire's finest plus referee and a few hardy spectators legged it for cover. There ensued a storm of biblical proportions. Game over. So I had made the longest journey of my refereeing career to be beaten by the elements. The jocular reaction of the thwarted participants reminded me once again just why I love rugby players. Raving good sorts as a former player of my acquaintance used so aptly to put it.

good flick

We've watched two films this week. One was epic in conception and worthy in execution but, in truth, a tad boring - Lincoln. The other was short, taut and in its small way rather brilliant - Hitchcock. I am not a particular devotee of Hitchcock but I am an admirer of Anthony Hopkins' acting. Whisper it if you must but I thought his turn rather better than Daniel Day-Lewis' in Lincoln. Why doesn't The Overgraduate get a vote in the Oscars? Please feel free to start an internet campaign - modesty forbids me from getting involved.

The only sour note this weekend? The utterly unlovely Ed Balls and his cynical promise to reintroduce a 50% tax rate. The showerest of shits.

T+ 20 And Feeling Very Virtuous

I've twice run for in excess of half an hour this week. This gives me a feeling of exceeding good health and a moderate sense of mental well-being even though work has conspired to be a bit of a pig lately. So all well on the Dave front and a man's mind turns to doing a triathlon in the late Spring. Good to have targets, even daft ones.

Aren't our politicians a squalid lot? I've just heard a Labour politico making a defence of the work of the Public Accounts Committee, work which comprises a lot of showing off by politicians (of all hues) whom you wouldn't trust to run a whelk stall. Perhaps the only thing less enchanting is that prize git Russell Brand spouting bollocks about why we shouldn't vote. Who to admire in public life? Search me.

So what's next? Get the bike serviced and sort out somewhere to do my famous slow swimming. I think  the time may have come to join a fitness club where I can be sure of pool time. The great unwashed do so get in a chap's way.

Another good thing about running again is that I can wear the Oakleys which of course make me go that much faster, well at least slowly with attitude.

God Is Not Mocked

T + 22 by the way.

I had my God and Mammon moment this morning. At 9.30 I was at the accountants about my tax return. On the way home something moved me to check out the time of masses at our local church. I arrived just as mass was starting so stayed. The mystery of faith retains its power to move. The reading was the camel and the eye of a needle. Sometimes you have to wonder.

This was the second time this week that I had felt enlightened - the first had come courtesy of some wise words from my little brother. I won't share the context but suffice to say that God is not mocked.

Peace be with you.