Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky

But I can't. Or more precisely I cannot go to my beloved Plas Piggy, where I can wake up to the scent of sea air and the view of the bay, best taken with that first good coffee of the day. Because, you see, nothing better illustrates the downsides of devolution than the fact that though the Welsh Assembly has deigned to allow us to use the property (on which I will remind you we pay a punitive Council Tax), our English masters prohibit us from travelling. Thus the Welsh economy is denied the pent-up spending power of eager English wallets until after the first bank holiday of the year. I know that the powers that be are concerned for my health but some consistency wouldn't go amiss. Anyway, let's hope that I can get there when the English shutters go up in a couple of weeks.

But fear not, it is not all bad news. The golfing Pig is back. Eight of us (socially distanced into two groups - honest) headed to Pype Hayes yesterday to celebrate the re-opening of the golf courses. I hit our first shot of the year - at a forty-five degree angle, into a tree and obediently back to my feet. It got better, in fact I played sporadically good golf. When I was good, I was very, very good but when I was bad - well you get the picture. 

Still on golf. I was watching the WGC Matchplay at the weekend. Why are American spectators (well some of them) such knuckle-dragging morons? 'Get in the hole' is assinine but mitigated by some small sense, but 'Mashed potato' - wtf? And as for the shit-for -brains who yelled 'Get in the water' at the top of John Rahm's backswing - well, this actually makes me reassess my view on American gun laws. People should be permitted to bear arms for the sole purpose of shooting these pricks. There you are - Big Fat Pig, the voice of reason. 

     

It's Not All About Eddie

So another Six Nations has come and gone. This was a good one, despite the glut of sendings-off and the occasional sighting of the lesser spotted caterpillar ruck. 

If an England team had been in the shoes the French found themselves filling last night and had played with the disresepectful attitude they betrayed, there would have been the loud (and for once justified) cries of 'English arrogance'. So instead we had French hauteur. First earn yourself the right to chase points, first win the game lads. Thus in the last chaotic minutes of the match I abandoned my neutrality and cheered on the Scots. I've always had an admiration for Gregor Townsend and he is making an impressive lot out of his limited resources. But, mon Dieu, what the bloody hell was Brice Dulin thinking when he failed to put the ball out to end the match.

And, yes, on sober reflection, I still think Jones must go. 

Titus Andronicus

Not bloody Titus Andronicus again, I hear from the chorus. I have to admit that I stand guilty of proselytizing for this glorious mishmash of dodgy history, bitter violence and madcap comedy. It is Shakespeare's first tragedy and is still recovering from centuries of squeamish neglect. 

Trust me, give it a go. Try Julie Taymor's high-energy film version, Titus, a take on the play that manages its own anachronisms with aplomb. If you want a less adventurous (but still commendable) adaptation, the BBC production starring the recently deceased Trevor Peacock (best known as Jim in Vicar of Dibley) fits the bill. I'm not entirely unconvinced that this play isn't the best introduction to Shakespeaerean tragedy - no come to think of it that would be the far better engineered Macbeth. But you see what I'm getting at.

If you do get to see both of these versions, note the differing dramatic treatments at their respective conclusions of Aaron's baby. This is a key to how one views the carnage that has preceded.  

Next up in the OG sprint through Shakespeare will be Richard III.     

Jones Must Go? Part V

In a word - yes. If a week is a long time in politics, it is an even longer one in professional sport. Having pulled the iron out of the fire against France, England proceeded to go several miles backwards in an abject performance against Ireland. For the first time since 1976, England have lost to each of the other home countries - and believe me I was around in 1976 and we were a disorganised shower in those days. 

Answer me this- what is the point of kicking the ball away if you have no plausible strategy for getting it back? Baffling and intellectually bankrupt. Jones is a good operator but a stubborn one and he has driven this England team into a tactical dead-end. Time for a change. My choice would be Pat Lam.

No comfort in being Welsh this week either, so it is a good job that I am Irish by marriage. And after all it's only a game. 

Jones Must Go? Part IV

Well this week the answer is pretty clearly no. The England v France match on Saturday was superb - not because of the result (which was as welcome as it was unexpected to this Englishman) but because it rescued us from the moral and intellectual poverty of the caterpillar ruck and all that mind-numbing kicking predicated entirely on the hope that the opposition will make a mistake before you do. Instead we had pace, pace, pace. Ray Williams (an early and forgotten coaching guru) used to say (and he probably wasn't the first to say it but he introduced me to it) that there is an answer to everything in rugby except pace. It's beautiful in its simplicity but once you have understood it, the rugby world is your oyster. That old nutter, Clive Woodward, understands it. Because France are so good (and believe me this side can and will get better) you can only play them by executing skills ultra quickly - there is no time for that careful and wrong-headed calculation that had become the unlovely signature of this England side. They played as if liberated. A superb match as I say - not a kick at goal missed, four tries, great defence as well as attack.

As a nice dessert, though not of the same high quality, Ireland and Scotland served up another tidy game on Sunday. It's nice to welcome the good old game back

A Pleasant Trip To Villa Park

I'm a Baggies fan so Villa Park (notwithstanding its proximity to my dear old school) is not really one of my happy places. I do remember us winning there in the eighties in the League Cup (1 - 0, Andy King) but that's about it.

Well today I went there for my Covid jab. Bloody brilliant. The whole set-up was bloody brilliant. Cheerful, professional and efficient. Why can't things always be like that? And, no, it doesn't hurt. 

Finding Strange Bedfellows

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. That's not me, it's my old mate the Bard.

Well I've slagged Piers Morgan off in the past (he's boorish and deliberately over-provocative), as well as praising him when he took the Americans to task over their deluded marriage to guns. It feels uncomfortable to be siding with him again but in the whole wretched business of the Harry and Meghan affair, I'm afraid I'm not unsympathetic. Here is what he said today and I think it's difficult to pick holes in it:

I don't believe almost anything that comes out of her mouth and I think the damage she's done to the British monarchy and to the Queen at a time when Prince Philip is lying in hospital is enormous and frankly contemptible.

Whatever happened to bearing your troubles with dignity. It's enough (almost) to turn you into a republican. President Boris anyone?