Butcher, Butcher, Sempre Butcher

Today's heading is a quotation, I think, from Enzo Bearzot, late manager of Italy. It was a favourite phrase of that doyen of English football writers, Brian Glanville, and summed up the English taste for a muscular centre half at the heart of its teams. Well, as we bask in the glory of last night's 2-0 vicory over Germany, we can update this to 'Maguire, Maguire, sempre Maguire'. Harry Maguire, most definitely an old-fashioned stopper, was man of the match. Ing-ur-land indeed.

Mind you I should have known that last night was coming. In the bar at Royal Pype Hayes on Monday we were chatting about the football, me from a position of benign ignorance and AP from a more knowledgeable stance. I mentioned that England had, in qualifying from their group, scored fewer goals than any other qualifier. The man at the next table overheard me and was quick to interject that neither had we yet conceded goal. He was clearly onto something. So sempre Maguire.

Same As It Ever Was

Sorry, I have gone through an inactive period blogwise. I have not been entirely lazy, rather I have been waging my ineffective war with my chapter on Antony and Cleopatra. Still mired in that task though an end (or more exactly an interval - there will have to be substantial revision) is in sight. Great play, as yet a patchy chapter only.

Enough of my problems. How have you been? Are you yet vaccinated against Covid? That seems to be the key to getting out of this bloody lockdown. Waiting for a Covid-free world will be stupid. Within reason, we have to live with it as we do with other ailments. I find the cozy stupidity of those who think we can all live at the cost of each other the most frighteneing aspect of current thinking.

Aren't the Tories a shower? The sheer blind stupidity of Matt Handjob takes some believing. And isn't Dominic Cummings quite simply the nastiest, most odious, disloyal little shit you have ever seen? These bastards drove me into a position I never want to be in - I found myself agreeing with that shit of all shits, Alastair Campbell. I got over it but please never again.

More tee shirts sold than records?

So why today's title? Well, I was going to go (yet again) with my favourite 'Pop Will Eat Itself', but I thought you might be bored with that. You know what I mean by now. That lucky phrase comes to mind again as Sky flood the sporting airwaves with advertisements for the Hundred - cricket designed for people who hate cricket and find Tweny20 too boring. The same weary sentiment is reinforced by the news that Premiership Rugby are increasing the size of the league and imposing a moratorium on relegation. Watch this space - the rich will get richer. And what about the complete charade of the group stages of football's Euros. Thirty-six matches to accomplish the minor task of eliminating only eight of the twenty-four teams. Stultifying. Greedy. Mind you I ask you to give me credit for having backed the nil-nil draw in the England v Scotland match. I'm sorry but it was as obvious as Scotland's failure to garner any other points. 

Still, no matter. I'm enjoying golf with the lads and it's QMT tour in three weeks time. Glorious stupidity. I had a particularly joyous outing at Forest of Arden last week with CC and BH. The greens were an eye-opener for those of us who are used to the speed-bumps on the greens at Royal Pype Hayes.

England v Germany tonight. I'm not sure I can stand to watch it. 

Round The Coast Towards Moelfre

I have been suffering with writer's block. That is putting it rather grandly - what I mean to say is that, rather to my surprise, my chapter on Antony and Cleopatra has got me stumped. I love the play but finding anything cogent to say about it is proving a horrible challenge. It is having too many ideas rather than none, which is, I suppose a good thing. Oh well, sod it, the sun's out and the red wine is chilled. Yes, I did say chilled red wine. If it's good enough for the Spanish, it's good enough for me.

It's renovation time here at Plas Piggy. I spent the morning ripping up the flooring I laid twenty plus years ago in the front bedroom. My handiwork will be replaced by a more professional product. Sad to see the last vestiges of my DIY efforts being consigned to the scrapheap but I have to admit that those few remaining features of my work are looking tired. 

After loading the old flooring into Canyonero (if you're not a devotee of The Simpsons and don't get this reference, I'm afraid I haven't got time to explain) I treated myself to a walk around the coast path towards Moelfre. The sun is out with only a slight breeze and the beach is crowded with happy noise. Life's been good to me so far.

I have been listening to the test match but have now given up on England. Is there a worse top three currently playing in international cricket? I know there probably must be but surely we can find better than this. Technique seems to be an optional extra these days. Pop will eat itself - see earler blogs for an explanation.  

Tonight I will mostly be eating meat pie.

A Message From Plas Piggy

A first bank holiday since the coastal resorts reopened (well almost completely) after Covid meant a long journey yesterday to get here to Plas Piggy. Satnav routed us away from some lengthy delays on the M6 but it was still an hour plus longer than we might normally expect. Not helped by a tyre pressure warning light coming on - a bit of a mystery as it turned out because we found a garage and checked all the tyres and they were fine. Pressed the reset button and all seemed well!

But lo, what is that in the sky? It is the sun and we wake today to glorious weather. God is in his heaven etc. 

We watched a seriously good film last night. Winner of the Palme d'Or and of the Best Picture Oscar, Parasite is a jet black comedy from Korea. Laugh out loud funny at points, caustic and beautifully choreographed, this is film-making of the highest order. You can find it on Amazon - the only annoyance being that it took the combined expertise of the Pig and the Groupie a small age to work out how to switch on the subtitles, our Korean being a tad rusty. 83/100.

The King

 When I grade films these days, I think in terms of the gradings for university degrees. 60% gets you a 2:1, 70% indicates a First  and anything over 80% means it is seriously good.

In my last entry I gave Turks and Caicos a marginal 2:1. I just can't get past my problem with David Hare, although I am forced to concede that the good and great of British luvviedon disagree with me and seem to utter 'genius' as soon as the man's name is mentioned. Oh well, I don't suppose that Hare will be troubled by my indifference.

And so to a slightly better 2:1 - The King masquerades as an adaptation of Shakespeare's Henriad, concentrating on the kingship of Henry V. That description does the film a minor disservice - it is more accurately a reimagining of the gruesome history. Timothee Chalamet is a slightly fey Henry who learns that being king is tough - I believed in this character. Joel Edgerton (who co-wrote) is a gruff Yoda-like Falstaff, given a rather different ending from the one the Bard allowed him, Merry Wives aside. Definitely worth the deviation into Netflix. 65/100. 

Two Down, One To Go, Portentous Still The Word

The Johhny Worriker trilogy of made-for-television spy thrillers managed to pass me by completely at their origin. I reviewed Page Eight on here a couple of weeks ago. Good but blighted by David Hare's trademark heavy-handed politics. Portentous was the word I favoured and even a quick look in Roget doesn't reveal a better descriptor. Well, Hare is at it again in the second instalment, Turks and Caicos. Again perfectly passable fare but clumsy in its denouement, which is a pity because even I am prepared to believe that our masters are up to no good behind our backs. I just don't need it bellowed at me. The dialogue gets in the way of some deft plotting and direction but cannot obscure some stellar acting. Mind you it would be a dramatic crime of the first order not to produce a good film with Bill Nighy and Helena Bonham Carter at your disposal. 60/100.   

Ynys Mon, Mank, Golf, Betjeman

Having painted myself into a literary corner with my efforts on Antony and Cleopatra, I took myself off to Ynys Mon and the country estate to try writing in a different corner. A sort of rest-cure cum writing camp. It sort of worked - I feel a repeat coming on.

Whilst not writing I watched (on Netflix, who are very possibly taking over the filmic world) Mank and greatly enjoyed it. Having said that I woud probably have to concede that one might find the film more than a tad bewildering if not armed with a more than trifling knowledge of Citizen Kane. However, the Overgraduate, aka Big Fat Pig, aka the Boy Roberts, is armed with such knowledge - and if you are not, then what is wrong with you? Put this right immediately. You will thank me.

Anyway I won't spoil either film for you. Citizen Kane is one of the greatest films ever made. Mank is not but it is an arresting speculation on the lives and loves of some of the stratospheric talents involved in Kane. The cinematography in Mank is beautiful and, in itself, an homge to Kane. Gary Oldman is a very convincing drunk. The script is clever and taut. Recommended. 81/100.

I have on occasions demeaned the Brabazon Course at the Belfry as not even the best course in Sutton Coldfield and I'll (just about) stick to that judgment, but it certainly presented itself very well when hosting the British Masters this week. A proper test of golf and a tournament that produced a fairytale victory for Richard Bland, a journeyman pro playing his 478th European Tour event and achieving his first victory at the age of forty-eight. 

John Betjeman. I spent an enjoyable hour viewing a 1970s documentary in which he visited Norfolk's churches. You'll find it on iPlayer. It evokes a world now gone and an established church no longer known to us. Mind you, didn't we wear horrible clothes in the seventies.