rather enjoyed

those extracts from dirk bogarde's published letters which were lodged in the "sunday telegraph". here he is, doing the rounds, promoting one of his books:

"did the 'tour'… birmingham, oxford, all the university towns. fun and moving. harrods, on the other hand, was as funny as a baby's funeral… millions of ugly people and a rude woman who said, in a very loud voice, 'my god! look what he's come to. selling himself in public!'"

that voice, that censorious voice, is the real, true voice of england. recognise it anywhere.

also amusing are some of the other reproving comments lobbed his way while out in public:

"left france, have you?"
"thinner than i imagined"
"pity, but after 50, you know"

and the most splendid of the lot: "he's buying tinned tomatoes". which magically combines disapprobation, noseyness, class distinction, and the mundane. brilliant, brilliant stuff.

some terribly brilliant advice given by a career woman in an english broadsheet

"my advice to career women is to get into the habit of rubbing really expensive body cream in after a bath."

and that, i expect, will solve everything.

economic indicators

nevermind the consumer price index, inflation, cash rate, new jobs advertised, or the price-per-barrel of crude oil. it's time for a new econometric measure. an instant guide to economic boom or bust is the s.p.i.: spam frequency index. the current influx of lottery-themed unsolicited emails floating around is a sure sign of economic gloominess ahead.

fool's gold

what a wheeze. best selling authoress, katie price, has casually disclosed she doesn't actually bother to write her hugely popular entertainments. instead she farms the actual writing aspect out to a thankless factotum or amanuensis. quite enterprising, that. price "merely thinks up the plot - leaving the complex task of conjuring up the golden prose to an assistant," is how one "daily mail" journalist tremulously put it. gold indeed. i wonder if any of her hundreds of thousands of readers feels a little swindled?

goodbye to "east angular" and all that

after 8 cruel, neuron-busting years it looks like those zeros at channel 10 are finally pulling the plug on "big brother". i think hosanahs are in order. though i can't forget the collateral damage. in particular, how "bb" shattered the illusion that people are basically decent and moderately intelligent. on the evidence of those in "bb" captivity they're not. not by a long way. its only contribution to the culture is adding the phrase "turkey slap" to the lexicon. not much to show for 8 years work, is it? anyway, now that the queen bee of reality tv is gone, maybe all the others will likewise disappear. roll on that happy day.

bloomin' marvelous

a tremendous pair of queen victoria's knickers, with a truly majestic circumference of 50 inches, are being flogged by the english auction house, hanson's. this garment belongs in the british museum. it's an ornament to the nation. and in churchill's words "makes you proud to be british".

england is in a dreadful way these days. the titanic proportions of these bloomers (made for a woman not quite 5 feet tall) will put a smile back on english faces. and restore some much needed national pride.

so much for price parity

one of the unexplained quirks of oz is the jumbo price differential for consumer goodies relative to the rest of the civilised world. what something costs in america usually costs two or three times as much here (irrespective of exchange rates). no one seems to know why this should appertain. so when telephone companies promised "comparable" pricing for the apple iphone 3g, i didn't hold my breath. this gizmo is $200 in america and, presto-changeo, $700 here. it must be magic. or a suitable matter for a parliamentary inquiry, i think. still, it's good to see the epidemic of apple iphone fever. no one, i notice, is queuing at 6:30 in the morning for a beige "windows" phone.

snacktacular

over the other side of melbourne, at queenscliff, the latest tourist phenom involves hand-feeding the giant stingrays (2 metres across) which glide into the shallows under the pier. what fun.

going caravaning

taste buds are in mutinous revolt against the host organism. i've gone off coffee. all espressoed out. desperate measures required. reverting to tea in the interim. russian caravan tea, to be precise.

a boost

as a consequence of the sclerotic world economy 600+ starbucks outlets in america are closing. hooray. hopefully the dozen or so in oz will be next.

mcfood

in an ill-considered attempt to defibrillate flagging sales, mcdonalds in oz has released a "mcafrica" burger. hmm. now africa has certain things in abundance: corruption, famine, war, disease, poverty, ignorance and aids. but food? not so much. now if it were a true mcafrica burger, reflecting the diet of the continent, it would be comprised mostly of africans.

brilliant

this lovely poster has been designed by the local authorities in england to publicise the necessary work they do. like spew removal. nothing like puffing up one's image, i suppose. perhaps this isn't quite the endorsement they were looking for? though re-addressed, as it were, this poster would do excellent service as a "welcome to liverpool" emblem.

though not intended as a piece of social commentary, this image is a nice summation of contemporary britain: a place awash with illegal immigrants, terrorists, binging, crime, yobs, and a general unseemliness not seen since hogarth's day.

the councilors have unwittingly caught the "very pith and marrow" (to steal from hamlet's phrasebook) of "cool britannia". it's been an astonishing cultural reversal.

the sweet science

it's a wonder of modern confectionery. or chemistry. i'm talking about sour gummi worms, or "squirms" as they're called here. how can something that is almost wholly comprised of sugar still taste sour? it's a miracle. a suspension of the normal laws of nature. and is more amazing in its own way than the feeding of the 5,000.

a star is gone

unless it's "singin' in the rain", it takes an extraordinary talent to make a musical watchable. cyd charisse is one of these. what would "the band wagon" be without her? or "silk stockings"? hollywood just lost a true star. a pity.

hail to the chef

gordon ramsay recently touched down in oz. naturally there were teenage girls on hand to meet him, swoon, scream and forward their phone numbers. he has cursed his way into their hearts.

it's the fizzy drink what done it

news dominated yesterday by the revelation that australians are per capita the world's fattest. huzzah! take that tonga!

a star is born

this year's olympics at peking promises jumbo servings of pollution, ruling party bombast, pre-fabricated hyperbole, the usual glut of non-sports (eventing, for crissakes!), and the revelation of track running's next superstar: allyson felix. felix's running gait is arguably the most aesthetically beautiful movement in contemporary sport. it's astonishing that someone so lightly built can dominate a power event like the 200 metres. she's going to light up that bloated, five-ringed circus.

a productive evening

finally tracked down the uncredited schumann lieder "der nussbaum" used, famously, over the top of the crowd scenes at wolverhampton in "hulmerist" (though can't decide between the elly ameling, karita mattila, and elisabeth schwarzkopf versions). also learned how nerd rod runtledge acquired atomic powers to become radioactive man's aide-de-camp, fallout boy.

the good sydney

the press has been paying a rather stingy tribute to sydney pollack this week, only getting up off their seats to cheer "tootsie". that's fun but i prefer pollack's wonderful performance in woody allen's "husbands and wives" and his role as an interviewee on alain klarer's "american cinema: 100 years of film-making". usually when people mention sydney they mean the bad sydney (that place just north of here). sydney pollack is the good sydney.

he's english, of course

after reading about some imbecile who claims to have eaten nothing but mars bars for the last 17 years—12 a day apparently—i only hope that when he's finally carried into st. bart's he's refused all medical help (article here).

dr evil

wins the annual "robert brasillach lifetime achievement award" for putting an intellectually respectable face on totalitarianism (and general academic p.r. work for other everyday forms of despotism); and being the darling of know-nothing undergraduates everywhere.

hands off, nature boy

some people say puffins are nasty. not me. i like 'em. they have a wonderful air of aloof self-possession. and unlike the contestants on reality-tv shows, they're very protective of their own dignity. in this case being impudently hoisted and inspected by a prying parkie on faroe island. gotcha!

shelf life

it must be brooding season. a female columnist in "the sunday times"—putting a spring in every woman's step, i'm sure—urges women everywhere to "settle" for whatever they can get husband-wise (see article here). a proper cheerupper.

relationship frogger

one of the more curious dating phenoms are those people who, though clearly dissatisfied with their other halves, won't abandon ship until someone better comes along. and so they stick it out, joylessly, all the while scanning the horizon for something propitious. it's rather like the frog in frogger who won't cross the river unless there's another log or bunch of turtles to jump on. makes no sense to me. frogs can swim after all.

peppermint patty needs help

just when it seemed the "man booker prize" shortlist had put us off literature permanently…

one of better recent publishing enterprises has been the release of the "complete peanuts" cartoons in sequential hardcover volumes. it's a toney production. so far 7 have been issued. that's the "good". the "bad" is each volume costs $60 something. well done, fantagraphic books. that price should scare most readers off.

the star, or scene-stealer, of the strip is marcie, who is inexplicably strange. and kooky. (i also like linus when he's philosophizing or quoting what he calls "scripture".)

another topping moment is peppermint patty's ad in the personals: "help wanted: attractive young lady can't remember history dates. doesn't understand fractions. call patricia reichardt at the number below." wonderful stuff.

wouldn't the world be a better place with the great pumpkin (dispensing his halloween justice)?

feminism exhumed

linda hirshman in today's "slate" (see article here) disinters the old feminist bugaboo of "hysteria"* in rushing to the support of hillary clinton.

hirshman asks, à propos of hillary, whether she belongs in the company of lucia di lammermoor, lady macbeth, and "anna o" from freud's quack studies. the answer is a gimme. no. she doesn't. hillary isn't an hysteric. in fact, she appears to have no feelings at all. she is gelid. the lady macbeth comparison is nice but doesn't quite apply: hillary would never fall apart after attaining power.

who then are hillary's natural analogues? two immediately spring to mind: nurse ratched from "one flew over the cuckoo's nest" and mrs danvers from hitchcock's "rebecca". but i think hillary's real affinity is with norma desmond from "sunset boulevard": a faded star, desperate for the limelight, who doesn't realise the audience has moved on. presidential politics is still big, it's hillary who got small.

*(a word i'm glad to say jane austen uses frequently)

mens rea

those who pooh-pooh the immanence of evil have obviously never watched "hannah montana".

a grub in troub

barry humphries has always said in extenuation of his characters' excesses that les patterson—or to use the full honorific, dr sir leslie colin patterson, mbe—is a mild version of the typical australian parliamentarian. (amazingly, some australians pretend to be offended by this.)

this week humphries has been vindicated by shenanigans out west. troy buswell, leader of her majesty's opposition in western oz, has just lowered himself fully into the soup. buswell is in troub for bra-snapping women in his office and sniffing the chair of a female staffer immediately after she left it.

buswell is obviously not well.

a heap of broken images

the way educators (tertiary and secondary) have dismantled and then abandoned the canon has been one of the most impressive feats of military strategy since erwin rommel retook el alamein (against superior forces). this strategy may have been improvised on the fly but it has been brilliant nonetheless.

how to destroy the west's incomparable cultural inheritance in 5 easy steps:

1. criticize the canon for not being inclusive enough.
2. adulterate it with inferior "steerage class" literature reflecting the new diversity.
3. further adulterate the syllabus with tv shows and movies.
4. eliminate all qualitative judgments.
5. admit the triviality of the subject and abandon it altogether.

unfortunately the problem with this otherwise winning strategy is that it produces too many people incapable of recognising literate jokes when they encounter them; in woody allen films, for instance: "when it comes to women i'm the winner of the august strindberg award". it also greatly reduces one's ability to insult others in very sophisticated ways, as joseph epstein did in this morning's edition of the "wall street journal": "i have always considered the clintons as little more than a branch of william faulkner's snopes family, in their cases snopeses who have given high sat scores a bad name". these are important "life skills".

it is simply negligent of educators to graduate students who aren't equipped to appreciate jokes they must "process" when watching "the simpsons". really, what else is education for? parents have a right to be upset.

circadian rhythms

or, as i prefer to call it, the grasmere divide. it describes two types of people: wordsworths and coleridges. wordsworths are early risers, of haleful habits, who (alas) tend to be of earnest (if not slightly pious) disposition. coleridges are unreliable, indulgers in opiates, inveterate stayers-up-late, sleepers-in, and of dissolute habits generally.

because i like to get up early i realise, to my chagrin, that i'm a wordsworth. this is not good. wordsworths are bores. coleridges are much better company: being more frivolous, better talkers, and entertaining carousers.

whether it's due to asperger's or simple selfishness i prefer to be up by six, when the world is unpeopled (like the london pictured in "composed upon westminster bridge") and the lemon-scented gums (pictured) are at their most fragrant; running on the beach and listening to classic fm; before the air is soupy with diesel fumes and the hub-bub of commerce has been turned up to "eleven".

evenings are good. but mornings are better.

nevermind world peace,

bring back blue smarties!

the foul english breakfast

with the exception of marmelade and the made-for-tv glamour of nigella lawson's kitchen concoctions, english food is indisputably disgusting. it is nowhere more disgusting than the muck known as "the full english breakfast". (one's mind drifts back to the opening of "withnail and i" when marwood takes breakfast in a camden town "caff": all "news of the world", bad teeth, and frying eggs swimming in rancid oil.)

and yet i'm openly glad the english keep eating as they do. that despite the bullying of government and the medical profession, the cajoling of rick stein and nigella, and the swearing of gordon ramsay, i'm glad the english remain as wedded to bad food as they were when orwell, in sisyphean fashion, wrote his famous essay "in defence of english cooking". after all, one of the things which makes the english so immemorially english is their stoic consumption of dreadful food.

so i was especially glad to see that some english schoolchildren had thwarted the new "healthy foods" régime in school tuckshops by smuggling in the contraband junkfood: fizzy drink, chips, chocolate bars and the like (see story here). echoes of harriet tubman's underground railroad, the relief of mafeking, and the famous "turkey twizzler revolt" against jamie oliver in east end comprehensives.

it's heartening to see that despite the unremitting attempts to turn them into europeans the english remain, at the table anyway, thoroughly podsnappingly english. it is greatly to their credit, as it says in "pinafore".

kagan 1, fukuyama 0

of all the articles, in all the foreign policy journals, in all the world, none was as dumb as francis fukuyama's announcement that we have reached "the end of history" and the final triumph of western liberal democracy. all quite presumptuous and wrong.

unlike coca-cola, the kind of liberal social order fukuyama has in mind has never been much liked around the world. it only ever existed among a tiny handful of western nations (and post-ww2 japan). it is grudgingly admitted in qualified form in asia and south america, is non-existent in africa, and is violently repudiated in the middle east.

robert kagan's new book "the return of history and the end of dreams" (clumsy title) is much closer to the mark. kagan describes the world as it really is: authoritarian, increasingly protectionist, and minatory.

if the incarnadine twentieth century has taught us anything (and, of course, it hasn't), it is the precariousness of civilization. ideology—the nelson muntz of politics—is back, refreshed, and full of beans. in temper and circumstance we are cosily close to the 1930s.

history isn't over. the world remains, as ever, a work in progress. or, in this case, regress.

the wisdom of alex doonesbury

an 8 year old tells it like it is.

the revenge of malthus

i remember being introduced to the concept of "scarcity" in economics as a 14 year old. but this is really the first time i've seen the phenom in operation. the news nowadays is all about "shortages": fuel (thanks, china), food, water, housing, eligible dates and parking spaces. the only thing there's a surplus of is muslims, and nobody wants those. in a particularly cruel example toy-makers are no longer manufacturing the "horrible gelatinous blob" action-figure from "futurama". now that's really going to hurt.

something borrowed, something made

my two favourite expressions du jour are:

"sour quince log"
indicative, taken from the "who shot mr burns?" episode of "the simpsons"; to describe anything unappetizing or disagreeable, e.g. hilary clinton or that tv show in which meredith tergiversates endlessly between mcstinky and mcsleazy ("grey's anatomy").

"the puck is in the mail"
a variation of "the cheque is in the mail" dodge, employed when one is forgetful or behindhand in some business. originates from the months i have spent waiting for a special ice hockey puck to be shipped from canada.

same shot taken in the sunlight

now what colour is it? carmine?

vermilion?

shiraz? magenta-ish? colours are always a "shot in the dark" (to use a pink pantherism) when one is colourblind. contentious.

anyway, more of autumn showing off.

parthenogenesis

this pumpkin sowed itself & growed itself, spreading vines and tendrils everywhere until it looked like the triffids had invaded (eerily reminiscent of that famous "dr who" episode where an organic creature nearly eats london). i took no part in proceedings. last month it delivered itself of a 10 kilogram junior pumpkin. that's me holding the newborn. there are two others still in gestation. anyone care to adopt?

braceletters

the nike store in melbourne has closed. hold your ho-hums. because this means there are no retailers in melbourne, that i am aware of, which carry lance armstrong's "livestrong" bracelets. i wear these less because i care about cancer (a topic seldom pondered) than for the fact that i admire armstrong himself. i don't admire many sportsmen but he is my second favourite. after roy jones junior, naturally.

that leaves the internet. where i found a biz which will make "livestrong"-type bracelets of one's own choosing: one decides the colour and text. "here's a laugh," as the fellow said when mr pickwick got into a scuffle with a coachman.

very much doubt i'll be bothered to go through with ordering+payment but my preferred design is a glow-in-the-dark bracelet which reads: "do not revive".

some other slogans i considered:

do i have to?
why me?
can i go now?
the answer is no
nothing lasts
not interested
so little time
sorry for nothing
travel doesn't help
sick of rock
and
you smell.

all terrific, i know. but there can only be one winner.

why not?

i seldom find the accomplishments of others terribly inspiring. why should i? jolly good for them but has nowt to do with me. if anything, these egregious achievements are an annoyance. the london marathon, for instance. saw a little of it over the weekend. i quite like the event but don't care for all the cant that goes with it: how "inspiring" it all is. it's just running. that's all.

in one respect though i am impressed. if i lived in london i'd never run. not propitious. too wet, too crowded, too trafficy, too dirty, too awful. takes a lot of moxie to run regularly in england.

anyway if clods like amanda holden, gordon ramsay, and our good friend bozo here (pictured), can run a full marathon then surely anyone—including me—can. so i believe i will. next year. not sure which one yet. still deciding.

the only hitch is that a marathon requires a sustained period of training for at least 6 months. tricky. constancy not my thing. i like to bounce around from running to squash to boxing to sea-splashing according to the season. my fitness fluctuates like the sine wave on a cathode-ray oscilloscope: 3 months of hyper activity followed by 3 months of comparative lassitude (though never descending to hippo-like lethargy). some reprogramming required.

i suppose it will be worth it. if only to feel smug afterwards.

outside

it would appear to be autumn.

the feijoa fight

martial times these. had various skirmishes with the native wildlife over the season's fruits: though i won the passionfruit war, i was wiped out over the cherries after the possums and parrots ambushed me in a classic pincer move. i was also overwhelmed by superior numbers in the nectarine dispute. now the final battle over the feijoa tree is about to commence. intelligence has reported increased possum activity in the feijoa sector. a bad sign.

reign of terror over (for now)

the stupid régime of daylight misappropriations—so much more apt than the casuistic "daylight savings"—is finally over. huzzah! no more artificial boot-black autumn mornings. and as if to celebrate, nature herself, overjoyed to be manumitted, turned the gorgeousness up to "eleven". i made the most of it with a 90 minute run on the beach before brekker.

i wonder what dr who would make of this mucking about with time? maybe he should have a word with our dopey legislators. whatever it is—body parts, or posh watches, or time itself—the real is better than the fake.

the greatest game show ever

game shows are universally dreadful. they are hosted by grinning pipsqueaks who ask dumb questions and offer tacky prizes. it's all carrot and no stick. idiocy isn't punished. that's why the game show featured on the chuck jones toon "the ducksters" (1950) is so good: it's entertainingly cruel, arbitrary and punitive.

here the host, daffy duck, interrogates the contestant, porky pig:

daffy duck: i will now play a passage from a famous opera, you must name the opera.
porky pig: but... but i'm weary.
daffy duck: listen carefully!
(plays a single note on the piano).
daffy duck: and there you have it! now, what's the opera?
porky pig: "c-cavalleria rusticana"?
daffy duck: audience?
audience: "rigoletto"!

genius.

a gap in nature

when a chap has died after a long life, most of it spent buzzing along at the top of his professional tree, there really isn't anything to repine about. it's what most people would probably want for themselves: a long and illustrious innings and all that rot. so there's no reason to blub about the passing of the great english stage actor, sir paul scofield. but his death does leave a gap in the theatre, if not a "gap in nature" (to borrow a resonant phrase from "antony & cleopatra").

all the great names have gone out: ralph richardson, john gielgud, alec guinness, laurence olivier, richard burton, ian richardson, paul scofield. only ian mckellan is left. the english stage has had a twilight of the gods. don't expect to see such abundant talent again.

though thankfully there is still scofield's terrific performance as the elder brothers in the bbc dramatisation of "martin chuzzlewit". watched it again the other night. splendid stuff.

exemplary

in a command performance of queenbeeism demi moore told david letterman her beauty regimen involved bathing in turpentine and, afterwards, having leeches applied to herself. what, not impressed? "these aren't just swamp leeches though," she assured letterman, "we are talking about highly trained medical leeches." (i wonder where these leeches did their residency? johns hopkins?) anyway, hats off to old ms. moore.

as women are the most mimetic of creatures, copying whatever diet or health fad the stars du jour are reported to be doing, we can realistically expect to see oodles of women inspired by moore's example. hopefully teenage girls are right now making the necessary appointments to be feasted on by leeches, stung by jellyfish, or bitten by fruit bats in the expectation of acquiring glamorous looks and perfect well-being.

two ladybirds, bonking

currently reading

who needs george eliot?

the fabulous fox

the scope and exercise of royal power has been in remission for 4 centuries now. though the concept of a "royal prerogative", or exemption from the constraints of ordinary laws, still endures. it does. really. only it is no longer possessed by the crown. it has passed instead to basil brush. and why not? after 40 years of unsurpassable and unparalleled cheek—as cheek goes, it's quite as good as that given by mr toad to the constable in "wind in the willows"—the fox has earned it. he can say whatever he wants, whenever he wants, about whomever he wants. defamation doesn't apply.

unfortunately the northants police aren't awake to this. they've just dispatched a "race relations officer" (could only happen in england) to investigate basil's disparaging (and hilarious) remarks about new age travellers. a group more accurately described as "bums" or "thieves".

this enquiry is daft.

basil is funny. and gypsies are filthy. we don't need police to tell us this.

this controversy will probably remind literate observers of the incident in jane austen's "emma" (vol.3, ch.3) where harriet is terrorized by nasty gypsies. another case of good being waylaid by evil.

find sommat else to do, mr plod.

science is a laggard

plodding, slow-witted science has a habit of ponderously confirming what our quicker intuitive senses have long understood. to wit: a scientific study (admittedly using a small sample size) has ok'd the existence of "small man's disease". what a revelation. who hasn't been irritated by the upstart antics of undersized men? the findings were reported in an english daily. how appropriate.

the system works

4 million victorians are expected to be obese by 2020. hooray.

slow melt

39º today. 39º the other day. 41º tomorrow. some autumn. i guess we should thank china—proud owner of the world's dirtiest economy—for these meteorological treats. a bit more of this and home swimming pools could become popular again—water restrictions notwithstanding.

gin is the thing

james bond represents a cod sophistication. his preferred drink, the vodka martini, is one of the vilest concoctions ever made. and is pointless in any case. the martini is perfect. can't be improved upon. and is best made with bombay sapphire.

thin stew

the booker prize has been doing business for 40 years. that's 40 years of heaping over-praise on very modest (and sometimes very bad) novels. now they're soliciting the public's opinion as to which of the prize-winners is the best. but there's a hitch. none of them are literature of the first rank.

in "sesame and lilies" john ruskin momentarily broke off denouncing modern life (a favourite subject of his) to draw a distinction between books of permanent value (like jane austen's) and those which are merely topical or readable (salman rushdie's—though then only sometimes). he called them "books of all time" and "books of the hour".

the problem with the booker prize is that it celebrates a barren period in english literature. despite the hub-bub, and the champagne-and-smoked-salmon of self-promotion, the booker prize has unearthed no "book for all time". or anything even close. so the survey of public opinion is futile.

much better to be honest about things, and withhold the prize until something of substance is written. however long that takes. but, then, the booker prize doesn't exist to celebrate art, but to encourage sales. so who cares?

overheard in the mall

teen 1: "what time is it?"
teen 2: raises arm and displays analogue watch.
teen 1: (none the wiser) "what's that in digital?"

loving-kindness

this week the st. francis of assisi award, for generosity of soul, goes to the girl who gave up her chocolate wombat to her pint-sized nephew. this is remarkable in so many ways. in the first place women don't voluntarily relinquish chocolate. it's not in their genetic code. and, second, these wombats are awfully hard to find. (just ask david attenborough.) an admirable gesture and all that but, personally, i think she's taking the sacrificial aspect of lent a little too far. though i'm sure the nephew in q. will be smiling about it.

sacked!

a female physicist working at the particle super-collider in geneva, for illegally taking home neutrinos from work. a forensic search of her apartment found a wardrobe full of them. she used to smuggle them out in her labcoat pockets. tisk, tisk.

why bother?

apparently there's a film version of "brideshead revisited" in the works, featuring emma thompson (presumably as the gelid lady marchmain). can't see the point. the 1981 granada version is near enough to ideal. the comparison is bound to be invidious. like that awful, miscast keira knightley "pride and prejudice". again, the bbc version made not long before was excellent. if the original can't be bettered, don't try.

i'd rather see waugh's "decline and fall" or "scoop" made into a feature.

the point of "brideshead", or one of the points anyway, was to show the awkward position of england's recusant catholics living "in partibus infidelium". living in protestant england, but apart from protestant england. strangers as it were in their own country. i imagine that's how all christians must feel in england now. especially having to witness the undergraduate antics of the archbishop of canterbury.

15 weeks

to get into prime running form before the "run melbourne" 10k on june 22. the distance is a lark, but the training required to run flat out for 40 minutes is horrible. still, it beats "drinking for england" as the saying goes.