Football, dodgy politicians and poets
In pain again all day, making work difficult. Went to have my back massaged, which was agony but then completely removed the pain. For half an hour. Frustrating to be so close to finishing Skelton Yawngrave but unable to type for more than ten minutes at a stretch.
In the evening Anton came around and we scored a Chinese takeaway from a restaurant next to the usual takeaway, which was a revelation. Then we watched the European cup final. Anton's beloved Manchester United put in a surprisingly abject performance against Barcelona, who Chelsea went out to in the last round thanks to a corrupt referee. Anton looking tormented and fidgeting about the place, and unable to watch half of it. I of course was able to view it with a dispassionate eye, while Calliope quietly supported the Catalan side.
After, and NOT talking about football, Anton and I went to the Battle of Trafalgar for a consoling pint of Harveys, and a change of scene before he shuffled up the hill under a cloud of gloom. Watching football is pointless and heartbreaking. A fact I hope not to be reminded of when I'm installed in a pub on Saturday, watching Chelsea win the FA Cup final against the unspeakable Everton.
The UK now in a frenzy of recrimination over MPs expenses, and daily updates for the last few weeks in the Telegraph highlighting expenses fiddles, and using public money to clear their moats, buy duck islands, pay non existent mortgages (all actual examples) and so on continues unabated. At best these people are incompetent and at worst they are blatant thieves. There is a talk about growing anger among ordinary voters, but this being the apathetic UK not much will happen.
Now it seems that Ruth Padel, the Oxford Poetry Professor is about to step down as it has emerged she used smear tactics to prevent her rival for the post, Derek Walcott, getting the job. The politics of poetry are fierce. Walcott is a Nobel laureate, but accusations about sexual harassment dating back to the eighties were floated. In the eighties I once attended a poetry masterclass at South Bank run by Walcott, the best that can be said of the experience was that I got my book signed. I am admirer of Walcott's work, but he was an uninspiring teacher.
In pain again all day, making work difficult. Went to have my back massaged, which was agony but then completely removed the pain. For half an hour. Frustrating to be so close to finishing Skelton Yawngrave but unable to type for more than ten minutes at a stretch.
In the evening Anton came around and we scored a Chinese takeaway from a restaurant next to the usual takeaway, which was a revelation. Then we watched the European cup final. Anton's beloved Manchester United put in a surprisingly abject performance against Barcelona, who Chelsea went out to in the last round thanks to a corrupt referee. Anton looking tormented and fidgeting about the place, and unable to watch half of it. I of course was able to view it with a dispassionate eye, while Calliope quietly supported the Catalan side.
After, and NOT talking about football, Anton and I went to the Battle of Trafalgar for a consoling pint of Harveys, and a change of scene before he shuffled up the hill under a cloud of gloom. Watching football is pointless and heartbreaking. A fact I hope not to be reminded of when I'm installed in a pub on Saturday, watching Chelsea win the FA Cup final against the unspeakable Everton.
The UK now in a frenzy of recrimination over MPs expenses, and daily updates for the last few weeks in the Telegraph highlighting expenses fiddles, and using public money to clear their moats, buy duck islands, pay non existent mortgages (all actual examples) and so on continues unabated. At best these people are incompetent and at worst they are blatant thieves. There is a talk about growing anger among ordinary voters, but this being the apathetic UK not much will happen.
Now it seems that Ruth Padel, the Oxford Poetry Professor is about to step down as it has emerged she used smear tactics to prevent her rival for the post, Derek Walcott, getting the job. The politics of poetry are fierce. Walcott is a Nobel laureate, but accusations about sexual harassment dating back to the eighties were floated. In the eighties I once attended a poetry masterclass at South Bank run by Walcott, the best that can be said of the experience was that I got my book signed. I am admirer of Walcott's work, but he was an uninspiring teacher.
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