Films of 2007

I was in the pub tonight tonight with the Fellah and 5MinJim. Later on, our Man of the Antonii turned up. Here is a word of advice. If you go to a pub called The Steam Passage in North London, under no circumstances buy a 'large' or 250 ml glass of wine - it costs £5.15. £5.15!! A total rip-off.

If you would like to know where we were and where The Steam Passage is, check Google. One of the topics of conversation this evening was what our favourite three films of 2007 were. Everyone has their own favourites, of course. Unfortunately, I can't remember Our Man's, although I do recall that he liked This Is England, which I have not seen. My current favourites are-

1. The Bourne Ultimatum

2. Stardust

3. Blood Diamond

What are your favourites?

As I Walked Out One Winter Morning

Gloucester 27 Harlequins 25

Why oh why can't rugby matches be 40 minutes long? In the first half of yesterday's game, Harlequins gave Gloucester an absolute pasting. Going into half time the visitors were 13 - 25 up. But Gloucester came out fighting in the second half forcing Quins, firstly onto the defensive and then into making critical errors that led to two players (Gommersall and Jones) being sin binned at the same time. To its credit, during the 11 - 12 minute period that Harlequins were reduced to 13 men, they only gave away 7 points, but the sin-binnings forced the team onto the defensive when it should have been going on the attack.

Gloucester are in the same league as Harlequins but are a team apart. They and Leicester Tigers are the rugby equivalents of Manchester United and Chelsea. For this reason, had I written a preview of the game I would not have predicted that we would take anything more than a losing bonus point if we were lucky. To come so close to victory, therefore, makes me very proud of the team. But how frustrating the yellow cards and missed conversions!

A word on the Quins kicker, Chris Malone. He missed nine points yesterday. If I had known that and only that, I would have said he had a very poor game; one that cost us the victory. However, one of the travelling party afterwards reminded me that although he missed those kicks, Malone did score two of our tries and assisted in the other two. Maybe he did well, after all.

Of the Gloucester team, the man who impressed me most was Vainikolo. A huge player in the style of Sebastian Chabal, my heart jumped into my mouth every time he got the ball. If memory serves, he joined Gloucester just before the world cup to cover for absent players. I wish his contract had ended with South Africa's victory! Gloucester have an immensely talented team but this man mountain could be the player that brings them the title this year.

Before the game, we (~being the travelling members of the Harlequins Supporters Club) stopped for lunch at the pleasant Golden Heart pub in Birdlip, a village a few miles outside Gloucester. I tried another new beer: Three Point Eight, I think it was called. Alas, I did not get very far with it as it had a heavy, lager like taste and I am not at all fond of lagers. Arriving at Kingsholm, Gloucester, we had our first few of their impressive through suspiciously pre-fab stand. Architecturally suspect it may be, but the use of a long and wide corridor underneath the stand made the pre-match socialising a lot easier and pleasant.

To catch a glimpse of the old stand, have a look at the photo I took for this game last March (4th one down). The old stand is to the left. The club house towards the left and middle has also been pulled down. You will notice that the view is partly obscured by a pillar. Amazingly, the new stand also has pillars which, as we were sitting there yesterday, obscured the view for myself and several members of our party. How on earth Gloucester justified the use of a design with these elementary flaws, I don't know. This is a gripe, but not a great one. Despite the defeat, I enjoyed the game and am very happy that after a run of indifferent games (with the hon. exception of that against Stade Francais) Harlequins played so well again.

Friday Night In Camden

On Friday night I took my first ever trip to Camden Town on a Friday night. Having avoided the little world of wierdness that revolves around the various clubs and pubs there for all of my life, I accepted the Fellah's offer to come and see a favourite band of his play called Tiny Tigers to see what the area and the music were actually like.

Of the area there is not much to say. It was like any other, really. A few strangely dressed music lovers were to be found here and there (although maybe I was the strange one since I was still wearing my office clothes) but not any more than that.

The music though, was good fun. When we arrived at Mr Flynn's establishment Tiny Tigers were setting their equipment up: strumming the guitars, singing a few lines and bashing the drums. The soundman was sitting next to his box of tricks but seemingly not doing much as we were soon to discover. By the way, Tom Flynn's is not a big pub. Fortunately the place was not packed out so that when TTs started their show there was enough room to breath, if not to avoid people moving back and forth around you. It also meant that when the band got going the music hit you full on. What did not hit you, though, was the singing. I think the Tiny Tigers played four or five songs in all - too few - and for two or three of them the singer's microphone was poor or non existent. The soundman, meanwhile, was stuffing himself with pizza. To be fair, he eventually got it sorted out, but one would have thought that this kind of issue would be dealt with before the show actually started. My biggest gripe, however, is with the fact that Tiny Tigers came and went so quickly. I am not well versed in pub gigs: perhaps bands only play a few songs but I would very much have liked to have heard more from this group.

The Tiny Tigers is a four piece band that plays rock and roll. (My Space page here) I remember when I bought the last U2 album Vertigo. I listened to it and thought all these songs sound the same. It was only with repeated listenings that I began to distinguish between them. So it was with Tiny Tigers. But there was one song that did sound different and which to my chagrin I cannot now remember the title of. I would recognise it if I heard it again though, and would love to do so.

A little while after the TTs left the stage, the second band came on. This was a six piece group called Shuffle. Their My Space page can be found here. They played a kind of indie-punk-hip hop music that at one point even involved the use of loudspeaker! I very much enjoyed this band. Not so much for the music, though it was good, but for the performance, particularly of the lead singer. How do I explain this? Well, when we see pop stars, athletes or politicians (etc) on stage or television we do not regard them as people like ourselves but as something other - performers; stars. This is because those people are inhabiting their role as pop stars or whatever to perfection, or something close to it. How they inhabit these roles so well, I don't know, but that is how I see it.

The lead singer of Shuffle was just like the television pop stars. He wasn't just a man on a stage singing a song but something other. His image didn't hurt: he wore a black shirt and trousers, black bow tie and had well coiffered hair and moustache only slightly thicker than Errol Flynn's. And neither did his movements: rather than just stand around when he was or wan't singing, he bopped with the best of them.

It wasn't only the lead singer who made his space his own. The bassist jerked around at right angles in an impressive fashon. I was less impressed by the female co-singer. She did not have enough to do and seemed to be the on stage eye candy. But that is a small complaint. Shuffle and the Tiny Tigers are two great bands and it was not only fun but an education to see them play.

Doomed!

At rugby practice tonight, we drilled using the Christmas tree formation. This involves a man carrying the ball facing a single tackle pad bearer. Behind the ball carrier is another player and behind the tackle pad bearer - to his left and right - are two more of his kind. Behind them are three more. The idea is that the ball carrier runs forward and passes the ball to his fellow, avoiding or thumping the tackle pad bearer as he goes. Once they have passed him, he (the TPB) drops the tackle pad and joins the attacking line. As they approach the second row of tackle pad bearers, therefore, there are now three attackers. And if they can pass the ball to each other, then as they approach the last three TPBs, there should be five attackers.

To add a little fire to the drill, the eight attackers (the five plus the last three TPBs) then swung round to face four defenders. The idea was simple: get the ball past them. The action was frenetic and I have to admit, I was acting on autopilot during my contributions to it. The most physical aspect of this drill for me was taking on a tackle pad: by and large I remained on the wing during the confrontation with the defenders.

We also practised a second drill. It has no name that I know of but involved a line of ball carriers versus a line of empty handed attackers. To begin with, both the ball carriers and attackers had to run 10 - 15 feet to a cone then back towards each other again. The ball carriers would at this point actually pick up their balls. What happened next was dictated by the coach. If he said to the ball carriers go right that is what everyone did. If he said move backwards, they did. The attackers stayed close by moving forward. If he said run with the ball, then they did and that is when the mass tackling happened, with equal numbers on each side, every man had someone to tackle. The action lasted but a few seconds but between the Christmas drill and Drill With No Name I acquired a stitch. Or so I thought. When I found that my chest was still hurting some minutes after the exercises had ended I knew that it was not a stictch after all, but the result of being thumped during a tackle.

Some people say that medicine is the best cure for aches and pains. I look to the pub and untried beers. For example, tonight, I tasted the previously untasted but excellently named 'Doom Bar'. It was not a portentous beer but cold and refreshing. My chest still hurts though.

Top Gear

I am not a fan of cars but this evening, for want of any better option, I found myself watching Top Gear on BBC1. As it turned out, England and Wasps rugby star Lawrence Dallaglio was on as a guest. Jeremy Clarkson asked him when he was first punched during a game. Lawro / Dayglo / Dallaglio (delete as appropriate) said that it happened when he was 17. The game wasn't mentioned, but the culprit was none other than Harlequins' head coach, Dean Richards, who whacked him in the nose. Proving that rugby union is the game for hooligans played by gentlemen, Dallaglio said that after the game finished, he shook hands with Richards, greeting him from behind a flattened nose! One question to Dallaglio which did not receive an answer was whether he punched Richards back. It was Dallaglio's own captain who advised him that he had to do it 'otherwise,' he said, 'Richards will only go and punch you again.'!

As for the game for gentlemen played by hooligans, Dallaglio admitted that among rugby players, the top flight in England was known as the Andrex Premiership. Because the players are soft and overexpensive.

Later on in the programme, co-presenter Richard Hammond took part in a race between five or six motorhomes round a motor circuit. One of the rules of the race was that there should be no contact between the vehicles. This rule was cheerfully ignored, and there was alarming footage of the walls of Hammond's motorhome shaking and shivering prior to falling apart. It looked great fun!

A fairy tale

Once upon a time, there was a lovely little lady called Mary who wore glasses, had grey hair and a kindly smile. She lived in a large house which had a garden which had lots of bushes. One day, she was met by a young boy who was on the search for spare bush leaves in the neighbourhood. Why he was doing this is a mystery - he did, after all, live in a house which had its own garden, but that is the way of it with fairy tales. Some things don't quite add up.

As for why he needed bush leaves in the first place, well, he had been given stick insects by his teacher to look after during the holiday and had come to realise that the little things did not live by salad cream sandwiches and crisps as he did. So, lead by his mother, he came to Mary's house and she was only too delighted to donate some of her bushes - or rather, their branches - to keep the wee stick insects alive.

The boy thanked her and that was the end of the first part of the story. The stick insects were looked after, the boy grew up and did other things while Mary carried on smiling in her big house. Until this weekend, that is, when, full of years, she died. Now begins the second part of the story which, the boy is sure - and not just because of her act of kindness towards him twenty five years ago - will get better and better for Mary and never have an end.

M. F. Requiescat in pace

Harlequins get their blue (nearly)

Harlequins 13 Gleision Caerdydd (Cardiff Blues) 13

Cardiff currently lead the Celtic League by three points after six games, having won five and lost just the once. Today's game, therefore, should have been as hard for Harlequins as last week's was against Stade Français. But while just as last week, Quins dominated the territory, just as last week again, they proved unable to convert their superior possession into points. Consequently, the home team went into half time only 10 - 3 up when their score should have been double that. Cardiff came out more strongly in the second half and that is why the game ended all square, but as an attacking force, they were still fairly ineffectual. Only Harlequins' own mistakes prevented them from recording a win. These mistakes were principally in the area of handling with a bad case of butterfingers affecting the team. Very frustrating to watch.



A good word can be said, though, for the Cardiff fans. I don't know how many travelled from Wales, but they were in fine voice throughout the game. Indeed, on more than once occasion with the level of noise they were making you might have been forgiven for thinking that you were in Wales.

Amongst other points of interest, I returned to Waterloo yesterday for the the first time since the Eurostar packed up and headed across town to St Pancras. The Eurostar section of the station is all boarded up now. It ought to be used by the other train services working out of the station, but I have heard it is simply going to be mothballed. It is wonderful that St Pancras is returning to work, though; that splendid gothic structure deserves to be more than just a landmark.

A Train Called Tesla

After drinking my water and cold beer on Thursday, I walked (stiffly) back to the train station. Unfortunately, I just missed it. However, while I was waiting for the next to arrive, I watched the train going in the opposite direction pass by and I happened to notice that it was called the Nikola Tesla. Had I not seen The Prestige last year that name would have been meaningless.

The Prestige tells the story of two stage magicians who spend their careers trying to trump each others tricks. Finally, one of them, visits Tesla in America and from him learns how to transport or teleport himself from one location to another. Tesla is played by David Bowie as a rather eccentric little man (he is a scientist, after all) with a rather indeterminate accent.

In real life, Tesla was a famed electrical engineer whose reputation ultimately fell because, despite making a number of important discoveries, he made some very outlandish statements about what science could in the future achieve, for example, the existence of a 'death ray' weapon.

Anyhow, it was a nice touch to see a train given a name and that of a scientist who is today overlooked in the pantheon of scientific greats.

Smokers and pubs

Friendship is the greatest of worldly goods.
C. S. Lewis

There can be few activities more inimicable to good sense than smoking. And there can be few more selfish things for smokers to do than desert their non smoker friend(s) when they are in the pub so as to enjoy a cigarette outside. Yet, now that the Government with such little wisdom as it has managed to garner in ten years of power (one should be grateful that it has managed to accumulate so much) has banned smoking in public places, this is now what happens.

The idiocy of this action defies belief. What is the principle reason for going to the pub? To drink or to be with friends? It ought to be, of course, for the latter reason. So, what do smokers imagine is to gain by their constant diving outside? Do they seriously think that the person or people they are leaving behind appreciate playing second fiddle to a cigarette? If they do, they are fools who are unworthy of those who are left inside twiddling their fingers. Why do they do it, then? Well, it takes no little stupidity to take up an activity which one knows will damage one's body in the first place, so perhaps we see in that the reason why smokers do not think about the consequences of their actions. But, it really is not rocket science that if you leave someone behind they are not really going to appreciate being left alone. Especially when they are somewhere that exists for the meeting of minds and hearts.

We have been moving towards the diminution of pubs as places where friends meet for a long time now. The evidence for this is in the incomprehensible - and reprehensible - decision of some landlords to play music so loudly that no one can hear themselves think let alone talk. But it is a shocking error on the part of friends to act so selfishly. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Yet, they won't be because on the one hand, the smoke that they inhale has addled their minds and the idiot fellow smoker friends that they take with them cloud their hearts. It seems to be the case that for as long as you carry one friend with you, you think you carry them all. But it is not the case.

I don't expect the Government to repent of its actions because it is comprised of a bunch of politicians, but friends - friends ought to know better. They are part of a noble circle that transcends political restrictions. By deserting their fellow members they are fracturing that circle. If they continue to do so, that circle will inevitably break and only they - puffing away like industrial chimneys and smelling of foul smoke - will be to blame.

Rucking

At rugby practice last night we practised rucks. What are they? Here is the BBC's description:

A ruck may sound like a fight in the playground, but it's a very important part of rugby union. If a tackled player goes to ground, they must release the ball immediately. However, the opposition will want to get their hands on the ball, while the team in possession will not want to give it away. So a ruck is formed when the ball is on the ground with at least one player in physical contact with a member of the opposition. To get hold of the ball, both sides will drive over to make it available for their nearest team-mate. But only players on their feet can handle the ball in a ruck. If a player joins a ruck, they can only do so from behind the line of the ball. This means they cannot come in from the sides of the ruck, otherwise the referee will award a penalty to the opposing team. Also, every player must be "bound" in the ruck. This means they must have at least one arm round a team-mate who is involved in the ruck. If the ball does not come out of the ruck quickly enough, the referee will award the team moving forward at the ruck the feed at the scrum.

For my part, I can't say that I was bound as the laws require. For a beginner like me, the formation of a ruck is a fast and frenetic activity because I still have to think about where I am going and what I am about to do. Inevitably, I forget to do things.

Last night, we divided up into three groups. In the middle of each was the tackle pad bearer. About ten - fifteen feet in front of him was a single player. Behind the tackle pad bearer by a similar distance - and facing him - were three attackers. Behind them, facing away from the tackle pad bearer were two defenders. The idea was that one of the attackers kicked the ball to the man in front of the tackle pad bearer. Upon catching the ball, the ball bearer would then charge into the tackle pad bearer, forcing him back as far as he could. Meanwhile, the three attackers would run past the tackle pad bearer and round a cone a few feet behind where the ball bearer started from, before joining him in attacking the tackle pad bearer. As the attackers reached him, the ball bearer would go to ground and release the ball. One of the attackers would 'seal' it by standing over the ball bearer in an arched fashion (so with his arms on the ball bearer's body). One of the other attackers would be trying to push back further and/or up end the tackle pad bearer, while the other would be attempting to grab the ball from behind the arched player. All the while, the two defenders would be trying to push them away from the tackle pad bearer having run away from the attackers after the ball was kicked, to another cone, and back again, so that they met them just as they reached the tackle pad bearer.

If all this sounds complicated, that is because my ability to describe what happened is deficient. In reality, what happened was brutally simple - especially if you were the tackle pad bearer. I took part in every position and this was certainly the most physically demanding. After all, as the tackle pad bearer, you had a succession of aggressive, muscular men bearing down on you, determined to knock you over backwards with great force. It was great - when I didn't fall over. Nothing gets the martial spirit going more. During one practice, I even had two of the attackers trying to up end me, and for a brief moment I thought that I might get spear tackled. I am pleased to say, however, that on that occasion, I remained on my feet. I should say, though, that being the ball bearer is also pretty scary. When you go down, you go down beneath two or three large men. That's alot of weight.

When I got to the pub at the end of the session, I asked of the barman a pint of water and his coldest beer. Rucking is extremely thirsty work!

A Roman Mass

As mentioned in my last post, I went to Mass at Notre Dame Cathedral on Sunday. Thank goodness for Latin - when Mass is being said in the vernacular and you don't know the language, the Latin parts are invaluable for letting you see where the service has got to and drawing you back into it. Two words in one of the Latin prayers (and I am afraid I don't know which one it was) jumped out at me: princeps and imperium. Both were references to Jesus Christ. I knew them from my Roman reading.

Augustus Caesar's official title was princeps. It means 'first citizen'. When he became sole leader of Rome, Augustus knew that the Senate and aristocracy were not yet ready for an emperor-in-name so he chose to be called princeps instead. The name is both acccurate and deceitful because, of course, although Augustus was indeed the first citizen of Rome he was not, as the name suggested, a good republican.

As for imperium, this world refers to the power that a Roman general held. His imperium was his right to give orders and to lead. It is no surprise that these words should be applied to Christ - Christianity has never been afraid to take secular terms to explain itself. Still, it is very pleasent when one finds familiar words being used.

Quins in Paris

Stade Français Paris 37 Harlequins 17To Paris on Friday to see Harlequins play Stade Français in the first round of the Heineken Cup, rugby's answer to the European Cup of football. This was always going to be a tough game - SFP are one of the top European teams and are, so I have since found out, favourites to win this year's tournament. Despite the scoreline, however, Harlequins showed that SFP are not a side to be feared. Quins enjoyed a great deal of the possession and territory. Stade Français's tries were opportunistic ones that came out of Quins' errors and lack of killer instinct.

I can't pretend, however, that the wrong side won the game. It didn't. Despite not playing particularly well, SFP deserved to win on account of their stout defending and cunning in attack. It ought to be remembered as well that Stade were playing only their third game of the French rugby season and were, so I heard, without eleven of their first team players.

The game was played next door to the Parc du Princes in west Paris. The Stade Jean-Bouin is really just a glorified training ground; a surprising location for such a big team. As can be seen in the photograph above, SFP played in their really remarkable kit - grey with pink lillies cascading down like wisteria outside a house. Not your typical rugby kit! But, being French, they can get away with it.

As for the trip generally, it went really well. I stayed in a hotel next door to the Arc d'Triomphe. After arriving in Paris on the Eurostar train, I went straight onto the underground. When I emerged from it, my first view was of the Arc and, in the background, the lovely and yet so Victorian Eiffel Tower.

On Friday afternoon I visited the Louvre where I - eventually - found the Venus de Milo statue (Having seen the Winged Victory of Samothrace and Mona Lisa on my first visit to Paris three or four years ago I did not attempt to track them down again). Venus de Milo is beautiful. The tourists surrounding her taking photos did remind me of the paparazzi. In the evening I joined some other Harlequin fans south of the river for a drink. I thought I could walk home until I realised that instead of heading due north, I was going due south. I caught a taxi. The fare was 11 euros. I gave him what I thought was 15. Except my 10 euro note was a 20! The cabbie kept trying to hand it back, but I was having none of it. God bless tourists.

On Saturday, the Harlequin fans had a pre match dinner in a restaurant near the stade Jean-Bouin. In the evening, we crossed town for another meal organised by the Harlequin supporters club (Quinssa) and the president of the Stade Français. It was a great night. Good food and drinking songs. Hilaire Belloc would have approved, though I don't know if he liked rugby.

On Sunday morning I went down to the incomparable Notre Dame cathedral for Mass. It is the height of mediaeval Gothic excellence. My journey back to the hotel to pick up my bag for the garde du nord was complicated by the fact that I headed east on the underground when I wanted to go west. It was further complicated when I crossed the platform to catch the train going - I thought - in the opposite direction only to find that I was still heading east!

Finally, and with lots of time to spare, I made it to the train station and so to home to reflect on a good performance by Harlequins even if it was a game between boys and men. Oh well, at least it bodes well for our future.

Elizabeth: The Golden Years

At the end of this film, the credits inform us that after defeating the Spanish Armada, Elizabethan England enjoyed years of 'peace and prosperity'. Well, if you were on the right side and adept at staying there, I suppose the statement is correct. Otherwise, it highlights the fatal flaw of probably every historical film that ever was - its simplification of the period in which its story is based.

Elizabeth portrays England as the good guys, Spain as the bad. Full stop. The Catholic Church is bad, but only through its association with Philip. It is not given any other life. We learn a little of what makes the Virgin Queen tick, but nothing about the motives of Philip, the king of Spain. Well, that is not wholly true. England is the heretic country. Elizabeth has to be overthrown in order to bring her back to the true faith and into Spain's empire. Enter a villainous philipine Jesuit. And, in the absence of any character study, a load of cliched images of the Catholic faith to remind us which side he belongs to. In terms of imagery, I counted a rosary, icons of Our Lady, crucifixes, cardinals and all the usual Latin phrases from Mass that you would expect to hear: et cum spiritu tuo etc. The list is probably not exhaustive.

What this lazy use of Catholic iconography shows is the film writer's unwillingness or inability to probe more deeply into the Elizabethan period to understand the people who were a part of it and why they acted as they did. Catholics were, after all, persecuted in Elizabeth's time. In fact, if I recall correctly, more were killed during her reign than during 'Bloody' Mary's. Mary has the sobriquet because she ruled for a shorter period.

Of course, if you read between the lines of the film, its view of England as the good guy breaks down. Elizabeth orders the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots; she imprisons Sir Walter Raleigh for making one of her ladies-in-waiting pregnant; Sir Francis Walsingham is portrayed (implicitly) as a torturer (in the first Elizabeth film, we see him commit a murder); the gaoler of Mary, Queen of Scots is portrayed as a rather dull drone of Elizabeth's. I might also add that while Elizabeth bangs on about England being a place of liberty and free thought, in real life, she was a stalinist state.

One thing that cannot be faulted about the film is its costuming and special effects. The confrontation with the Spanish Armada that forms Elizabeth's centre piece is too brief by far but what we do see of it is well executed.

The acting, however, is a little suspect. Cate Blanchett is good as Elizabeth, but does rather over egg it whenever she is required to raise her voice. Clive Owen makes a good Walter Releigh, but is not dashing enough. Upon reflection, Geoffrey Rush as Walsingham looks a little bored. His character, so well used in the first film, is not given enough to do here.

That, I think is a big problem with the film. At the beginning, Elizabeth is in full control of her country. There is, therefore, too little conflict - always bad news for a story. We see the beginning of the Jesuit plot against her and the raising of the Spanish fleet, but they seem very disconnected from Elizabeth's story. It is almost like watching two films side by side. When they come together, it is too little, too late. Though I will own that the Jesuit plot, though it seems a damp squib, turns out to be very clever.

A while ago, it was revealed on one of the Catholic blogs that some scenes in Elizabeth: The Golden Years were filmed at Westminster Cathedral. These are seen mainly at the beginning, though there are a few more scattered throughout the film. All of them involve Philip, the King of Spain. It was rather odd seeing a five hundred year old scene represented in a place I know well. In my response to the news (here) I expressed misgivings about the enterprise. However, while Elizabeth: The Golden Years does no favours towards the Catholic Church, I don't know if it is an intelligent enough film to be called 'anti Catholic'. It is as if the writers have simply sat down, decided to write a historical story, decided on who their good and bad guys are and proceeded to write the script accordingly: the Dan Brown art of fiction. Yes, we have a Jesuit assassin, but also a Spanish King who repents of his pride at the end of the picture.

Monsignor Mark Langham said that Elizabeth was 'spectacular and evocative, and is a 'must see' for the autumn!'. Elizabeth: The Golden Years is neither spectacular or evocative. To be the former it needed to offer something that we had not seen before in historical drama. For example, the full truth about what happened back then. Its lack of character study prevents it from doing this. To be the latter it had to have a certain spirit that highlighted what the Elizabethan age was about. But there is none of that here. In their anxiety to put words into Elizabeth I's mouth the writers have forgotten to take a step back and put her into her context.

With all this in mind, it may be taken that I do not believe that this film is anything like a must see. With that said, I can recommend it as a film. For all its flaws, it is a competantly made picture that will entertain if one lets it or cause a debate if not.

Jeeves and Worcester

Harlequins 22 Worcester Warriors 23

On paper, a Harlequins win in this game was a dead cert. We have won five out of seven this season, Worcester have lost six. And the other game was a draw. However, perhaps frustrated by their failure to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory against Wasps two weeks ago, Harlequins put the same game plan into effect and came up trumps.

This was a poor game. Worcester were not worth their victory. If Quins had won, they would not have been, either. They played, but simply did not try hard enough. Maybe they thought that as long as they kept at it, Worcester would fold. But no team in the premiership is that bad. Congratulations must, therefore, go to Worcester for plucking away despite their recent run of poor form.

Congratulations must not go to Chris Hala'Ufia who was sin binned for attempting to clothes line a Worcester player. Worcester scored ten points during the ten minutes that he was in the sin bin. Worcester was not without its own indiscipline. Someone or something riled their winger Marcus Garvey because he ended up making a rude gesture towards the crowd during the first half. Then, he got himself sin binned for putting his hand in the ruck. If memory serves, Quins only scored five points (an unconverted try) while Garvey was cooling down. Against a poor side like Worcester, that was not acceptable.

Before the game, I thought to myself that another reason why Harlequins might beat Worcester is that they will be concentrating on the league. The Anglo-Welsh cup will just be something to get out of the way. In truth, however, it was Harlequins whose minds were elsewhere. Hopefully, this was not as a result of expecting to beat Worcester, which would have been a very disrespectful attitude to take.

Harlequins had better learn some respect and focus - next week it is to Paris and Stade Francais. Unless the team improves over the next week, a drubbing will be the only outcome.

Political Knockabout

I was in Westminster this morning, visiting Tate Britain to pick up tickets for the Millais exhibition which L. and I will be visiting later on. As I passed the Houses of Parliament, I was handed this glossy leaflet.
I have to admit, I was quite glad that Gordon Brown bottled it / showed great wisdom by not going to the polls too early. I think winter elections are uncivilised. Forcing people to make the decision to go to the polls after work when they might be in the pub, at home, playing a sport etc is bad form and shows no regard for the important things in life. With that said, I do have a hunch that it will only get worse for Mr Brown as a result. For some reason I keep thinking of John Major and how it turned out for him. This thought is irrational, but then so have been many Labour policies, so I feel in good company. Kind of.

Monty Python on Rugby

Thanks to Paul Burgin for pointing me towards this Monty Python take on the wonderful game of rugby. It begins with a typically pythonesque sex education lesson...

A Saintly Time

Happy Halloween!

That was the message last night from Fr Chris Vipers of Corpus Christi church, Maiden Lane at the start of his homily. Believe it or not, I am not naming and shaming him for polluting the Mass with this celebration of the outwardly silly and inwardly dangerous secular 'festival' (an event which is based upon scaring people hardly deserves the name), but to draw attention as he did to the fact that Halloween is actually All Hallows Eve - the vigil of All Saints Day. C/O Fr Dwight Longenecker comes this information about the REAL Halloween, which is a night really worth celebrating - thank you to Jay Anderson for providing it.

If you can ever get to Maiden Lane, then do so; Fr Chris has a lovely preaching voice - very mellifluous - which is a real boon for people tired from sports and exercise at eight in the evening!

Back to the present, I hope you have a super All Saints Day today! Don't forget All Souls tomorrow. A reminder that we can and should pray for all the holy souls who are undergoing the final cleansing before they enter heaven.