Caption Compo

I lifted this pic from the excellent latest Daily Mash story.

Given the recent death of both of these gallant warriors, I thought it warranted a compo.

What is the man on the right saying, or what are the splendid chaps thinking?

I know I'm just back, but Glorious Goodwood has started, the folks have just pitched up with cellar baskets full of great vintages, and blogging time will be at a premium.

Back

For those who are not bored rigid by such things, allow me a bourgeois moment with the holiday snaps.

The house:



Its view of the Gulf of St Tropez:

The boat....

... took us to a fine lunch at Les Graniers....

.... and stayed afloat despite the fat bastards at the back....

.... and provided a platform for children's Nijinsky impersonations:

A nearby town, Gassin.....

.... where we were entertained by an excellent busking Dutch students' Dixie Jazz Band, the chanteuse of which seemed to meet most of the Tuscan's prerequisites......

... whilst the leader and washboard player met Lady Idle's prerequsities, and spotted her taking (many) pictures of him:

That'll just have to do for now.

Pictures Worth a Thousand Words

Idle has Lord's to attend to for the next couple of days (notwithstanding his 20th wedding anniversary), followed by a week in the hills above St Tropez from Sunday. Still, nobody said it was going to be easy.

In the meantime, for those of you who have had trouble understanding song lyrics in the past, a geeky friend of mine has put a few into PowerPoint language. I hope these may help:

The Pietersen Massive

I saw Kevin Pietersen's first innings in test cricket at Lord's in 2005, and was lucky enough to witness his astonishing 158 at the Oval at the death of the series, once Shane Warne had dropped him (and the Ashes) at first slip. I want him to succeed, and I won't begrudge him the wonga and the fame that goes with it.

Had England lost the Cardiff test match, it would have been Pietersen's fault. Yes, I know it's eleven against eleven, and all that. But KP (he's a nut) is the most talented member of the side and very good batsmen, once they have played themselves in, are responsible for scoring a significant proportion of the runs, particularly on a flat pitch against a bowling attack that does not include Warne or McGrath or Murali.

Pietersen threw it all away. As ever, afterwards, he explained himself along the lines of "It's the way I play", which roughly translated means "I am the best batsman in England and you can't afford to drop me".

He was interviewed about the Ashes last week, and cast his mind back to his debut at Lord's in 2005, and the match that followed it:

"I was made for that moment," he says. "The bigger the occasion, the greater the pressure, the more I love it. We knew how big that series was, we knew we were making history. I loved that. I wasn't scared by the Ashes at all. Loved it."

Hmmm. That's Pietersen for you. You'll find, if you listen to his interviews, that quite a lot of things are huge, or massive, or history-making. He likes to associate himself with such things.

Michael Henderson of the Telegraph is a good sort, just as knowledgable about classical music and Broadway as he is about cricket ("what do they know of cricket, who only cricket know?"). He takes up his sword against KP, and leaves him, as Zorro would, with his fancy clothes in tatters:

One man wore the dunce's hat. Having thrown his wicket away on the first afternoon, caught off his helmet essaying a senseless sweep, the Durban Opportunist found another startling way to get out yesterday: bowled neck and crop as he left the ball.
He did not just leave it. Heavens, no. The Fulham Narcissist never does anything by halves. He left it in the extravagant manner of an Elizabethan courtier in ruff collar and cross-garters bending the knee to Gloriana. Ben Hilfenhaus, the bowler, could hardly believe his eyes. These crazy Poms, he must have thought. They take their bats all the way to the crease, and then they don't use them.

If Pietersen wishes to be great (not as in 'great knock, KP' - I mean as a Great Cricketer), he needs to study others who have been awarded the mantle. I could give him a list to be getting on with, but actually he spent several hours watching a masterclass from Ponting on Thursday and Friday, from only a few metres away. Look and learn, you preening johnny. Here's Hendo again:

Why is he not loved? Because he is not one of us, and it shows. The best teams are forged by people who know not only what they are playing for, but also who they are playing for. You could see that identification with Australian cricket in the resolute batting of North and Haddin, players who have been called up late in their careers (North is 30 later this month, Haddin 31), and who know what traditions they represent.
For Australian cricketers tradition is an ever-replenishing resource, like water. To an interloper like Kevin Pietersen, whose overriding ambition is to be rich and famous, the word may have no resonance at all. There is a problem here. Huge. Massive.

The Weather Forecast

The Spectator, even under the dodgy editorship of Matthew "Ronnie" d'Ancona, is still one of the few publications prepared to splash "Relax: Global Warming is a Myth" all over its cover.

The article, written by the shy and retiring James Delingpole, is an interview with Prof Ian Plimer, an Australian geologist who calls a spade a bloody shovel, and knows how to use it.

He has written the counter-argument to Gore and Stern. Needless to say, his publishers (his previous book had been a bestseller) were too chicken to touch this one, and he ended up using an Outback family firm, who thankfully have seen their sensible decision rewarded with a book on its sixth print run already. Buy it!

The idle policy on Gaia is pretty straightforward - in favour of responsible consumption and sustainable practices, against alarmists and proselytizers, and my antennae shake like palm trees in a hurricane when governments start framing huge tax programmes based upon the Need to Save the Earth.

My instinct is that Prof Plimer is a good 'un. He'd beat Al Gore in an arm wrestle and he'd beat him hands down intellectually and evidence-based on the great Global Warming Con Trick.

Does he really believe his message will ever get through? Plimer smiles. ‘If you’d asked any scientist or doctor 30 years ago where stomach ulcers come from, they would all have given the same answer: obviously it comes from the acid brought on by too much stress. All of them apart from two scientists who were pilloried for their crazy, whacko theory that it was caused by a bacteria. In 2005 they won the Nobel prize. The “consensus” was wrong.’

Randy Live

Here's Randy singing that song in the last-but-one post. Well, kinda singing, anyway.

Scarcely Missed

Allen Klein picked July 4 to pop his clogs. By all accounts he was a sonofabitch. But I guess if you manage to sign yourself into 20% of the earnings of the Stones, then the Beatles, you are some kind of successful sonafabitch. He certainly wasn't on the Stones' Christmas Card list.

This picture tells the Beatles story quite well. Lennon did the deal that McCartney didn't want, and guess who else was involved? Yep, that great 'artist' and beauty, Yoko Ono.

Neil McCormick writes a good blog obit of him as well. This is how it starts:

Last week, I was talking to an acquaintance of mine, a rock critic who also writes obituaries (which is perhaps not such an unusual career combination, given the low life expectancy of most rock stars). I asked whether he prepares his obituaries in advance. “Only Allen Klein’s”, he replied. “I hate that man so much, it gives me pleasure to write his obituary.”

And this is how it ends:

Discussing his reputation, Klein once remarked: “Artists fuck groupies, I fuck the artists.” Perhaps that’s what should be written on his headstone.