I Am Still Active

It's two years today since I first entered the hallowed portals of the new Virgin Active gym.

I weighed in at around thirteen stone on the bathroom scales in Wales this morning (it is difficult to read the analogue scale accurately) but I am undoubtedly a lot lighter than I was in the middle of 2005 when I estimate I was over fifteen stone.

I was down to 14 stone by November 2005, then 13 stone 3 in March 2006, before going into reverse and getting back to 14 stone again in July 2006; a weight where I seem to have stayed until Dave suggested the Childline Challenge and Triathblog was born.

What I've learned is that what works (and I hope will continue to work for me) is almost fitness by blogging; daily recording of efforts and results reinforcing discipline and demonstrating progress.

In retrospect it is clear today that I gained ten or eleven pound in the second half of 2006 when I stopped recording my weight regularly. QED.

This morning I did my standard Cardiff run in 30 minutes 20 seconds which is five minutes and 43 seconds faster than I did it on April 15 in the run up to the Challenge. Just knowing these numbers gives me a huge boost plus an appetite to break half an hour the next time I go out on it.

Given the way that I'm wired, that is the way to do it.

Baps, Cobs and Bakestones

As I've brought the New Ninja Bomber back to Wales for a few days over half term to see the family, I had bacon baps and coffee for breakfast. A bacon bap is the same thing as a bacon roll only better because it has a different name.

For lunch I would like to have a cheese and onion cob. A cheese and onion cob is the same thing as a cheese and onion roll, though it should strictly be aged for a few days in clingfilm behind the bar in order to render the cheese appropriately rubbery. (Was it only me who felt a strange complusion to bite Stadler erasers in school? You remember, the posh rubbers with the blue edged cardboard wrappers.)

For tea, bakestones rather than scones.

That clear?

Good.

MacGuffin

I've finished reading The Tenderness of Wolves but unfortunately I can't say much more as we've had to slap a DA-Notice on it until El Grupo get together to hammer out the the party line.

But if I was to say that ........

A MacGuffin (sometimes McGuffin or Maguffin) is a plot device that motivates the characters and/or advances the story, but has little other relevance to the story.

The director and producer Alfred Hitchcock popularized both the term MacGuffin" and the technique. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, Hitchcock explained the term in a 1939 lecture at Columbia University: "[We] have a name in the studio, and we call it the 'MacGuffin.' It is the mechanical element that usually crops up in any story. In crook stories it is most always the necklace and in spy stories it is most always the papers."
........

The element that distinguishes a MacGuffin from other types of plot devices is that it is not important what the object specifically is. Anything that serves as a motivation will do. The MacGuffin might even be ambiguous. Its importance is accepted by the story's characters, but it does not actually have any effect on the story. It can be generic or left open to interpretation.

The MacGuffin is common in films, especially thrillers. Commonly, though not always, it is the central focus of the film in the first act, and later declines in importance as the struggles and motivations of characters play out. Sometimes the MacGuffin is all but forgotten by the end of the film.

...... you might well assume that something I read recently has a doozy of a MacGuffin. I couldn't possibly comment.

Greenwich

I took a boat up the Thames to Greenwich yesterday, just because I've never been there before. The view of the Old Royal Naval College that heaves into view from the river is worth the journey alone.

As it was pouring with rain, we ended up in a boozer for the afternoon listening a guy called Bill Clift. It is good to be reminded from time to time just how much music two guitars and a harmonica can pump out.

Not a bad day at all.

What is a website?

A week or so ago The Times reported:

A judge overseeing the trial of three alleged Muslim “cyber-terrorists” has been given a basic lesson in the internet – after admitting that he did not know what a “website” was.

Mr Justice Peter Openshaw, who is conducting the trial at Woolwich Crown Court, stunned prosecutors when he said: “The trouble is I don’t understand the language. I don’t really understand what a website is.”

His remark looks destined to join a list of comments by judges that are forever trotted out in support of the legend of judicial ignorance.

In response a niggly Statement from the Judicial Communications Office retorted:

A media report on a judge reported as saying “I don’t really understand what a website is” has been taken out of context

News reports have appeared implying that Mr Justice Openshaw, in the course of proceedings, did not understand the term ‘website’.

In fact the Judge is currently in the fifth week of presiding over a trial which is largely based on computer generated evidence. Evidence is being provided by expert witnesses that will inevitably be of a specialist nature.

Trial judges always seek to ensure that everyone in court is able to follow all of the proceedings. They will regularly ask questions – not for their own benefit – but on behalf of all those following a case, in the interests of justice.

In this specific case, immediately prior to the judge’s comment, the prosecution counsel had referred to various internet forums with postings of comments relevant to the case. Mr Justice Openshaw was simply clarifying the evidence presented, in an easily understandable form for all those in court.

Mr Justice Openshaw is entirely computer literate and indeed has taken notes on his own computer in court for many years.

My Dad worked as a forensic consulting engineer, so he was essentially a professional expert witness in court. Years ago he explained to me that the reason that judges ask stupid questions in court is that a judgement may only be based on the evidence that has been submitted. There is a limited amount of information that can be taken for granted (that the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening for example) but everything else must be specifically stated in court. If for example it was essential to a case that it was understood that David Beckham was a professional footballer, but nobody had got around to saying it the judge would be compelled to peer owlishly over his spectacles and enquire how Mr Beckham made a living, because if he didn't, the fact would not appear in the transcript and any verdict based upon it would be vulnerable on appeal.

This seemed obvious to me once explained but I've never heard or read it elsewhere, and hence state it here m'lud. (If I've got it wrong, the fault lies with my memory not my illustrious parent.)

ABBEYFEST 2007

The line up for Abbeyfest 2007 - the summer festival of theatre, comedy and music - is out. It doesn't seem to have made it to the web site yet, so here's the press release (Word doc).

We're one of the sponsors again this year (this time with our www.bumblebeeauctions.co.uk rather than www.coraider.co.uk hats on) and as is traditional we will be colonising the peerless viewpoint that is the walkway between our offices in the Apprentice Shop and the Coles Shop for the Friday night gigs. Let me know if and when you're coming along.

Wild? I was furious!

I recuse myself (genuinely loathing the man John Osborne seemed to be, indifferent to Amis though antipathetic to "The Old Devils", admiring Larkin, having had a teenage fling with the Wilson's "The Outsider", and previously imagining that I was the only person who recoiled from Tynan) but there is something bracing somehow in an insanely abrasive review of what seems to be an insanely abrasive book. I will follow Roger Lewis with interest in future (maybe his just hates Wilsons):

John Osborne ("utterly without talent," according to Colin Wilson - and he's one to talk) ended up bankrupt in Shropshire, begging money to fix his teeth from the Royal Literary Fund. Kingsley Amis became a bulging-eyed boozer and misanthrope, being funny in the Garrick with his zip undone, and virtually incapacitated by his phobias - flying, folk dancing, hailing taxis and sitting on his own, to mention only a few.

Philip Larkin succumbed to "depressive nihilism", expiring of oesophageal cancer in Hull surrounded by his ugly birds, the devoted Maeves, Monicas and Bettys. John Braine ("contrived and perfunctory") drank heavily, grew "downright stupid" and "bored everybody silly". His Room at the Top archives failed to sell at Sotheby's and for Christmas he went to the community centre and lunched with tramps.

John Wain kept churning out unreadable epics about Oxford, went blind and died "short of money", living off handouts from the Society of Authors. Kenneth Tynan's cheques bounced, too, and he died of emphysema, weighing less than eight stone. Before that, his obsession with sadomasochism got the better of him, and he broke a blood vessel in his penis, which took on "the shape of an egg-timer". ......... read on .....

The Luncheon

Here is a story called "The Luncheon" by Somerset Maugham.

I remember hooting with laughter when I heard it on the radio in my father's car as we drove somewhere or other when I was a boy.

To this day you can raise a smile from either of us by announcing:

I never eat more than one thing.

The Voice in my head

The New Ninja Bomber, having come over all poorly, had to be collected yesterday lunchtime, so I decided to work from home for the afternoon while he convalesced.

On presenting myself at the school office to pick him up I was astonished when the lady working there outed herself as a reader of this blog. She initially stumbled upon it while googling "Surrey Strings" and coming across my references.

"I hope you won't feel that I'm stalking you", she said before broaching the topic, which seems like a strange thing to say but is exactly what I felt after learning so much about Simon Crane from the Internet Movie DataBase after his sister mentioned him in passing. (I remember feeling that I might appear to be some sort of freak if I started demonstrating an encyclopedic knowledge of his career to members of his family even if all it took was two minutes on the internet to acquire the information.)

It seems like these scribblings inexorably become more and more significant a part of the face that I present to the world. There are strange and new privacy barriers to be negotiated. Interesting but not a little scary.

Infomaniac

The internet is really really great

For porn!

I’ve got a fast connection so I don’t have to wait

For porn!

There's always some new site,

For porn!

I browse all day and night

For porn!

It's like I’m surfing at the speed of light

For porn!

The internet is for porn
The internet is for porn,
Why you think the net was born?
Porn porn porn.
I laughed out loud at the lyrics above after stumbling upon a great song from Avenue Q. Phil was in the house band when the show opened in London, and I remember his brother Andy telling me it was bawdy and hilarious. (Rabelaisian, peut-être?) Looks like I need to make a date in my diary for the Noel Coward Theatre.

While I'm on the subject I've also triangulated raves for Wicked from my sister, the parents of a school friend of my son, and Kevin Smith, so - even though of my own volition I wouldn't have thought that it would float my boat - I should try and get to the Apollo Victoria as well.

After a posterior, a priory

I bumped into Dave Saxby yesterday, and learned that his magnum opus on Merton Priory is finally at the printers, so 256 pages of illustrated meaty goodness concerning the church complex that dominated this area until Henry VIII beat up on it, will soon be available for you to own.

Click on the image for more details.

Alcofribas Nasier

Wandering around Wikipedia yesterday I made the serendipitous discovery that when François Rabelais published his first book Pantagruel in 1532, he used the pseudonym Alcofribas Nasier (an anagram of his name minus - attention pedants - the cedilla on the c).

I am honoured to accept this precedent on behalf of A Welsh Born Icon (Nicholas Browne), The Profit Burglar (Paul Robert Fright) and the New Ninja Bomber (Benjamin Browne).

Rabelais has a place on my notional, inchoate, amorphous to-do list. Who can fail to be drawn to works in which "long lists of vulgar insults fill several chapters"? But in truth my knowledge is limited to what I gleaned from Roberstson Davies' wonderful 'The Rebel Angels'; which is drenched in references.

I learned of Davies from Anthony Burgess' invaluable 99 Novels. Perhaps I should set The Rebel Angels for the El Grupo after next? I still think often of the Parlabane Bounty, specifically the following mental image, conjured frequently to help me me smile rather than scowl when I am being obstructed by jobsworths:

I make a final bequest under the provisions of the Human Tissue Gift Act of 1971. I leave my arse-hole, and all necessary integument thereto appertaining, to the Faculty of Philosophy; let it be stretched upon a steel frame so that each New Year's Day, the senior professor may blow through it, uttering a rich, fruity note, as my salute to the world of which I now take leave ...

Rabelaisian.

Sweet FA

They've got four TV screens in the Colliers Tup. When the profit burglar and I were debriefing there on Wednesday prior to catching the tube to the Bavarian Beerhouse, I spied a notice announcing that three of these screens will be showing the Super 14s Final from South Africa this afternoon, leaving only one for Manchester United vs Chelsea in the FA Cup final.

Now as a general rule I'm more of a rugby man than a footie fan, and a celebrator of the rich tapestry of nationalities that make contemporary London so stimulating, but I can't help but find it a bit sad that scenes from Durban's Absa Stadium will be crowding out the new Wembley at a boozer in SW19 later today.

That said, looking at today's telly, the first half of the FA Cup final clashes with the latter part of Casablanca on Channel 5, and the second with the movie of The Entertainer on BBC2.

Having recently seen the Old Vic's revival of the latter, and dug up a picture of the Gillster breathing the same air as its writer and two of the film's stars, I could possibly be drawn to that rather than the muddied oafs at the goals. I wonder what pub will be showing it?

Golden Brown

Concerning the Dear Leader:

Gordon Brown minister's son
Blow me down with my cash he runs
Thief in the night
No chance to fight
Your last half crown's for Gordon Brown

Every time just like the last
On his ship tied to the mast
Taxable bands

Takes with both hands
Permanent frown from Gordon Brown

Golden Brown Scottish big mouth
Through the decades he's headed South
Old folk to flay
Taxes to pay
Permanent frown from Gordon Brown

Permanent frown with Gordon Brown

Pschorr 'Nuff

Not being exactly spoiled for choice - as far as I can tell - when it comes to German restaurants, the profit burglar and I rolled up at The Bavarian Beerhouse last night, for the latest installment of our campaign to eat our way around the world in London.

Subtlety is not the watchword at this Teutonic Hooters, but we raised steins of Hacker Pschorr, toasted the Bavarian Pope, and set to work.

I had the Special Bavarian Beerhouse "Wurstplatte" - Sausage Platter: Spiral sausage (Bratwurst Schnecke), Merguez(!) spicy sausage, Cheese cracker Sausage (Kaeseknacker) served with mashed potatoes, sauerkraut and mustard.

Paul had Jäger Schnitzel: ‘Hunter Style’ Pork Escalope topped with a creamy mushroom sauce served with french fries and a mixed salad.

Desserts were demurred in favour of more ale, choice inspired by Maturin's recommendation of wheat beer to me when we were putting the final touches to our triathlon preparations in Holt's Tollgate Inn earlier this month.

Kick for Touch

Still on a Peter Gill jag, I came across this page (on the website I discovered earlier this week) about the production of Kick for Touch at the National in 1983.

I saw it. In those days I caught a lot of productions on the South Bank as I used to commute on the train from Waterloo and would often pop in of an evening if I had nothing better to do then catch the train home after the show.

The picture of Jane Lapotaire and the kids on the right brought back some memories. As I recall she appears with them at the very last moment of the very last scene. Memory may play tricks but I can't remember the boy and girl appearing in the rest of the production at all.

On the way home, I recognised them (escorted by their Mum) as we all boarded the same train. When their mother spied an acquaintance, the friend, I and the rest of the carraige were subjected to a long lecture on her offspring's histrionic brilliance.

For all I know they may be giants of contemporary theatre by now, but twenty odd years ago it did seem like hilarious over-egging of the pudding to hear them praised to the skies for a five second, non-speaking, walk-on part.

Small Change?

I've followed Peter Gill's work as best I can ever since I moved to London (interest originally piqued by the fact that he's my father's cousin and has written several plays set in Cardiff).

Idly googling him last night to see if he has got up to anything accessible to me since last year's Voysey Inheritance, I came across the picture below at this website.

Graduates and stars of the Royal Court Theatre, 1969. Standing (left to right): David Cregan, playwright; Jack Shephard, actor; Sir Laurence Olivier; Anthony Page; John Osborne. Seated: Christopher Hampton, resident dramatist; Joan Plowright; Peter Gill, Jill Bennett, Victor Henry (Jimmy Porter in the revival of Look Back in Anger), Edward Bond. On Floor: Kenneth Haigh, the original Jimmy Porter.

There is a larger version of the photo here. For all my antipathy to Jimmy Porter (I can never understand why Cliff doesn't punch him in the bracket) that is gobsmacking company and certainly a long way from Splott. I always knew Gill was eminent, but I'm not sure I realised he was quite so precociously exalted.

Raw Tsars

I took my little boy to the Star Wars exhibition in County Hall yesterday. We both found it somewhat underwhelming frankly.

First off the bat, the signage made it difficult to find, which is discouraging, to say the least, in the pouring rain. And once we made it to the exhibition itself, a lot of the props on display were rather on the prosaic side.

"What exactly 's 'posed to be int'restin' 'bout this chair?" asked Ben about some throne or other. I silently agreed that it was less than fascinating, but didn't own up because the memory of the entry fee was still fresh.

---

We're blessed with a lot of parks and bike routes in my neck of the woods, so early in the evening I agreed that the new ninja bomber could cycle the two or three miles back to his mum's with me riding shotgun. It only seems like yesterday that he learned to ride at all.

Penney Drops

Now that I've finished with American Shaolin, I'm reading Steff Penney's The Tenderness of Wolves (as recommended by Dave) which won last year's Costa Book of the Year Award. I vaguely remember press coverage marveling at the time that:

On leaving university, Stef became agoraphobic and could barely travel. She has never been to Canada and researched The Tenderness of Wolves at The British Library. Now recovered, Stef lives in East London.

I imagine that, never mind Canada, she has never been to the 19th century either suffering from as she did from agoraphobia rather than Chrono-Displacement Disorder.

Chuck Norris

I've just discovered that - as well as uncovering my beloved Vin Diesel Facts - the internet also spews forth Chuck Norris Facts:

When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

There is no evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live.

Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.

When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn’t lifting himself up, he’s pushing the Earth down.

Chuck Norris is so fast, he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head.

Chuck Norris does not get frostbite. Chuck Norris bites frost.................

China in your hands

It turns out that Henan - home of the Shaolin Temple - is not the same place as Hunan home of the culinary tradition that produced my dinner last night.

Sorry for any confusion.

Hunan, All Too Hunan

Last August, when the profit burglar and I visited The Dragon Castle we dined Cantonese style, leaving Anhui, Fujian, Hunan, Jiangsu, Shandong, Szechuan and Zhejiang on our to-do list of the "Eight Great Traditions" of Chinese cuisine.

This week, we visited Hunan in Pimlico; an establishment - like the Sappho Meze Bar - that does not have a menu. On arrival we were issued with spicy peanuts, pickled cucumber and the wine list, then Mr Peng the proprietor came over for a chat about our likes and dislikes and decided what we were going to have. Nothing as vulgar as money would be mentioned until we got the bill.

I remember that we started with soup from little wooden bamboo barrels but after that details escape me as we were served with dish after dish. It was all delicious. I particularly remember pig's ears and frog's legs but only because they were unexpected ingredients. Mr Peng - definitely the governor - paid close attention to our reactions to each dish, coming over occasionally to demand that we spooned more suace from the serving dish over our plates etc. I can see how that might irritate some, but I was more than happy playing aspirant to his adept. It is a long way from Matthew Polly "eating bitter" in Hunan's Shaolin monastery.

A great meal consisting of about twenty delicate courses and unencumbered by any rice or noodles. Six more Chinese styles to go.

Follow the links for our real and imaginary destinations as we eat our way around the world in London.

Gordon Ramsay at Thermopylae

Thousands from the fxxking Persian Empire in, yes?

Take one Persian.

Sword.

Stab.

Guts.

On the floor.

Still steaming.

Done.

Next.

Basic knife skills, big man.

Keep it simple.

[Screams at random hoplite]: Simple, you fxxking simple minded fxxker!

The above was triggered by the juxtaposition of the new series of The F-Word and my idle wondering about when the DVD of 300 might be out. (There's no date but you can get Amazon to email you when it is available here.)

Gordon Ramsay, Noel Coward and a limerick. I could get into rewriting this stirring take in different styles:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an Achaemenid king in possession of a large empire must be in want of a war ............

Opened by the Western Spear

I finished reading American Shaolin last night, and I must say that I enjoyed it thoroughly. I won't review it here as I don't want to shoot my bolt before the "El Grupo" meeting at which we are to discuss it.

I've noticed this morning that Matther Polly the author has posted some videos of his time at the temple to YouTube here. These are well worth a look in light of the book.

There's also a video of Polly being interviewed on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.

I had wondered what had happened to Ferguson after he wrote and starred in two movies (The Big Tease and Saving Grace) that I really liked, then I'll Be There which I missed even though it was set in Wales; seems he went to America to seek his fortune.

Next stop in my Shoalin research is to find a Hunan restaurant in London and see if I can't rustle up some baijiu.

Fratboy Slim

Post triathlon, I am done with jockdom for the time being , though I do have a full scale mid life crisis scheduled later this year around the Afan Forest Park Off Road Triathlon in August and the Swansea Bay 10K Race in September.

I need to get reacquainted with my inner geek, but I'm wary of too sharp a transition. Perhaps I could gently decelerate between the physical and cerebral via a fratboy interlude.

The Popdrive (hat tip Simon): a combo 1GB USB thumbdrive and beer bottle opener could be just the thing to ease me through this difficult rite of passage.

Hillz 'n Skillz

I, I wish I could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim,
Though nothing will drive them away
We could beat them, just for one day
We could be heroes, just for one day

I completed the Springfield triathlon this morning. It wasn't a spectacular performance but I ground it out fortified simultaneously by two convictions: first, that there was no chance in Hell that I wasn't going to complete it; second, that there was no chance in Hell that if I stopped to rest at all I would get going again.

Maturin, Llewellyn, and I cycled round the bike route and the run route on the days before the event. This sort of scouting is essential I think. I can scarcely imagine how disheartening it would be to come across an unexpected uphill section - for example - right at the end of the event in the run.

Now that I know I've got the wind to propel myself round a sprint triathlon course, I'm also pretty sure that I could improve my times, without necessarily getting fitter, by getting better at cycling and swimming.

That said, I was killing my speed this morning with plenty of braking while swooping down Box Hill in the pouring rain on slick tyres. I could have gone faster, but I couldn't help but wonder if triathletes get their numbers written on both arms and both legs by officials to help with reassembling bodies after accidents.

Thanks are also due to the Maturin family for looking after me so shplendidly over the weekend.

Communion

I quit triathlon camp in Bradford on Avon and went back to Cardiff for a few hours for my niece's first communion.

This piece (and especially the last two paragraphs) by Anne Enright from the London Review of Books resonates with a lot of the circumstances. Not my circumstances, the circumstances.

Poetry in Motion

I'm going to be riding the cycle route for the Springfield triathlon later today, so I'm taking my Garmin Forerunner to record it.

There's a blog on Garmin's Motion Based site that contains tips and tricks along the lines of:

We hear it quite frequently, "I've got this ultra marathon and I want to track it with my Forerunner 305. How do I go about making sure I capture all the data?"

I generally find that 8 to 10 hours of battery life is enough for one session, but then I'm not entering 100 mile races .... yet.

I also see that Garmin are sponsoring Tim Don, Great Britain's World Champion Triathlete.

Now he's using MotionBased for performance analysis, I can see (at tim.don.motionbased.com) how much faster he moves than me (at nickbrowne.motionbased.com).

Always nice to get a reality check of a Saturday morning.

The End

Earlier this week, I mentioned in passing to The Profit Burglar, that my six year old's chess was at the level where he knew all the pieces and their moves, but that I was finding it tricky working out a satisfactory way to play him or improve his game.

Paul suggested teaching him endgames. This seems to me to be an excellent idea, not least because as Benny will be learning checkmates in a simplified environment he will actually be winning the mini games we play which should be good for his motivation.

http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Chess/The_Endgame looks to be a good primer.

Escalope Milano

Wednesday European Championship games have provided quite a distraction from eat your way around the world in London lately so we decided to combine our vices last night and cross Italy off our list by dining at Al Forno before watching AC Milan entertain Manchester United.

I've always loved Al Forno's. It is noisy and crowded, but the pizzas are so big that you could order a large one, screw four legs into it and sit at that if the place was full.

It has also become a touchstone of authenticity for me since I saw them serving fish wrapped in foil once. I thought that was odd until I noticed the Corleones dining in exactly the same fashion at first communion party that kicks off "The Godfather Part 2". I still don't know what the thinking behind it is though.

The profit burglar and I both ordered Escalope Milano with spaghetti in honour of the game and washed it down with a bottle of house white.

As for the match itself, "what we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence".

"But why is the club called AC Milan?", I hear you muse. "Surely it should be Associazione Calcio Milano." Attend:

The club was founded in 1899 by Alfred Edwards, a British expatriate. In honour of its origins, the club has retained the English spelling of its city's name, instead of changing it to the Italian Milano (though it was forced to do it during the fascist regime).

Clerihews

Sean Burke
Doesn't do any work,
But if badgered he
Claims to study theories of tragedy.

A clerihew I wrote in 1985 when I was knocking round in Edinburgh with the author of Deadwateras well as Authorship: From Plato to the Postmodern and The Death and Return of the Author: Criticism and Subjectivity in Barthes, Foucault and Derridapopped unbidden into my head this morning so I am sharing it with the world.

I get a name check in the preface to "Authorship". How cool is that?

Previously on the West Wing

President Andrew Jackson, in the main foyer of his White House, had a big block of cheese ........

We're getting towards the end of series 2 in More4's mammoth screening of the West Wing from the beginning.

Although I try to be home at 8pm on Sundays, I've missed the following episodes:

5. And It's Surely to Their Credit
6. The Lame Duck Congress
8. Shibboleth
9. Galileo
15. Ellie

Further, next Sunday being the eve of my attempt on The Spingfield Triathlon, episode 18 "17 People", looks to be vulnerable as well.

But hold. As I will be staying with Maturin, who is responsible for the the thing getting its hooks in me in the first place, redemption may be on hand from his DVD collection.

All together now:

I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I have you here. I'm interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She's a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While thinking about that, can I ask another? My Chief of Staff Leo McGarry insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself or is it okay to call the police? Here's one that's really important because we've got a lot of sports fans in this town: touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean. Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? Think about those questions, would you? One last thing: while you may be mistaking this for your monthly meeting of the Ignorant Tight-Ass Club, in this building, when the President stands, nobody sits.