He's in the brewery: what can he organise?

What shall we do, said the Tory adviser. We tried to cosy up to the plebs by marketing tax breaks for gambling and brewing companies as a little tip for them:

and it didn't really work because everyone found it patronising. What we need is to get the Chancellor into a pub, enjoying a decent pint of beer with the proletariat. Like this:

On second thoughts, perhaps not. People don't seem to warm to George. Let's arrange a date in a pro-Tory brewery's tap bar so there aren't any inconvenient members of the public to cause any unpleasantness. Better still, let's hold it in a marginal constituency to give the cannon fodder a boost. 

And lo! It came to pass that we lucky punters were blessed with a painfully awkward photograph of the Worst. Date. Ever. 

There. Doesn't Paul Uppal look beatific. And as for George: well, there's a man who likes nothing better than to settle the whippet at his feet, loosen his cufflinks and sup up a refreshing pint of the working-man's brew. Honestly, he looks like a hawk that's spotted a mouse, or an Action Man having his eyes toggled by some unseen child, or just like a man who can't quite manage to make his face do what the PR man says it should.

What a shame that the symbolism doesn't quite work: usually it's the banks taking the piss out of him,  but now he's managed to extract a pint from Banks's, the beer that tastes of…

Beer, eh?

Very stimulating morning - the plenary in particular was interesting because it discussed empirical research in literary studies (like the Book Award paper I attended yesterday). I'd love to study book groups, but fear I wouldn't be professional enough to keep my big sarcastic mouth shut if confronted with some egregious misreading. Though in my professional life, I habitually employ phrases such as 'an innovative reading', 'you could read it that way, but what about…?' and 'perhaps, but could it also be…?' rather than 'Er…no. No way. What's going on in your head? Can you even read?', which isn't seen as particularly constructive.

OK, now the delicious buffet is over, it's off to papers on nation narratives and archive work. The alternative is a history panel including a paper on Canada and Beer. It'll possible touch on this:




which inspired this Quebeçois satire:

Morning all!

You won't be hearing from me much today - meetings, across two campuses - will take up my time. Should be fun though: one's on research strategies and the other one is the union Negotiating Committee. Beer, sandwiches and subversion. Pretty much my ideal lifestyle.

Talking of which, Neal and I had a perfect summer evening last night. We made an effete salad (mint, olives, mozzarella, chorizo, rocket, pine nuts etc.), bought fine local beers (Staffordshire Brewing Company and Wood's of Shropshire) and sat in the evening sun doing pretty much nothing. Then this morning, we ate the finest croissants outside Paris (from Snape's of Woore) before setting off to work. I'm still in immense pain from fencing though. It's a young man's game, I tell you.

Which oddly enough, seems to be the case for Speaker of the Commons. Well, young by their standards. Bercow's made a surprising move from the extreme right to liberal centre, to the displeasure of his own party, and I wouldn't be surprised if there's a backlash from the Tories and their friends in medialand. For all the hype though, I distrust these people who go into politics supposedly to represent their electorate, then become dazzled by the machinery or the pomp of the institution. There's no way that politics can return to the ethic of service if its practitioners are fixated on ceremony, precedent, wigs and heritage - it becomes a game for the ruling elite rather than a tool to effect social change.

Labour are saying that Bercow's improved through marrying a Labour supporter. I cannot imagine forming a relationship with somebody with an opposing ideology. What's wrong with her? How can one love a Tory, let alone a Tory MP? There can't be any respect between two people, of whom one is right and the other so mentally and emotionally misguided that they support greed, selfishness and spite? OK, he's got better taste than she has, but how can this fundamental divide be bridged? He must be amazing in bed…

Outplayed and outgunned

Last night was a tale of bravery, tactics, guile and determination. In every area, we were completely outclassed. We must bow down to the master and accept that we will always be amateurs.

To what do I refer? To Ireland's loss in the Twenty20 (we've still qualified for the last eight though)? To England's victory over mighty Andorra?

Of course not. Last night we welcomed the external examiners to our august institution. Every subject has an academic from another institution to check that we're teaching well, marking properly, offering good courses - usually they're amazed by the amount of work we do and the quality (they teach 2-3 modules a year: I taught 11 this year, two of them double). Last night in the Hogshead was like a Staff Ball - the only people there without PhDs were the bar staff.

So what was this comprehensive defeat? It was the annual competition to persuade one of my colleagues (no names, to save his blushes) to buy us a drink. I have to admit that we failed utterly. At every stage we were outfoxed. He disappeared just as we entered the bar, and reappeared only when we were safely ensconced around a table, foamy pints overflowing. As we approached the critical stage of the next round, he disappeared for a second and reappeared with his own pint, despite our enthusiastic joshing about whose round it was (I eventually admitted defeat and made the trek to the bar).

By the crucial point of the third pint, we had pretty much accepted failure. Our tactics were reduced to leaving our now empty glasses on the table and staring at them silently. Once again, our foe managed to evade our clutches, spotting someone across the hostelry to whom he absolutely had to talk. He then left, victory assured for the seventh year running. Curses!

Needless to say, I'm not feeling entirely compos mentis this morning. Exhaustion and slight over-consumption of Ceres' bounty conspired against going swimming this morning. Despite this, I bonded with our externals over the twin joys of teaching and Stoke City.

It's not all work, work, work

Sometimes, I'm actually happy. Last night, Mark and I had to agree a project grade. We did so and then repaired to an hostelry and drank fine ales in the garden, while talking solely about books and possible research we could do together - two hours passed by without notice.