Poat 510. I.W.. FESTIVAL 2024.

ATTRACTED 50/60,000 FANS.

GREEN DAY TOPPED THE BILL.
A long weekend of cheerful bedlam (don't talk to the people who live nearby and weren't making money out of it), and then it was over for another year.  Experienced and talented rock band Green Day, formed in 1987 by lead singer Billy Joe Armstrong and bassist/singer Mike Dirnt, brought the proceedings to a highly successful conclusion.
Our grandson, Ellis (bass guitar), had a short spell in the Platform One tent. Mo and I have a video of it sent to us by his father, Mark. So far as the main show went, we sat in our armchairs and watched selections on Sky Arts. We're too bloody old for huge crowds. I always have been.
Rumour has it the organizers have renewed their booking of the site for the next ten years.
Well, the festival doesn't last long, and the fans (despite the shit they leave behind) are a breath of fresh air. Pity so many businesses are no longer around to benefit from their visit.
FOOTBALL.
Aided by her husband's unceasing invective, Mo has become an expert on how not to score goals. Goals are not scored by immaculately passing the ball from one side of the middle line to the other side of the middle line and back again. Goals are not scored by playing 'from me to you' for endless minutes in your own half of the field. And in England's case currently: goals are not scored. Nothing is helped by those silly camera decisions either. It's all a load of rubbish, ain't it. Very expensive rubbish. I watched about twenty minutes of one England game then looked for:
A FILM.

I found a great old western, The Far Country (1954), starring James Stewart, Ruth Roman, Walter Brennan, Corinne Calvet, and John McIntire. It was directed by Anthony Mann and is best remembered for the scene where James Stewart's horse ("That little horse liked me. He nearly killed Glen Ford: ran right into a tree") with a bell on its saddle pommel, walked alone down a long dark street to fool the villains into showing their fire power. Great scene. Great old western.
We got back in time for the end of the football. Nil - Nil. So to:
READING.

I held out when I should have known better. I avoided Richard Osman on the grounds that he is a media man, and I seldom like media men. If you can walk into a television studio the day your book is published and sell several thousand copies of it before you depart, you're on to a pretty good thing are you not? So I let prejudice rule my head and, despite disappointment with two Times best selling suggestions from Amazon, ignored granddaughter Jess's sound words on The Thursday Murder Club: "It's a good book."

It is a good book. Very good. 

So good that we have now invested in the other three of Mr Osman's Thursday Murder Club quartet: The Man Who Died Twice, The Bullet That Missed, and The Last Devil To Die.

Ah-h-h. They'll be so much better than football on television.

Enjoy what you like.