I feel like I'm at an age where I ought to refine my tastes a little bit. Not quite to the extent where I should spend my time wearing clogs and eating humus, but certainly to appreciate cheese a bit more and maybe not listen to quite so much Bon Jovi.
So with this in mind I was quite pleased this afternoon that I recognised a piece of music on Classic FM that I hadn't heard on an advert for cigars or toilet paper. The Rossini overture - L'Italina in Algeri.
Unfortunately my own overture into a more snooty world was stunted swiftly when I remembered where I'd heard the piece before. It was the theme tune to Alfonso Bonzo. A kids programme I used to watch after school adapted from the book by Andrew Davies. Fuck it, what's wrong with Bon Jovi?
In other news, my attempt to repeat at the Pigeons last night was unsuccesful. I'm still no closer to unlocking the secrets of this game than the first time I played in it about two and half years ago when I crashed out first after being ambushed by tactics inspired by guerilla warfare first waged by the Vietcong against the Americans in Vietnam, adapted for poker.
I now know how our boys in Iraq and Afghanistan feel fighting an insurgency who are not signatories to the conventions of war. Starting hands, calling hands, position, bet sizing - these things are all laid out in pokers equivilant of Jane's - Harrington on Hold 'em, and one expects these conventions to be adhered to wherever one plays. At the Pigeons however, they know of no such book. They don't wear uniforms, they don't negotiate and they take no prisoners. It's a hopeless task, but ours not to reason why ours but to do and die.
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