Hollywood: A Third Memoir by Larry McMurtry (Simon & Schuster 2010)

 

HOLLYWOOD—as opposed movies, its principal product—entered my life almost simultaneously with my son, James McMurtry, who arrived in March 1962, at which time I was teaching world literature—all of it, from the Ramayana to Dylan Thomas—at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth, Texas. To the farm and oil patch kids I was teaching, literature—or at least my mandated selection of it—held little appeal. In desperation I began to challenge these reluctant students to Ping-Pong matches, a game at which I was then quite good. If a student won, he or she got an A; if they lost they got a C.

That may seem a little unorthodox, but then five classes is a lot of classes. Between matches I was able to make friends with two writers, John Graves and Dave Hickey, both still alive and both still friends.

Then one day a man from Paramount Studios called, taking me by surprise. He turned out to be a location scout—that night he took me to dinner at what was probably the best restaurant in Fort Worth. Though, by this time, I had lived in both Houston and San Francisco, I knew nothing of fine dining. The man wore a pin-striped suit which bespoke a standard of eloquence far beyond my own. Though the suit was probably just normal Brooks Brothers, I remember it to this day; and I also remember the news he brought me, which was that Paramount had just bought the film rights to my slight first novel, Horseman, Pass By, and planned to film it in the Panhandle of Texas, starting almost immediately, with Paul Newman to star. The sum they planned to pay me, $10,000, meant, to me, farewell forever to the Ramayana and to table tennis as a grading system as well.

Rik Mayall: Magnificent B’Stard (2026)

 

Listening to podcasts about Adrian Mole and a family revelation

Posted late evening June 27th.

Just walked in whilst listening to a podcast about the enduring brilliance of Adrian Mole,  only to meet with the sad realisation that I'm the only member of my immediate family who likes Bolands Raspberry Cremes.

Absolute bloody heathens.

87/50

Fantastic Four

Last time I hit 4 180s in one day was early May of last year.

86/50

Three's a charm

Maybe I should dial down the practice more. I haven't really been playing that much  in the past week - here and there - and I'm suddenly hitting some sort of form again. Funny how that works.

85/50

That Spongebog meme . . .

You know the one . . . 

Actually, can six minutes qualify as "A few moments later"? 

In a darting timeline, probably . . . why not  . . . leave me the fuck alone.

84/50

Half a man

A couple of days ago I got one of those Facebook Memories thingies in my timeline, where I was informed that this time last year I'd just hit my 150th 180 in 2025. Sadly, I can't link to that 180 on the blog 'cos I've yet to post it. (My continuing bad.)

Why the drop off? No idea. I can't really blame the dartitis 'cos I'm sure the dartitis was up and running last year. Have I played less? I can't be certain but, if I was to guess, I'd say that in fact I've played more this year. That leaves me with the conclusion that last year just happened to be an exceptional year, and I've just levelled out again . . . reverting back to where I'm truly at. A bit of a come down but why lie to yourself?

Anyway, I still have plans to adopt a proper practice routine to see if I can improve my game . . . and I just hit my 83rd 180 of 2026. One of those 180s where I didn't necessarily realise that I was aiming for the 180 with my third dart.

 

83/50

P.S.

I'm back on the Dark Thunders.

Blue Moon: Down Among the Dead Men with Manchester City by Mark Hodkinson (Mainstream Publishing 1999)

 

Royle and Donachie are contrary personalities, but they share a cultural background from which much of British football is still forged. Donachie was brought up in the Gorbals district of Glasgow, one of five children living in a house without a bath where several families shared the same outside toilet. Royle lived in inner-city Liverpool, forced to sleep on a camp-bed in his parent’s bedroom because of a shortage of space. Football was their ticket to somewhere better.

Time has not lent enchantment to Donachie’s view of his home city of the ’50s and early ’60s. ‘The shipyards were closing down and it was a hard place to grow up in. There were gangs on the streets and it was a very aggressive environment. If you showed any interest in your school work you were seen as a swot,’ he says. His mother died when he was 12 and he did not get on particularly well with his lorry-driver father. ‘He was a hard Glasgow man who would never show his feelings or emotions. He didn’t really give me much encouragement, except to say I was crap! He gave me one good piece of advice though; he told me to try and find a club in England.

A Hard Day's Night (1964)

 

Hello Beautiful

File under using song titles as post titles. A brilliant comeback song from Dodgy.

If 'Hello Beautiful' isn't in my Spotify Top Ten at the end of the year, then Unwrapped is a crock of bogus shite.

82/50