Apologies

Sorry, but a combination of problematic computer (taking it to the ‘doctor’ tonight) and a mass of other pressing work means I’ve ignored these pages for a bit too long. Normal service will soon be restored.

Please could you stop the noise, I'm trying to get some rest

I guess the combination of body clock and hot weather have ganged up on me yet again to wake me at six this morning and prevent me from returning to any semblance of slumber. Instead I reached for my Zen, folded a t-shirt and lay it over my eyes and reclined, listening to OK Computer, picking up, on my stereo headphones, previously unfathomed lyrics and unheard twiddly music bits. It was a decent start to the day really.

Yesterday I awoke at a similarly early hour but this, of course, meant that I was able to partake the Lions match against Otago in the House of Pain. Woodward, naturally, will prove conservative and pick meat and potato back rowers like Back and Hill for next weekend’s test opener but I would love to see Ryan Jones given a start after yesterday’s sublime ball carrying performance. Michael Owen too has been impressive and I also appreciate the thoughtful footballer that is Martyn Williams (despite having a deep-seated and rather prejudiced thing about the name Martin being spelt with a ‘y’). In fact, I have come over all Welsh and believe the make-up of the Test team should reflect our Celtic friends’ free spirited, confident and winning rugby football. I would chuck Shame Williams and his dancing feet on one wing, add Dwayne Peel and Stephen Jones at half back (SCW will surely pick Wilkinson though), use Gethin Jenkins’ belligerence at prop, partner O’Driscoll with Andrew Ridgeley, I mean Gavin Henson and strongly consider a berth in at least the 22 for Tom Shanklin or Gareth Thomas. I can’t see it happening though.

Relief

I must sorrowfully confess that I have been debating whether or not to purchase a season ticket for the rugby this season and considering that I have loyally bought one for the past 17 or 18 years (including a half price student one in 1989 that cost me the princely sum of £22.50) my reticence and disillusionment is not to be sneezed at. Last season certainly took its toll. I can cope with poor play – just! – as I’ve encountered enough of it at Kingsholm in the gruesome early 1990s but I saw too many players over the past few months not trying hard enough. Tom Walkinshaw’s comments before the last home match along the lines of ‘Have a good look at that stand behind me because it’s the last time you’ll ever be seeing it’ surely rival, ‘Go back to your constituencies and PREPARE FOR GOVERNMENT!’ for unfortunate timing and rotten prescience. It all got a bit too much for me. D’you know what I mean?

Today’s news that Dean Ryan has been named head coach with the intelligent Brian Redpath as assistant and Duncan McRae as skills coach has cheered me and I can confirm – hold the front page! – that I’ll be getting a season ticket now. I’m relieved it has been sorted and I’m ready to trust Ryan and Redpath for now and hope the youthful coaching staff’s ambition and ebullience will right the ship. Somehow names like Kirwan and Williams didn’t seem Glaws enough for me. I sense a bit more credibility and, dare I say it, intellect and quiet sensitivity with the new team.

We do need new players still. Rob Thirlby signed today and, with the embarrassing Seti Kiole leaving at the same time, we have swapped a joke for a class performer with plenty to prove and time on his side to do so. Rumours that the Bob Casey deal may be back on encourage this supporter and I emphatically hope we can attract a top full back that Oliver Morgan can play second fiddle to and develop his remarkable skills. Another winger would be fine too as well another prop to complement Vickery and Collazo. But for now, I’m glad we are back on track.

Wrappers Delight

Following on from yesterday’s posting, I note today – via an email I received from Bristol Academy – that Black Uhuru are playing in August. I’ve got an album by them on tape somewhere which I used to play to death and for the life of me I can’t remember what it’s called. Now I can remember. Now I can remember. (Gratuitous Fall lyric) It was called Showcase and it wasn’t until I looked it up here that I released Sly and Robbie both produced and played on it.

I saw Malcolm Preedy in Tescos tonight. He was buying gift wrap of all things. My eyes misted over. I reckon he could still do the business for Gloucester.

Roots Rock Reggae

In the car I’ve got a cracking tape on the go. Side One is Sons of Thunder by Doctor Alimantado, classic roots reggae, very uplifting, really bass heavy with loads of soaring melodies. The other side is a Lee Perry compilation and I think it is called ‘The Best of…’ Again, bags of bass but a tad more invention and more of a hint of the unusual from ‘Scratch’. These riddims on the way to work kick off my day splendidly.

On the subject of reggae there are some wonderful John Peel Session tracks by Misty in Roots available here. I popped by the M.I.R. site to see if they were playing locally soon. I must keep a close eye on the reggae gig scene; the Burning Spear gig of three years ago still brings back memories of a wonderful evening and I fancy more of the same.

Stalin wasn't stallin'

Downfall was a powerful film, atmospheric and rather claustrophobic but, as an historical piece, essential. As a study of power it was compelling as Hitler, increasingly out of touch and with Soviet shells exploding audibly nearby, staunchly maintains (shades of Comical Ali?) that victory is achievable and that if his orders are transmitted to some over-stretched battalion or other then all will be well. Impotent generals merely query his decisions. They dare not speak up too loudly. I confess I nodded off for a while towards the end but was bolt awake for the business end of proceedings and missed not one frantic gun shot to the head, suicide capsule or dodgy Russian Cossack dance.

I’ve finished ‘The Rotters Club’ and really enjoyed its coming-of-age delights. I popped into Churchdown Library this evening and got out the new Nick Hornby novel ‘A Long Way Down’, a Nicholson Baker book, ‘A Box of Matches’ that I haven’t yet read and another book by Jonathan Coe called ‘The House of Sleep’. I shall have to read the Hornby first as it is on FastBack and I risk the house being repossessed if I don’t get it back within a week. I have really appreciated three Nick Hornby books over the years. ‘Fever Pitch’ and ‘High Fidelity’ pretty well parallel my own cravings for sport and music. ‘About a Boy’ was hilarious and very sharply written. His last book ‘How to be Good’ was a little too contrived for my liking.

Undone by passion

It was a military style operation. I arose at 7.30 am then after feeding two ravenous cats I zoomed to the local shop for bread and newspaper before making breakfast of marmite and toast and steaming tea with which I sat down at 8.07 to enjoy the haka and the beginning of the Lions fixture against the Maoris. I timed it to precision but, alas, the red-shirted representatives of these isles let me down a tad. There seemed to be a lack of a game plan and a slight lack of passion whereas the Maori players attacked every ruck and maul, flew into every tackle, chased every ball as if their lives depended on it. Richard Hill looked anonymous and had his poorest international match for ages. I could be proved wrong but right now, the All Blacks have little to fear and would back them to take the series by a 3-0 margin. Frankly, they have to be firm favourites for the next World Cup too. With Dallaglio injured, part of me thinks that the need for a talisman dictates a phone call to Martin Johnson might be an idea. We need leaders and the New Zealanders would certainly fear and respect the former England skipper.

I am off to see the Star Wars film again tonight.

Friday Thoughtz

It has proved a tiring week with disturbed nights and migraine headaches so I am glad it is Friday and a chance to relax a little. I was playing the new Gorillaz album earlier today and it really is a sparky little gem, full of subtleties and clever melodies and ideas. None of the songs buy into the verse-chorus-verse scene and, heck, it works. I dwelt, as I listened, upon all that hoo-haa a few years back when it was Oasis vs Blur in the battle of the Brit-poppers. Since then Oasis have churned out four or five mundane, derivative, ordinary (the worst insult) albums while Damon Albarn has released, with Blur, three fabulous records, all challenging and flipping intelligent, as well as a couple of Gorillaz albums (I confess I know little about the first one although the singles were great), a film soundtrack or two and a World Music album. Hats off to the fellow. I rate him.

I spoke to an Edinburgh bound S on the telephone last night. It is likely we’ll be ‘meeting halfway’ on Monday night for a screening of Downfall at Tewkesbury Roses Theatre. I’m quietly intrigued by Downfall which tells the story of Hitler and his entourage as they face the last days of the war in a Berlin bunker. Its reviews have been consistently excellent.

Come on England!

Another migraine last night. I was woken by that rotten spectrum of lights at 12.26 am and then struggled to return to sleep. It must be the weather but part of me sheepishly reckons I could be playing my now MP3 Player too loud and that this is what is chewing the veins in my brain. Serves me right. Anyhow, I shall lie down and relax in a few minutes and watch the England gals take on Denmark in the Euro ’05 championships. It’s a tough life.

A few rumours, the first for a while, have been appearing on the various message boards today. The Bob Casey deal might be back on and we are also looking at a young South African lock called Francois Van Schouwenburg who plays for the Blue Bulls. It seems Steve Bates may be on his way as backs coach with Dean Ryan seemingly set for the poisoned chalice that is the Director of Rugby post. James Bailey and Alex Page, neither of whom were Premiership class in my eyes, both look set to leave Kingsholm. I’ve been rather down about the whole Gloucester RFC scene recently but these rumours somehow have cheered me.

Those awakenings

I polished off ‘Toast’ at the weekend, an acid-sharp autobiographical book by Nigel Slater, The Observer’s food columnist. It was a poignant, coming-of-age piece, dealing with death, rejection and the awakenings (yes, those awakenings) of adolescence. It was a pithy read and I sense that Slater has one or two scores to settle. He certainly loves food. Excerpts from ‘Toast’ can be found here. The final sentence of the Jam Tarts section is a beautifully written joy. Another book, a novel this time, dealing with those awakenings is ‘The Rotters Club’ by Jonathan Coe and I began reading it a couple of days ago. Thus far, and I am only on the second chapter, I have laughed out loud seven times, nodded sagely four times, and raised a quizzical eyebrow thrice. It is set in the seventies against the backdrop of industrial disquiet at the Longbridge car factory. With its mentions of strikes, progressive rock and cheesecloth shirts, it is certainly a period piece but a witty, thoughtful read too.

The Force is Strong (Here be Spoilers)

A busy weekend indeed. Yesterday the residue of a cruel migraine took the shine away from my senses but I managed to watch the Lions take on Bay of Plenty in their first tour match. A few slithers of fine play lit up an otherwise error-ridden match. Adrian Cashmore , the Bay full back was once a top target for Gloucester but he chose instead to ply his trade in Japan. I felt for Lawrence Dallaglio who broke an ankle and will miss the rest of the trip. For all his faults and arrogance, he epitomises a good deal of what Lionhood represents and the squad will miss him. I thought that Dwayne Peel and Joshua Lewsey were the pick of the Lions. As ever I am left with the feeling that Andrew Sheridan and Matt Stevens are the two most over-rated players in the England set up and are lucky to don the famous red shirt.

Last night we bade farewell to our Hungarian guests with a party in the baroque surroundings of Leckhampton Scout Hut. The pair presented us with a few gifts before they departed our shores, some wine, biscuits, books about Budapest and Hungary and a large packet of sweets unfortunately bearing the name ‘Negro Mix’. For a few seconds it was like being in a seventies sit-com featuring Jack Smethurst. Oh dear.

This very morning took me and two children to the cinema to attend a showing of Star Wars Episode III: The Revenge of the Sith. This film has received the most appalling reviews but I loved every second of it. Every shot looked fabulous and of course everything led to a predictable denouement featuring death, betrayal and deep breathing through masks. Naturally it was all nonsense of the highest order but, having been there ‘at the beginning’, I lapped it all up, including the rather contrived inclusion of Chewbacca the Wookie whose very planet didn’t really need to be in the film, let alone ‘it’ itself. The last half hour sped by and packed so much in including the maiming of Anakin via volcanic nastiness, the birth of the Organa/Skywalker twins, the adoption of said infants, the death of Padme, the exile of Yoda, the ‘birth’ of Vader, the beginning of the Death Star’s construction, Kenobi pitching up on Tattooine on a camel type thing looking every inch a Magus and more besides. What marvellous entertainment. Stuff the critics.

Music and Drinking

I supped a quiet and pleasant pint or four last night with the noble S. Before we set out we exchanged music discs for each other’s delectation and today I have been sampling plenty of new sounds. The Robert Wyatt CDs are treats; the man is a national treasure and his recordings demonstrate a kind of Englishness, modest yet good-humoured and left of centre, that I respect and admire. I have also enjoyed acquainting myself with Bark Psychosis and Six Organs of Admittance, two acts that are busting with ideas and fuse intelligent electronica with subtle melodies and interesting soundscapes. I enjoyed reading that Bark Psychosis make ‘easy listening for uneasy people’, a charming description of their art. My world is better for all this music. I have worked rather hard today and these artists have formed a pleasing backdrop to my efforts. I still have plenty to look forward to. The Stereolab boxed set will prove a delightful challenge and I have D’s copy of Slint’s Spiderland to get into as well.

I enjoyed last night’s drink. For perhaps the first time in our friendship, S and I discussed the process of buying a house. It was a tad unsettling but I suppose we are both in our late thirties now and sensible things like that are what fellows of our advanced age are supposed to chew over. It also transpired that we each played R.E.M.’s New Adventures in Hi-Fi last week, both for the first time in quite a few years. Spooky. We agreed that it remains a fine if unspectacular album. We finished the evening with a lamb kebab (S) and a bag of chips (me).

I'm not happy

I guess one could say that the current state of the city club leaves me at a rather low ebb and, for the first time in many years, I’m not eagerly anticipating purchasing my season ticket. Concepts such as integrity and trust and credibility seem pretty thin on the ground right now and the last thing I ever appreciate is being taken for a fool. A good deal of my disquiet stems from the workings of Tom Walkinshaw from the dismantling of the Powergen Cup and League double winning side to the re-signing of the liability Azam on a huge salary to the scapegoating of Melville after a rotten season run on the cheap to the cancelling of the new stand. It all leaves me embarrassed at best. My trust and well-being will be partly – only partly, mind -  restored with the employment of a go-ahead Director of Rugby (not the surly and third rate Dean Ryan) and the recruitment of a superb lock and a fabulous full back. I would also favour a new hard as nails prop to support Vickery and Collazo and a try-hungry winger. The blurb that arrived with my season ticket form announced that the stand was postponed so that things could be put right on the pitch. Sadly, I don’t believe this for a minute but a few more ambitious signings on and off the park would help change my mind and suggest that the club I’ve supported since a lad isn’t the shoestring outfit run by lickspittles (thanks George Galloway) and paupers that I reckon it might be.