Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?

The Tesco receipt, humble and unassuming, that you see above, led to a bit of an unfortunate incident this lunchtime. The alert and mathematically skilled amongst you will notice that I, apart from favouring the cheaper end of the baked bean market, decided to approach the ‘ten items or fewer’ till with, shockingly, eleven separate grocery pieces. This led to problems. I am normally greeted cheerfully by whoever serves me and I regularly respond in a similar jovial fashion to the check-out person. Today’s lack of eye contact from a rather surly young lady should have warned me that trouble was afoot. As the eleventh item bleeped, she had a blast at me, informing me with barely disguised contempt that, in the future, I should desist from advancing towards her stall with so many objects. She was actually very rude. I didn’t react or reply in the least and adopted a slightly languid, devil-may-care posture. I suppose this lack of reaction fuelled her anger even more as she loudly muttered to the middle-aged fellow who next in line, ‘Sorry about the delay…!’ and then slammed my change down on the counter. No word of thanks for my custom. No bidding me farewell. I was displeased rather than cross but I decided to complain to the store manager who listened politely as I articulated my concerns. Her apologies were fulsome and well-meant as she reassured me that bringing eleven items to that till was perfectly fine and that her colleague’s behaviour was unnecessary and regrettable. Our exchange was as lucid and coherent as the young lady’s attitude was needless. She promised to deal with my grievance and I departed on good terms. I honestly can’t recall complaining in a shop before - I'm not that sort of person - but I did so today calmly and without a hint of antagonism. It just seemed the right thing to do.

We're on our way/We are Sven's twenty-three

It is fashionable on the Gloucester rugby messageboards to waft disrespect towards the round ball, association code of football but I quite enjoy watching soccer and especially the World Cup which remains the greatest sporting event on the planet. I love it deeply. Like a lot of folk, I am able to chart my life through the four-yearly tournament from the six-month old bairn perched in a high chair while Hurst netted his hat trick to a 36 year old father of three ejaculating a tremulous, ‘Gooooallllll!’ as Beckham’s penalty sinks Argentinian hearts in ’02. I recall little about my 1982 Mathematics ‘O’ Level examination except a school friend telling me straight afterwards that England were one-up against France and that Brian Robson had put the whites in the lead after a few seconds. By the time I had walked down Church Road and through the front door, France had equalised. I remember being in a tent at 1990’s Glastonbury with G and J listening to the England-Egypt commentary and cheers going up when Mark Wright headed the winner. And in 1994 I watched the final with the firstborn Cole lying on my stomach, a fortnight old and not really able to discuss Italy’s offside trap in any real depth. He still isn’t, a dozen years on.

This year, Argentina shall win the thing and I feel quite adamant about this. England will make the last eight and will depart sulkily, blaming the hoo-hah surrounding the blessed Rooney’s toe that will have distracted the talented squad from the more important matter of vanquishing in association football matches. My outside bets for last-four and possible final berths (and therefore worth an each-way punt) are Croatia (unbeaten in qualification and with a ruthless will to win) and Ivory Coast (will need to beat either Argentina or The Netherlands to qualify for the knock-out stage but I think there's a chance of that – and then watch them go) . At the time of writing you can get 100 to 1 for Ivory Coast, 80 to 1 for Croatia while Argentina are 9 to 1. I might make a wager this week.

I’d love England to do it. My heart sinks when I consider that the barely adequate Steve McClaren will be in charge of the team’s fortunes soon so I reckon this will be our last chance for glory for a while. The dreary ex-Middlesbrough gaffer will win us nothing.

Digging My Scene

I haven’t done a great deal this weekend but the onus has been on relaxin’ and rechargin’ after a hectic few weeks. I have made a bit of an effort to play stuff on my MP3 player that I have neglected and hardly, if ever, listened to. The default setting seems to have been ‘Sufjan Stevens, Go-Betweens or Shack’ recently. Yesterday I lay on the bed and played Elliot Smith’s From a Basement on the Hill all the way through for the first time. I dug (sorry, I’m running out of synonyms for ‘enjoyed’ on these pages) its strong sense of melody, and, bearing in mind the artist’s alleged suicide, reflected on the dark-at-times lyrical content and dug that too. I’ll return to it. I think D is a fan. Today I lay down in our new tent – frankly, I’ve been rendering myself supine on a fairly regular basis – and dug Scritti Politti’s Early, a collection of, believe it or not, early songs by the group. This is an uneasy listen but the stop-start, staccato riddims and the quirky sound collages, although challenging, are compelling and worthwhile. I think I fell asleep for a few tracks though. I also tried the first quarter of The Bravery’s eponymous debut. I read a review somewhere that compared this New York band to early New Order but the mumbled delivery and lo-fi swagger reminded me of The Strokes’ debut recording, Is This It. It was satisfactory.

At a car-boot sale this morning I bought three CDs, Liquid Skin and Bring It On by Gomez and Enjoy Melodic Sunshine by Cosmic Rough Riders. They only cost me one and a half English pounds each and all three are albums I have read about and wondered about and felt I might fancy owning. I’m playing Bring It On as I pen these paragraphs and sense ‘a grower’ that I’ll eventually really appreciate and possibly, heck, dig.

Hidden

I attended the Gloucester Guildhall cinema with S on Thursday night and watched Caché, a French film directed by Michael Haneke, known as Hidden in this green and pleasant land. Having read up a bit about it since, it seems it casts a lingering eye over fairly recent French history and, in particular, the brutal treatment of Algerian immigrants by the French in the 1960s. A nation’s guilt is here examined through the actions of the main character Georges, a successful television arts show host, the Gallic equivalent, I suppose, of Mark Lawson. When he and his wife start receiving videos showing that the exterior of their splendid Paris home is being filmed at length, accompanied with disturbing drawings, they naturally become concerned. Georges, however, has childhood secrets that lead him to confront personal guilt while searching for the answers to his family’s treatment. Although some might consider this a thriller – and it certainly thrilled – this film’s examination of the machinations of an individual’s psyche, the aforementioned guilt, the desire for secrecy, and the primitive need to seek denial and apportion blame, remained the most compelling element. It has certainly made me think since.

Bed Early Tonight

I haven’t recovered from Sunday yet. C stayed over on the Saturday night and watched Eurovision with the Coles – for the irony, of course – and we were ‘up with the partridge’ the next morning to drive to S’s by eightish. I finally arrived home past midnight but, still buzzing from the day’s events, I didn’t retire until one and, even then, couldn’t sleep. I am paying for it today. I am completely shattered and looking fondly towards next week and a rest.

I am grateful to S for the CDs he presented me with on Sunday. I know the Shack and Strands recordings he presented for me well having played them to death on tape but I look forward to chucking them on my MP3 player so I am fully Shacked-up. Note to S: I wouldn’t mind HMS Fable somewhen. I’m looking forward to playing The Kinks’ The Village Green Preservation Society as I’m ever up for a bit of English whimsy while I downloaded the Jim Noir album last night too and am keen to listen to his jangle-tinged, sunny pop soon too. Lots to look forward to on the aural front.

As promised I have now posted some documentary evidence of Sunday’s movements.

Here are some captions:

Top – Shack on stage

Middle – Gloucester Supporters

Bottom – Victory

If you click on them they will magically and inexplicably grow before your very eyes. Cosmic...

Rugby/Shack Double Header

Eurpean Challenge Cup Final

Gloucester 36 - London Irish 34 (after extra time)

It is refreshing to complete a rugby season and wish it could last just a few weeks longer especially after one or two terms where I was willing the season to conclude so that I could forget about hapless performances for a month or two. These last few months have been heady and exhilarating and I’m sure I’m not alone in regretting the absence of Lamb, Morgan, Allen and company from my sporting horizon for a while. I hope Lampard, Owen and Gerrard are able to make up for the lack of oval ball action over the next month.

The European Challenge Cup Final was a fitting denouement to a cracking few months of splendid football. The stagnant, conservative play of autumn and winter is a distant memory and, again, yesterday, the youngsters, albeit in testing conditions, carved up some marvellous action. The victory was fulfilling for a number of reasons. It was pleasing to witness old-fashioned Glawster Dog as the team refused to lie down and die in the face of relentless London Irish pressure. Coming from behind was mightily exciting too and, while I felt at least three times that all hope was gone, I am delighted to report that the team didn’t share my lack of belief. The lads wanted it. Finally, this team can only improve and I am sure we have only seen half of what the youngsters can aspire to. The new signings shall add some grit and gloss and experience and that essential strength in depth. I have rarely left an old season and looked forward to a new one with such pleasure and optimism.

Shack at Fleece and Firkin, Bristol

S considers Shack to be the finest band in the country right now and who am I to disagree? Last night at Bristol’s Fleece and Firkin, the swagger and strut of their remarkable tunes and soaring harmonies proved the perfect end to a fine day. The new album tracks sounded sharp and life-affirming while the older stuff (Comedy, Pull Together, X Hits the Spot) was as fresh and gorgeous as ever. Shack possess the knack of being deeply moving and thought-provoking while lacking any pretension whatever and I appreciate that balance being struck. Ultimately though, they write songs that improve one’s life better than most and that is why I admire them greatly.

Jim Noir and his band supported Shack. They jangled and jingled like The Beatles and The Byrds circa 1966 and I appreciated the fellows’ wholehearted enjoyment of making popular music. I quite liked them. Jim wore a bowler hat and a coat on stage but I am yet to decide whether this is a good or bad thing.

I'll post some photos of both yesterday's events later this week

Future Conversations With Mefin Davies

I have made a compilation CD to play in S’s car tomorrow as he, C and I head towards London and Gloucester’s date with (second tier) European destiny. It is a mixture of old classics and a few newer songs but thematically it is upbeat and tuneful with a few sing-along favourites to help the journey whizz by. I can almost hear the cries of, ‘What did you put that on for?’ already but I shall stoically stand by my decisions. The first track is the only song I know to include – and fairly unselfconsciously, it has to be said - the word ‘sericulture’ within its lyrics. It’s a belter.

I didn’t wave but I watched the Gloucester players leaving Kingsholm earlier this afternoon. I must add that this was a coincidence that I happened to come upon ‘the lads’ as I was strolling down the Kingsholm Road to return to my car after a visit to our friendly neighbourhood bank. I wasn’t just hanging about like a loser. A tardy Mefin Davies trotted past me and I noted that he has the same Creative MP3 player as me. This warmed me. Perhaps I can approach him at the Open Day and talk about it with him? I shall weigh the whole concept up between now and August. I can think of worse ice-breakers.

Englishness

The first play of the new Shack album – a recording I sense will grow on me – is encouraging. The Head brothers’ talent for strong melody underpinned with Byrdesque harmonising is as apparent as ever. I do appreciate acts that celebrate Englishness and have already gently warmed to the throwaway mentions of posties, milkmen, cups o’ tea and granny knots that permeate these songs. The world, my world, is a richer place for Shack.

I approve of Amazon’s service. I ordered the Shack album on Sunday and it dropped on the doormat on the morning of the day of Tew. I feel a tinge of guilt not buying from an independent store but, each time I visit Pulp in Gloucester, they haven’t got what I desire. I shall visit Berwick Street again in the summer and chuck some lucre at the record shops there to assuage my lack of ease.

Another Stephen Duffy album, They Called Him Tin Tin, also arrived yesterday but I am yet to play it.

We Will Win Things Next Season

Heady days at my favoured rugby football club with, heavens above, Christian Califano today signing up to join our squad for next season. I don’t think I can cope with any more signings (although M has a source whispering in his ear, ‘Three more to come…’) and reckon that we’re just being greedy now. What a squad though. The current team is playing the most outstanding football at the moment yet we have Bortolomi, Nieto, Lawson, Califano and Balshaw to embellish our ranks. Not to mention Sir Willy of Walker. I am exhilarated by the idea of a gnarled, nasty pack frightening the living daylights out of sundry and all and coughing up perfect ball for our backs to paint beautiful pictures with. My early tip for player to make a sparkling contribution: Rory Lawson. I think he'll electrify the old stadium. Roll on 06/07.

D stole my gig-going thunder this evening, stumbling upon Shack in our capital city’s HMV, playing an acoustic set for the assembled hepcats, a full half dozen days before I travel to Bristol to enjoy them. By all accounts they were on decent form.

Carry On Camping

Today we constructed a new tent in our back garden, a Cath Kidston floral thing. It looks lovely. The plan is for the Coles to camp at the forthcoming Wychwood Festival on the Saturday night and enjoy two fine days appreciating the vibes at Cheltenham Racecourse. I spent an hour or two sitting and reclining in it this afternoon, reading the papers and finishing ‘Said and Done’, the Roger McGough autobiography I have been working through this week. I felt quietly relaxed inside the tent but know that even one night at Wychwood represents quite a challenge; I have developed something approaching a phobia about camping and sleeping in tents and am prone to encounter nasty panicky sensations in the things. Back gardens are fine. I would love to conquer these demons. I cherished my youthful visits to Glastonbury and Reading (although experienced grim tenty panics at both) and feel I am missing out on wistful festival-attending as a result of my reticence to sleep under canvas. Perhaps Wychwood will help.

Football Boots in a West Ham Bag

Is this a silly idea? My wife and I were in Ottakar’s this morning and, while browsing the books on sale, I couldn’t help but be surprised by the number of reading groups there are. I’m aware that there are numerous Richard-and-Judy-esque ‘big names’ in the reading group world but there are thousands of little groups up and down the country, meeting every month, where like minded gentlefolk sit and chew the fat, over tea and Hobnobs, Guinness and pork scratchings, discussing their favourite Garcia Marquez in reverential tones. There was even a ruddy Channel 4 comedy-drama series about one. Well, I mused, how about starting a listening group? A group meets monthly, each member brings along a CD (or vinyl) album, a current release of note or a life-changing old classic, plays a couple of tracks, enthuses, discusses, and improves the quality of life for all those assembled. I actually mentioned something similar to S about eighteen months ago and he probably accused me of being a pompous so-and-so but I felt so enthusiastic about the concept I actually left town with a price-list for meeting room hire at the Guildhall (too expensive!) and a light-hearted – and self-mocking - idea for a poster, “Martin Cole’s Listening Group – No Riff-Raff!”. To be honest and serious, in a perfect world, this is the sort of thing I’d enjoy immensely but I can just imagine the first meeting and my heart sinking with Clive from Abbeydale standing up and announcing, ‘Good evening one and all. Tonight I’d like to introduce you lovely people to No Jacket Required by Phil Collins’.

I’ve typed the above while listening to Liberty Belle and the Black Diamond Express by The Go-Betweens. What a loss.

The Football Association Challenge Cup Final was most exciting this afternoon to the extent that, contravening recent tradition, yours truly managed to stay wide awake all through the match and didn’t doze off after an hour only to awake dribbling to witness the victorious team skipping joyously around the field of play. I was very keen for West Ham to sneak it, especially, as a young lad living on the fringes of London in the 1970s, I used to favour the claret and blues and even proudly carried my football boots to my middle school in a West Ham bag. Having said that, I’m a big Steven Gerrard fan; he remains a model professional in my eyes and, indeed, his dignity and grace and maturity when interviewed by the risible Garth Crookes this afternoon were eye-catching. All the proceedings this afternoon were a credit to the association code.

I have ordered the new Shack album on Amazon tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing them in Bristol next Sunday – hopefully after a successful trip to watch Gloucester triumph in their European final. The reviews for On The Corner of Miles and Gil have been uniformly superb. Here is another combo (see second paragraph above) that have never made a poor record. With most of my Shack recordings being on tape, I wonder if S would do the business? He hasn’t done me a copy of The Kinks’ The Village Green Preservation Society yet either. I never forget.

A Key Signing

Iain Balshaw has joined the city club from Leeds and I salute the move and welcome a man who could make a considerable impact to our side. I guess there have been a couple or three fallow years for Balshaw who, on his own admission, stagnated at Bath before his injury-ridden sojourn up north. At his best he was a clinical finisher and a graceful, elusive runner who could make yard after yard while making the whole process look so simple. I can never forget the headstart Byron Hayward had over him to run back and field a loose ball near the Gloucester line; Balshaw had 50 metres to sprint compared to Hayward's 30 but won the race with plenty to spare and scored a try that is etched in my mind for, a few years on, mainly comedic reasons. If this player can return to anything like his top form while remaining free of injury, we have signed a nugget. I like the fact he can play full back as well as wing too. Strength in depth. Hurrah! We need to sign a tighthead prop forward next. And then, I reckon, world domination will commence.

Grant McLennan

Not had much time to attend to blogger duties over the last day or so. However I must record my deep sadness at the death of Grant McLennan. The Go-Between died in his sleep at the weekend. I so admire that band and, with three gorgeous comeback albums hoisting them back into my consciousness in recent years, I was primed for more wonderful music from this most articulate, literate, melodic outfit. It is not to be. I’m very thankful that S and I got to see them last year. What a treat that concert was. What a shock that it is all over and there'll be no more concerts, no more albums. Here is an Australian obituary and the one from Monday’s Guardian. I think at the weekend I’ll chuck on Oceans Apart or Liberty Belle and raise a glass to the fellow.

I recall a schoolboy coming home
through fields of cane
to a house of tin and timber
and in the sky
a rain of falling cinders

English Chelsea fan this is your last game (Hey!)/We're not Galatasary We're Sparta F.C. (Hey!)

The doughty BBC uses some splendid music on its television programmes. I like this page which answers viewers’ enquiries about what song or other was being played over Match of the Day clips. Of course The Fall’s Theme From Sparta F.C. remains the theme for Final Score despite its slightly aggressive lyrics and a vaguely sinister reference to Chelsea fans. The reason for this mention of the BBC and its choice of clips is that Top Gear, a show I used to loathe with a genuine passion but, thanks to my son, now rather enjoy, used Kalpol Introl by Autechre from the Inculabula album. I was quite shocked but, at the same time, heartened. I had never associated Jeremy Clarkson with sparse and obtuse electronic tinkerings from the Warp label but I suppose there is a first time for everything.

I made a right hash of this today. I have NO idea why this writing is so small! The fonts over the last few days don't match either. Heck.

An Emotional Weekend

The queues were lengthy indeed at Kingsholm this morning with many hundreds of season ticket holders stoically waiting in line in order to purchase their European Challenge Cup Final tickets. It was fascinating in that all these people probably had very little in common with each other on many, many levels but because of one shared interest were able to affably chew the fat about all matters Gloucester, past, present and future. I quite enjoyed it really. At about a quarter to ten, Jake Boer strolled through the car park to board the coach that was waiting to take him and his colleagues to Clifton for the Tens tournament. He was wearing a sports top, shorts, and, I swear, a pair of tights. It was a most unsettling sight. I didn’t know where to look.

 

Naturally, lots of the banter was about yesterday’s remarkable match. I am still buzzing about yesterday’s epic match with the consensus, which I can appreciate, being that that despite the loss, this remains a game to view with no little excitement and huge amounts of encouragement. Ryan Lamb came of age with some visionary football that was, simply, world class. The try that he started with a huge and ambitious pass to Oliver Morgan and finished with a dummy that utterly bamboozled Joe Worsley, the camera man and half the crowd was possibly the best I’ve seen at the old stadium. Certainly ‘Top Five’. His massive pass to Simpson-Daniel which ended with the Bailey score was hugely creative although that move’s finest moment was Sinbad’s almost contemptuous turning hither and thither of the Dallaglio figure. It was joyous. The whole game was really, really marvellous.

 

I must confess I was unable to join in the tumultuous chanting of ‘Terry Fanolua’ during the interval as the old warhorse entered the field of play for the last time to bid, well, his Gloucester family farewell. With his old father proudly by his side, Terry was obviously moved and choked to the extent that he was struggling to get his words out. I just bit my lip and tried to hold it together. The sentimental side of me adores events like this (I was misting over for the Player of the Year announcement for goodness sake) but I found the whole ‘Terry thing’ yesterday much more moving than usual.

 

I met up with, gosh, fifteen or so old school colleagues early yesterday evening and I must say what splendid people that they have become. Actually, they were probably all splendid back in the seventies and eighties too! It was especially fine to touch base with M once again after years of gradually losing touch. He remains incredibly easy company and shares and understands so many of my values and interests and points of view that, despite all the thrills at Kingsholm, our half hour chat proved the highlight of the weekend for me. A dear and charming friend. One of my greatest faults is taking individuals like that for granted and maybe my fifth decade should be dedicated to making sure that doesn’t happen as often.

Martin

Martin Stephenson proved the engaging and delightful performer I had anticipated. The last time I had seen him live was back in 1991 at the wonderful Sheffield Leadmill with the energetic Daintees and not a lot had changed. The voice was plaintive and charged, the guitar playing was bewitching and the banter, as ever, was cheery, witty and relentless. I enjoyed his company. Here is a performer who fully connects with his audience on a quite personal level and is to be lauded for not ‘chasing the yankee dollar’ and preferring the more intimate settings like last night’s Acoustica. I look forward to seeing him again.

I bought a copy of Stephenson’s ‘The Church and the Minidisc’ (from the gentleman himself) after the show and played half of it this morning. It is defiantly lo-fi but I already admire its political edge coupled with a gentle folk leaning.

What would Charlie Coroli Think?

A curt and rather unpleasant email from S chastises me for daring to criticise Send in the Clowns which, naturally, he regards as one of the greatest achievements ever, up there, no doubt, with Beethoven’s Fifth and Turner's The Fighting Temeraire. I beg to disagree. This song is smug, self-satisfied with a few cloudy metaphors chucked at the listener to attempt to convey a depth and welter of meaning that, quite simply, I don’t believe to be there. It is dull. Compare and contrast another standard from the Streisand repertoire, Somewhere, which remains moving, dramatic, lacking in pretension, and possesses a depth that doesn’t require a dodgy circus allusion to prove its worth. Bernstein 1, Sondheim 0 in my humble opinion. I am happy to proffer a very public apology should the noble S convince me what the metaphorical 'sending in' of these ruddy and often rather frightening motleyed entertainers actually means. I won’t hold my breath though

Google Searches

This sounds a bit sad but I have the ability, via my Statcounter subscription, to discover precisely how kindly visitors to these pages actually found their way here. Obviously there a number of ‘regulars’ who have stored the URL in their ‘favourites’ list and a few people find this blog via a link from another blog (usually Partly Porpoise actually). What I find really rather interesting is the manner in which some folk discover this site from a google search. Here are a few searches from just the past three or four days:

‘allen lamb morgan rugby’ Somebody with taste.
‘john gadd gloucester’ Somebody with even finer taste!
‘mcaloon megahertz’ Eager Prefab Sprout fan.
‘mumbles youth calvisano’ I believe Mumbles is in Wales but they found me mumbling about something or other.
‘martin cole gloucester’ Touchingly personal (and from someone in the United States too) and nice use of ‘gloucester’ just to make sure.
‘secret machines bring their’ Obscure wording!

Isn't it rich, are we a pair? Me here at last on the ground, you in mid-air...

It hasn’t been an especially busy weekend but I have enjoyed a relaxed three days. I had never been to a Point to Point meeting before today but the races at Maisemore were exciting and competitive and the whole event was really well organised. I’d go again. I picked the first two winners, the second at a healthy 13 to 2, and a further success beckoned in the fifth race. I finished fifteen pounds up at the end of the day and would certainly have settled for that outcome this morning. We had a lovely view of proceedings too; the raised land provides a fine natural grandstand.

Gloucester qualified for Heineken Cup rugby football on Friday after Saracens failed to defeat what appeared to be, on the highlights, an extremely profligate Leicester outfit that spurned one try-scoring opportunity after another. Yesterday’s 31-7 victory at Leeds, then, meant nothing in terms of qualification but did set up a fascinating battle with Wasps next weekend, a fifth against fourth square-up with the winner snatching a play-off semi-final spot. I have always been against these daft play-offs and the concept of a winner-takes-all final but I can understand the argument this season that nine of the twenty-two league matches have suffered through international calls-up so the best team/squad may not necessarily make it to the top slot. I am less negative about the set-up than I used to be but it is still rather unsatisfactory.

I heard a song on the radio yesterday and, by the time it had finished, I had thought sagely to myself that this was possibly my most hated number ever. Oblique and pretentious – and possibly meaningless - lyrical content, a dire melody as well as a ghastly association with rank, middle-brow entertainers lead me to loathe Send in the Clowns with vigour. Other songs I really, really can’t bear to listen to include I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor, Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes, Java Jive (I Like Coffee, I Like Tea) by The Inkspots, and many others. Anything by The Eurythmics or, particularly, the solo Annie Lennox will lead me to sprint to a radio’s on/off switch with my hands pressed over my ears for protection. I can’t bear Lennox.