Y Viva Espana!

Winter in Madrid by C. J. Sansom is not a book I would have chosen myself. I was given it for Christmas and completed it this afternoon, having immersed myself in its drama and complexities for the past three or four days. Having half-heartedly studied the Spanish Civil War at school I was vaguely aware of the intricacies of a dark and bloody period and this book’s detailed exploration of that time and the politically strained aftermath when Spain’s role in the World War was under watchful examination from all sides brought a fascinating subject into close focus. The novel proved more than just a history lesson though. As a thriller, albeit one with more dialogue than raw action, its twists kept the pages turning routinely and the close attention paid to the nuances of the characters meant the denouement was all the more electrifying as one’s sympathies with or antipathies towards various individuals kept one on edge for the last hundred pages. I can imagine this book being filmed and envisage the last paragraph in particular, an absolute belter of a surprise, really jolting audiences. I’m not usually one for espionage-dominated thrillers but this novel certainly had me thinking and, importantly, made the heart race as events conspired and combined relentlessly towards a stirring conclusion.

London Irish/London

The splendid and celebrated city club faces a battle and a half on New Year’s Day. The visitors, London Irish, are renowned for their physicality and forward strength and I mournfully recall a defeat in the corresponding fixture last term when an immense Reading-based eight out-muscled and bullied the Gloucester forwards. A similar struggle meets the Cherry and Whites this time although the addition of Nieto, Califano and Bortolami to the pack will lend the home side more parity this time. The performance of Ryan Lamb (pictured) will prove crucial. The nipper has enjoyed an inconsistent season thus far but I am sure a performance where it all clicks and the Tredworth Tyro cuts an opposition fifteen to shreds will arrive sooner or later. Naturally I hope it is against Irish and the selection of energetic Scot Rory Lawson will help; the former Edinburgh scrummie has indubitably impressed recently and his keen pass and alert ways will help ‘The Lambster’ no end. I am glad the stylish Oliver Morgan is back at full-back but wish Balshaw was still in the fifteen, in place of the satisfactorily functional but vaguely underwhelming Foster.

I am taking the elder of the Cole girls to London next Wednesday, travelling on a locomotive for a change. We intend to visit the Tate Modern where Carsten Höller has filled the vast Turbine Hall with a series of huge slides. The Tate’s website calls it an ‘exploration of communal human experience’ but I sense we’ll just call it ‘a lot of fun’. I hope the weather is fine. I have embarked on a couple of ‘flights’ on the outstanding London Eye but each time the weather has been overcast and a touch damp. It would be good to enjoy the views from this remarkable erection on a clear day to really appreciate it. Third time lucky, hopefully.

180

I have become slightly addicted to the coverage of the World Darts Championships that Sky Sports is telecasting to a grateful nation. Some of the matches in Purfleet’s Circus Tavern have been incredibly tense and thrilling with a hint of controversy on occasions. Last night there was a right palaver when Chris ‘The Ace’ Mason verbally abused his vanquisher, Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor at the conclusion of their battle. Taylor was not happy. My favourite, Colin ‘The Wizard’ Osborne was knocked out this afternoon. I enjoyed the Middlesbrough-born darter’s modest and unassuming manner; his lack of histrionics and aggression proved a pleasing antidote to some of his less erudite and cultured rivals’ conduct. On achieving a ‘maximum’ or on winning a leg or set, the self-effacing Northerner seemed content to merely nod his approval rather than leap up and down or contort his face as others prefer. He was rather cool and the tournament is poorer for his absence. To be frank, I long to be actually in the Purfleet crowd if only for one evening, imbibing and bellowing unselfconsciously among the other ‘arrows’ fans. I would adopt a look of ironic detachment between matches but in the heat of the action might well ‘lose it’ slightly.

New

Whoosh. Christmas went quickly and is over for another year. I am happy to slip back into a semblance of a routine now and concentrate on listening to all the new CDs I have received and purchased with vouchers recently. Last week’s end of year Top Five may have been constructed a little too hastily as a trio of long players, all released within the last twelve months, is keeping me entertained and contented. I have mentioned Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan’s Ballad of Broken Seas already but I have also been listening to Cat Power’s The Greatest and Fionn Regan’s The End of History. The Greatest – not a Greatest Hits package, heaven forbid - is a classy piece of work, fragile yet striking, mainly down-tempo songs delivered in a country style with the crystal-clear and delicate voice of chanteuse Chan Marshall to the fore. It’s lovely. I have also grown fond of Fionn Regan’s album. A and I saw this young Irish troubadour supporting Midlake back in July and since then his debut album has been released to plenty of acclaim. And rightly so. The End of History is a charming, clever young scamp, packed with appealing melody and razor-sharp, world-weary and, at times, confessional lyricism. A few reviews make inevitable Nick Drake comparisons and Regan’s dextrous fingering of his guitar strings does suggest similarities but I sense more of a Ryan Adams influence in several of the numbers. I recommend.

Handy Beacon

The Coles (photographed standing in descending age order, left to right) enjoyed a bracing walk on Painswick Beacon this morning. It was a tad cold but, happily and like a chip oil of olden times, crisp and dry. The usual collective of dog walkers, golfers, runners, cyclists, horse folk, ramblers and gentlefolk merrily permeated the area. We usually have a stroll out on Christmas Eve, often in the Forest of Dean. Other activities planned for today include peeling vegetables, wrapping presents, wondering how Marco Bortolami is celebrating Christmas and listening to the Sufjan Stevens Christmas boxed set. I am participating in the last of those deeds (CD 5, ‘Peace’, if you’re asking) as I type these words.

Season's Greetings.

Festival Fever/Frenzy

A recent email from D highlighted problems with the recent All Tomorrows Parties festival at Butlin’s in Minehead that he and his posse attended. There seems every indication that the organisation may have overstretched itself on moving from the cosy, slightly ramshackle but extremely enjoyable Pontin’s at Camber Sands. When my cohort and I went to ATP a couple of years ago, there were no queues to speak of, one was able to drift between arenas and see who you wanted, when you wanted and, generally, chill. This appears not to be the case now. The articulate D maintains, ‘I hope they (ATP) can recover what they had,’ and if they can, I am quietly tempted by either of the Easter festivals when, inter alia, Echo and the Bunnymen, Shellac, Nick Cave, Joanna Newsom, Sparklehorse, Cat Power and Low are due to appear.

I was with S last night (not that S, but another one who is dear to me) and early negotiations took place regarding us attending next summer’s Green Man Festival. I await others’ views.

Punks Jump Up

The youngest Cole nonchalantly - and with the merest hint of insouciance - models a prize winner. Scritti Politti’s White Bread Black Beer is this humble website’s Album of the Year (2006). I informed D, on the Kingsholm terracing of all places, that WBBB was this year’s finest long playing record back in September to which he rather casually retorted, ‘Ah, there’s a long way to go yet’ or words to that effect. Well, he’ll be laughing on the other side of his face now. The Gartside fellow has pulled it off.

White Bread Black Beer really is a sweet record, full of personal reflections, tenderness, self-deprecation and mea culpas galore. It’s a clever recording too, packed with subtleties and nuances that only reveal themselves after several listens and I congratulate it for bringing a bit of patience and perseverance back into my listening life. Repeated plays really do harvest riches. To be frank, I’m just chuffed that someone I admired twenty years has returned, not with a clumsy reunion tour and a stewed, skewed greatest hits package, but with a fresh and vibrant piece of art that enhances a reputation and adds maturity, class and warmth to an already remarkable back catalogue. Bravo!

I know the music industry is waiting with bated breath so here’s my Top Five in full:

1. White Bread Black Beer – Scritti Politti
2. The Trials of Van Occupanther – Midlake
3. Ys – Joanna Newsom
4. Anti-Depressant – Lloyd Cole
5. The Avalanche - Sufjan Stevens

'Nothing by My Chemical Romance?' I hear you yell.

No Whole-Wheat Bisks Today

It is good to relax. Tonight we’re going to watch A Very Long Engagement on Sky Movies, sip pleasing drinks and indulge in up-market snacks. Not having to use one brain cell considering what to do tomorrow is so life-affirming after a hectic few weeks. Sitting here typing these few sentences into the computer while listening to Neutral Milk Hotel’s In The Aeroplane Over The Sea is as animated as I intend to be today. My breakfast this morning symbolised my holiday mood. Instead of the usual, rushed brace of whole-wheat bisks und soya milk, I was able to poach a pair of freshly laid eggs, fry a handful of closed cup mushrooms and lay said items tenderly upon some toasted wholemeal bread with a splash of Soy sauce and a scattering of sea salt to season the serving. This meal set me up for the day beautifully.

The Rugby

Edinburgh 14 - Gloucester 31

Although I watched the match on my own – we had Sky Sports and Movies reinstalled last week as a Christmas treat – I feel a bit hoarse. I was yelling like a demonic demon when Oliver Morgan flashed through to collect a Willy Walker kick and canter deliriously over the whitewash for Gloucester’s crucial fourth try. Gloucester deserved to win; the forward platform the dignified Bortolami and colleagues provided was awesome and, especially when Richards and Walker formed the half-back duo, the backs attacked with no little élan. It was terribly exciting.

With hindsight, I am glad that Leinster defeated Agen yesterday. The French team are rather unsatisfactorily positioned to qualify now and I’m not sure how much of a struggle they will put up against the esteemed and mighty city club in our next Heineken Cup fixture. If Gloucester can sneak another 5-0 victory (or 5-1 or 5-2) then the Leinster match will be a huge and historic battle. But, let’s take one game at a time and not consider the Irish for a while; I’ve suffered too many anti-climaxes to start fantasising about silverware yet.

Before Jimmy's machine and the rocksteady rub

My birthday was pleasant and low-key. The five Coles strolled to the Balti Hut in deepest Longlevens in the evening for a nosh-up. After twenty or thirty consecutive Vegetable Biryanis I have moved on to a new favourite: the Vegetable Bhuna. I have now had two on the trot. It’s a touch spicier and I rather like the texture of the thing. I was as full as a barrel at the end of the meal. We all trooped into the Co-op on the way home to buy some ice creams to consume when we arrived home. That was a nice touch.

The lucky birthday boy has got loads, loads of new music to play. I had five CDs on the day itself and some vouchers for Fopp and His Master’s Voice that I spent voraciously on seven further recordings this morning. The tokens were, as they say, burning a hole in my trouser pocketage. I won’t be a boring chump and list all I received and chose but it is a fine mixture of old and new. I’ve been sampling the ‘old’ mainly today while I viewed a host of superb European rugby football matches with the sound turned down, supine on the sofa, adopting a languorous and indolent manner. I especially appreciated Dexys Midnight Runners’ Searching for the Young Soul Rebels and I’m playing it for the second time now. The newish Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan album is a dainty and melodic treat and, by heck, I’ve loved reacquainting m’self with Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Juju, a powerful, macabre and haunting long player. I also got The Beatles’ Love album which sounds wonderful; I’m not entirely sure what the point of it is though.

I could have spent a fortune in Fopp. I unexpectedly alighted upon S in that shop, casually flicking through the jazz racks, a young and sharp blade that one wouldn’t guess was approaching his fortieth year. He described Fopp as ‘dangerous’; he is right – there is so much of quality to buy there. So many choices.

I say, I say, I say...

I’ve been a nervous wreck waking up in recent weeks knowing I have to tune in and discover the latest state of play in the Ashes fixtures down under. I honestly feel it has affected my sleep to a certain extent as stirring in the middle of the night during a Test has meant I’ve been immediately bolt upright worrying about Freddie and Harmy and company. This morning was fine though and I’m delighted that the irrepressible ‘Monty’ has lit up a day’s play with a 'five for'. With Australia, who won the toss, dismissed for 244 and England on 51 for the loss of a couple, it is all to play for. The team needs a big partnership or two and, hopefully, a three figure lead. The nerves are building; once again I’m not looking forward to switching on the radio tomorrow morning.

The Coles went to see The Queen tonight at t’Guildhall. It was quietly thought-provoking and, dealing with the events after the death of the saintly Diana, a tangible jog to the old memory. I recall a kind of mass hysteria in 1997 where, if you weren’t overcome, lachrymose and haunted by the passing of, in my humble opinion, a fairly humdrum individual, you felt you ran the risk of being lynched. In many ways it was not this country’s finest moment methinks. It worried me.

I was horrified to read a posting on a Gloucester rugby messageboard today where an individual had chosen to share three jokes about the recent and tragic murder of five sex workers in Ipswich. Young lives, young tragic lives are snuffed out and wasted, the lives of somebody’s daughter, sister, mother and someone is sad enough not only to find this humorous but is insensitive and ignorant enough to consider that others would welcome the chance to share in the fun. I ain't laughing. At times, contemplating the sort of thoughtless morons who sully our society with such a tactless lack of gumption depresses the life out of me. Is that all those girls' lifes were worth? The chance for a bit of a titter about hookers... Brilliant.

Ripples

A gentle and polite ripple of applause in a cricket stylee would be welcome for this site’s 150th posting of the year. Last year I managed a mere 133 postings by way of comparison so the curve is up. A target for next year needs to be considered. I think the double hundred is a tad ambitious especially as I traditionally tend to have a month or two of self-doubt and ennui when my muse departs and I can’t think of anything decent to write about. I’ll go for 183 posts I reckon; this would represent one every other day. We’ll see.

The Sufjan Stevens Christmas Album had another airing tonight. It’s an understated recording, quite lo-fi and a nice little indicator of how the songwriting prowess of the talented American has developed over the years. However, I’m mainly playing the Bjork album Vespertine and the Eg and Alice long player at the moment. Vespertine is a lovely set of songs packed with imagination and rather sensual undertones. It may be the enigmatic Icelandic maid’s finest work although Debut and Homogenic are mighty fine and splendidly challenging also.

D texted me to agree with my recent appraisal of The Royal Tenenbaums. I’m not alone then, and am glad that someone else doesn’t rate this ghastly film. It appears that D blew hot and cold about last weekend’s All Tomorrows Parties festival at Minehead’s Butlins. I await further detail but I sense it was a case of ‘great music, shame about the venue’. The affable Newent-bred Londoner used the word ‘shambles’. Heck.

Foppishness 2

I popped into the new Fopp store in Gloucester on Saturday. What an Aladdin’s cave of wonderful CDs we have been presented with in our fair city. The shop is on two levels. On the upper level there are shelves galore of fabulous back catalogues of fine, fine acts with most CDs costing a fiver while on the lower level there are shelves galore of fabulous back catalogues of fine, fine acts with most CDs costing a fiver. There are books and DVDs there too. I have bought quite a lot of music recently and anticipate a few new albums in the next week or so. However, however, I could happily spend some more time and some more hard-earned currency in Fopp.

Fingers Crossed for Roald

Perhaps I’m not getting the joke and somebody will put me right. We watched The Royal Tenenbaums on Saturday night, having hired the Digital Versatile Disc of said name from our local blockbusting rental store. It was dire. It lacked nothing in imagination but any fool can conjure up a hotchpotch of characters that are quirky and zany and eccentric. Making them do humorous things and utter interesting and thought-provoking and amusing comments is more challenging. This film consisted only of set piece after set piece that looked fairly interesting and visually stimulating but lacked any warmth, depth or intelligence. It was possibly the worst feature film I’ve seen since The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou which was equally shallow and shocking and which I gave a right blasting a year and a half ago. Is it a coincidence that they were both directed by the same fellow? I notice that Wes Anderson is behind the camera for the forthcoming Fantastic Mr Fox feature. I do hope dear Mr Dahl isn’t made to turn in his grave by an unnecessarily wacky and, as a result, dull treatment of a perfectly decent and much loved novel.

Props. Princes. Progress?

Gloucester 38 - Edinburgh 22

This was an exciting football match, more thrilling than it should have been considering Gloucester’s dominance of the tight exchanges and other key areas but concluding with the correct result: a win for the city and the cussed Scots departing with pride intact but lacking an important bonus point that would have flattered them. At 14-0 and with the match still in its first quarter I expected a comfortable victory for the city but the game ebbed and flowed, the opposition demonstrated considerable resilience, errors crept into the home team’s game and early in the second half, the score stood at two-and-twenty apiece with all to play for.

Gloucester’s response was necessary, marvellous but fairly unsurprising having seen glimpses of magic all afternoon. In a heady move, it all clicked. A quick-witted Oliver Morgan managed to keep a ball alive deep in the home 22, the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, was released and fifty metres and countless hapless, hopeless defenders having been left clutching air, the oval was deep into enemy territory; swift hands, flat passing and superb support play saw the ball flung right to left, inspirational skipper Bortolami took the ball close to line before an alert Anthony Allen screamed up to gather and sneak deliriously in at the corner. This proved the finest moment of the match but the countless crunching scrums that Gloucester dominated had the purists purring too. The front row of Collazo, Azam and Nieto utterly destroyed their opposite numbers and if the Scots smelt respite when Collazo was replaced on the hour, it was a short-lived sense of relief as one Christian Califano entered stage left and continued to hammer the Scots in the tight. The official man of the match gong went to the noble and stylish ‘Borts’ but my choice would have been any of the three starting front rowers who were as rugged and brutal and effective as any unit I’ve seen at my favoured stadium.

Essentially, the Gloucester club remains in the European Cup and three further wins might just see us through. Allen’s dashing sprint for the corner might well prove decisive and a score of that quality and class would deserve nothing less.

Master White and Ms Temple's Masterpiece

My instincts proved correct as to the whereabouts of a copy of Eg and Alice’s 24 Years of Hunger and I am grateful for the chance presented to me to get to know and admire such a fine collection of songs. I was chatting to the droll S on the telephone earlier and he asked me to describe the sound of Eg and Alice. I would suggest it to be one part Blue Nile (plaintive vocals and urban themes) mixed with an equal measure of Steely Dan (glossy production and not a bum note to be heard). I sense a slither of Hue and Cry and, in its funkier moments, a pinch of Prince Rogers Nelson. However, as I mentioned during my review of that rabble Boy Kill Boy’s gig this week, you need tunes and this album is chock full of moving melodies and quietly complex and emotive lyrical content. I already appreciate this recording and sense it will grow and grow and become a firm favourite. My favourite track at the moment is Indian, a great little tune but with a really barbed set of lyrics about isolation and rejection:

Jack Malloy came up to me / At a party on the hill / Sad expression on his face / He said though it grieves me so / I’ve been asked to throw you out / By the owner of this place.

And so on.

Foppishness

I was excited to learn via A on Monday evening that record chain Fopp has opened a branch within the city streets of Gloucester, quite near to the old MVC emporium just off the historic Square of Kings. I’ve always enjoyed trotting into Fopp in London and have purchased a fair few items from its well-stacked and generously priced racks ‘n’ shelves. They sell loads of CDs for a fiver or so and it’s all good quality stuff too. Few nasty little bands. It appears that A picked up the third Turin Brakes album for three pounds at the weekend and this augers well for bargain bonanzas to come. Still on the subject of cut price music, an email in my bulging inbox informs me that the library service is to host a CD and media sale every month. As I listen in an awestruck aspect to the blistering Vespertine by Bjork, mine for two pounds a fortnight ago, I am able to vouch for the wondrousness of that particular mart.

Moving Images

Tired tonight and looking forward to a break.

There are a couple of films I wouldn’t mind watching at the Guildhall next week. Part of me is always up for seeing old classics on the big screen so next Tuesday’s Some Like It Hot appeals. If that doesn’t come off, On The Waterfront is on soon to cater for my monochrome longings. I could have been a contender too incidentally. I quite fancy The Queen too – but, heck, not literally! Verily, gentle reader, I refer to the feature film of that name which examines how the death of ‘The People’s Princess’ (remember her?) impacted on the establishment. Helen Mirren is in it. She’s good.

Finally, after days of calls and enquiries, my new phone is working. I had wanted to transfer my old number over from Orange and this proved problematic. It has taken four days for me to be able to receive calls and texts. I could contact folk but not the other way round. It’s been a frustrating few days but indicative of how attached I have become to my phone. I don’t think I had a mobile eighteen months ago.

Adequate

Boy Kill Boy were nothing special on Monday night. Having an inflated ego, a bit of swagger, all the clobber and the ability to chuck out a few rock clichés is all very well but, at the end of the day, you need the tunes to back it up and this particular combo had few decent ones. I didn’t like them too much and witnessing the hip and cool Gloucestershire youth resolutely refusing to holler for an encore indicated that I was not alone in my disquiet. Boy Kill Boy were heralded pre-gig as contenders but, on this evidence, only for the Vauxhall Conference of up-and-coming bands. Poor. The support band, Magnetic, were much more like it. They wore black, adopted po-faces, generally kept their collective gobs shut and let their music, an energetic synth-driven alt-eighties soundscape, do the talking. Magnetic’s lead singer had a great back-combed Barnet and sounded not unlike Mark Hollis of Talk Talk. Well done!

I note that A has written up a review of this event here - with a witty link to these pages thrown in for good measure. I wonder who the 'more mature concert goers' might be....

Scorchio!

Am I alone in thinking that the hepcat sorting out the programme for the Guildhall’s cinema has a cute sense of humour? Next week, An Inconvenient Truth, the Al Gore documentary about global warming that I’m too afraid to go and see is showing. And the very next film on the schedule? Some Like It Hot. Clever. Clever.

The Correct Use of Soap

For the first time all year, the two magazines I have delivered on subscription arrived on the very same day yesterday. What a treat! I have relished the regular weighty thud on the doormat both periodicals have made all year (although I’m not usually here to hear it) and I have appreciated coming home on a humdrum Day of Wodin or Thor to discover some decent reading material awaiting to raise my spirits. I speak of Word Magazine and Mojo. It is now time to renew (well, they are presents so the renewing is not officially down to me) and I have decided to knock the Mojo on the head and continue with Word. Mojo has many strengths and the quality of its writing is peerless but I feel, at times, there is a tendency to look back rather than forward in its features. I can only cope with so many lengthy articles on The Who, Johnny Cash, Neil Young, Led Zeppelin et al. They are worthy artists but I prefer to warmly shake the hand of the zeitgeist rather than bow reverentially at nostalgie. Word’s combination of good journalism, wit, doughty editorial wisdom and the ability to keep its finger on the pulse of new trends and hip and challenging sounds makes me welcome its arrival each month a good deal more than its rival for my affection. It also covers film, television, radio and technology well. It is knowing and intelligent and adds to my life and my lifestyle. Without pre-empting what I’m getting for Christmas, I expect Uncut to replace Mojo in the new year. In a way Uncut is much like Word and covers a gamut of arts issues with sharp and incisive penmanship and I’ve got a lot out of the issues I’ve read this year. I know that the droll S is a Mojo man and the genial D favours Uncut. I hope my decision isn’t taken personally by either of these dear fellows. I would hate for there to be a scene.

My Saturday or Come on! Let’s Boogey to the Elf Dance!

I’ve enjoyed today. I decided not to go to the Gloucester/Bath rugby football match in the Anglo-Welsh competition as, effectively, it represented a dead rubber (that is the expression I’m looking for isn’t it?) and I simply lacked motivation to attend. Instead, I spent an hour or so in Oxfam sorting out the bookshelves and merrily blasting out Bob Dylan’s Desire album on the stereo in the warehouse as I worked. A bit of Christmas shopping followed and I bought the Sufjan Stevens Songs for Christmas box set too. Basically there are 42 Christmas songs, some traditional, some self-penned, on the five CDs that come in the box. There are also a booklet, a poster, some stickers and a comic strip included in the package as well as the usual dollop of genius and life-affirming energy that comes with any Sufjan Stevens release. Have a look and a listen. He’s my favourite. I needed a new book to read so I visited the wondrous Gloucester library and borrowed a pair of tomes, The Autograph Man and Fruit of the Lemon by writers I had enjoyed over the summer, Zadie Smith and Andrea Levy. I got a pair of guide books about Rome out too as I’m quite keen to visit that particular city. Perhaps it is the Marco effect! I picked up a brace of tickets to see Boy Kill Boy at the Gloucester Guildhall tomorrow night with A, got a Guardian from WH Smith and strolled jauntily around the city streets for a while. This afternoon I did the weekly shop listening to a slightly dodgy rap album that has become a recent secret and guilty pleasure on my headphones. Tonight I cooked a huge chilli which we ate during Robin Hood and I’m now comfortably sated and tapping in these words listening to the Burning Spear album I bought last weekend. A good day.

It’s my birthday quite soon so time to share a piece of personal trivia I have discovered over the past twelve months. Which musical legend and member of celebrated punk outfit is exactly, exactly ten years older than me? The answer is here if you are curious, bored or giddy with excitement. Ebullient horse-jockey Frankie Dettori is exactly, exactly five years younger than me. Wow.