Parklife

We had a lot of fun at Eurodisney – or Disney Resort, Paris as it has been cunningly renamed in recent years. I’m quite cynical about the ol’ Disney brand but I was won over by the whole experience of the park. Having a seven year old helps but the parades were really impressive and all the characters that roamed the expanses, signing autographs and hugging the nippers were rather charming. The rides ranged from the quaint to the exhilarating and we managed to go just about everything. My knuckles grew less white as the week went on and, accompanied by son and heir, tried all the big rides. My first lily-livered attempt at the terrifying Space Mountain is pictured above; I grew to enjoy it though and managed to keep my eyes open on my second expedition. The Coles also managed a couple of days in Paris and did all the usual stuff: the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Pompidou Centre and the obligatory boat trip on the Seine.

I thank those who texted me with news that Chris Paterson is joining the mighty Gloucester club from Edinburgh. I’m heartened by the signing. Here is a player who has accumulated a mass of points at international level but is not just a points machine; I rate his attacking verve and his wit with ball in hand. He will dominate games for the club and not be content with mere cameo roles. I know D will not appreciate my appraisal of the boy Lamb but I don’t recall the youngster ‘bossing’ too many matches last term; his time will come but, for now, I wish to see the level-headed and classy Scot at ten with Ryan Lamb continuing his education within the matchday 22.

Europe Endless

We picked a fine time to be in Paris with the mighty floods causing power and water cuts in merry Gloucester. It is pleasing to be home although our taps are still empty of liquid. I am thankful we have escaped any flooding; nearish neighbours have not been so lucky.

The week before Paris was quite busy. One day was spent in London, shopping for chess items and a few CDs. One of my purchases is gently providing the backdrop for my writing now; Spirit of Love by Clive’s Original Band (C.O.B.) is an ethereal folk trip from the early 1970s and I’m digging its tender tones and blessed-out atmospherics. C.O.B.’s second album, the quaintly named Moyshe McStiff and the Tartan Lancers of the Sacred Heart remains a favourite in this house and, much as I am enjoying Spirit of Love, is still the one I would recommend. I also bought another folk classic from that period, On The Shore by Trees which is a beautiful and delicate recording from 1970. If I had the money I’d fund a Trees reunion and get them to play On The Shore in its entirety on a concert tour starting at the Gloucester Guildhall. I’d be hailed a hero and saviour in the folk community and be toasted wherever people gather to listen to fine sounds. This shall have to remain a mere pipedream alas; I have insufficient resources to tempt ageing folksters out of retirement but shall continue to be keen on the album. It is marvellous. Before adjourning to Notting Hill’s Windsor Castle hostelry to meet D and A for a drink, I also bought The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs which I have dipped into and look forward to hearing more of.

On the Monday of last week, I ventured with A and J to the nearby spa town’s Slak Bar for another night of musical mayhem and a bill of varied delights and delirium. A has written sagely on the evening here and I echo most of his sentiments and acknowledge that, regarding the main act, Cheese on Bread, I am part of the ‘some’ in this sentence: I know that for some the unrelenting tweeness began to grate by the end of the evening, but I have to say I was not one of them. Once again, I found the intense musings and emotional lo-fi leanings of Men Diamler the most rewarding element of the night although the cute and warm indie musical peardrops bashfully offered by The Limechalks also found favour with this scribe. The hip-hop duo of Puppybucket and Danny Choonara was embarrassing; the only thing worse than smug self-satisfaction is smug self-satisfaction when inadequate art is being proffered and, verily, this was the case with this pair of grinnin’ chancers. Cheese on Bread were alright; they were well-rehearsed, portrayed their kitsch bobby-sox pop songs with verve and energy and were mildly entertaining for about a quarter of an hour when the joke began to wear thin. They were just a bit silly.

I shall write a bit more about Paris soon but here is a pair of photographs (I know the date is wrong on the second picture) that represent the week stirringly. Look above, readers. By Jupiter, I shall be heading to Amsterdam in two days time.

A chance to watch, admire the distance

I’m not going to wish the summer away (‘What summer!?’ I hear ye exclaim reasonably affectionately but with the merest hint of venom) but I’m coyly admiring the list of films that the remarkable and doughty Gloucester Guildhall Arts Centre will be showing this autumn. As ever, a few highlights stand out. The Shane Meadows feature This Is England kicks off September and I’m keen to watch this (apparently) evocative portrayal of the skinhead movement of the 1980s. The Australian feature Jindabyne has picked up plenty of very favourable reviews and, despite that dreary Bono Vox specimin appearing in it, the Scott Walker documentary 30^th Century Man should be worth striding purposefully out for. And being a lover and student of the popular beat combo known as Joy Division, I’m looking forward to the Ian Curtis biopic Control immensely. Plenty of other decent stuff is on too. Salutations.

Choosing Choices

The line up for the Green Man Festival has been finalised and cleverly fitted into the above graphical representation of the weekend’s frolics. Click on the image and, verily, gentle reader, it shall grow magically before your very eyes. I observe that Martin Stephenson is playing and I didn’t know that until five minutes ago. He clashes, it seems, with Joanna Newsom and I’m tempted to trot to the Green Man Café to witness the affable Northerner and his charming songsmithery. Saturday sees a huge skirmish between the Main Stage and the Folkey Dokey (I’m not sure I admire that expression) Stage; the choice between Robert Plant, Vashti Bunyan and Richmond Fontaine and Battles, Fridge and the wondrous James Yorkston is regrettable and almost heartbreaking. On the Sunday, I’m tempted to plump for The Aliens over Stephen Malkmus. I’m not quite sure what Malkmus is doing at Green Man, to be frank.

Looking Ahead

A longish summer of rest and relaxation awaits. To be honest, I’ve mainly got my listening pleasures sorted out. S had promised and has produced for me a veritable smorgasbord of melodic delights including a couple of recentish David Sylvian albums, some Devendra Banhart and several other long players that have passed me by. He really wants to get me into early Jethro Tull; there’s a challenge! I am on the look out for reading material though. I must confess I’ll devour the forthcoming Harry Potter novel as I have done with the previous six. Leaving aside any criticisms of this series from a literary perspective, I have simply enjoyed them because the school-based japes remind me of all the Jennings and Billy Bunter books I read as a nine or ten year old. I find the Potter books rather quaint and endearing. I shall be getting a copy of David Peace’s The Damned United, the football-based novel that deals with Brian Clough’s short reign as Leeds manager. D recommended that one to me. I do like Andrew Collins and I felt the previous volumes of his memoirs (Where Did It All Go Right? and Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now) were splendidly evocative and summed up the 1970s and 1980s superbly. His latest instalment, That’s Me in the Corner, deals with the affable broadcaster’s foray into the world of work, and, specifically, music journalism. I’ll purchase that, for sure. I think I ought to read – or, reread - a ‘classic’ so I’ll give that some thought too. As ever, any recommendations are gratefully received.

I came across this lovely ‘obituary’ of Fopp written for a Scottish newspaper and felt I had to share it.

Berlin

Another ‘band photo’ is posted above and one that was defiantly posed, I’m embarrassed to say. The venue was a courtyard somewhere in East Berlin in the mid-1980s. This was a fine holiday that took these three intrepid hipsters (plus C2 who took the picture) through Europe by train in order to stay in Berlin for a week or so and then Munich for about three nights. I remember very little about Munich apart from a boozy afternoon in a huge park. Berlin, on the other hand, was an uplifting experience to the extent that a return trip took place one year later. We (apart from C2, who was far too chic for such capers) ebulliently and innocently played dice cricket (also known as ‘owzat’) throughout the train journey which true Goths would never have done. The next year we packed the Subbuteo and ‘flicked to kick’ endlessly before striding confidently into the city to experience the Berlin nightlife. I bet David Bowie and Lou Reed never did that when they lived there. If ‘the band’ had existed, it would have played Sisters of Mercy and Cure styled compositions and would have been unapologetically gloomy.

Left to right: C, the author, B. We were teenagers.

Simon Morris

Simon Morris, the stylish and elegant former Gloucester centre-cum-winger, bicycled past me today in the Montpellier region of Cheltenham Spa. I was waiting patiently at a roundabout and he cascaded past me from the right and exited stage-left, so to speak. It was his right of way, for heaven’s sake. He still looks as fit as a butcher’s dog and I reckon he could still do a job for the mighty city club. He remains, possibly, S’s all-time favourite Gloucester back to the extent that my earnest and engaging comrade actually expressed a wish that Morris should defect to a more fashionable club back in the nineties to further any international ambitions more keenly. He was a great player though, elusive and flippin’ pacy with cracking hands and a firm sense of the team ethic. I associate him with a splendid period in Gloucester back play when, in the aftermath of the dreadful drubbing in the 1990 Cup Final, a few new players emerged and a few old ones were re-energised. Paul Holford, Neil Matthews, Donald ‘Don’ Caskie and the young full back Mark Mapletoft all, at one time or another, complemented the expansive skills of Simon Morris. That was rather a pleasing period when the pint pots of the cognoscenti started, after a few dismal years, to appear half-full instead of half-empty.

Shop

I’m no businessman and I am unsure of the whys and wherefores but I am saddened that the Fopp record chain appears to have ceased trading. All shops have closed and it seems that staff have not been remunerated for their efforts over the past month. I really liked Fopp. I first encountered the retail outlet in London a year and one quarter of a year ago. After a morning browsing the quirky stores in Berwick Street, the benevolent burgher of Highgate (out of Newentville), D, graciously led me, an innocent abroad, to the world of Fopp and, specifically, the Shaftsbury Avenue branch. I was impressed by the wide range of long players available, the sense that fans of the mainstream weren’t overtly catered for and the unstinting attempts to produce extremely fine value. My first visit to Fopp is tenderly recorded here and I’m suddenly hugely tempted to put on the Roni Size album in a while (I’m playing Alligator by The National as I pen these heartfelt words). I hope something is sorted out soon. I want my Fopp back.