Vim under the sink, and both bars on...

Busy days, busy days. The Coles went to watch their favourite film last Tuesday at that ‘big cinema’ near the docks. Withnail and I was showing as part of the British film season and, having seen it on video more times than I can count, it was refreshing to catch the action on a large screen. The theatre was fullish with numerous loyal Withnail fans who knew the feature backwards and laughed in all the right places and, often, just before a favourite line cropped up.

It was exciting to listen to the radio this afternoon and hear Lesley Vainikolo collect no fewer than five tries for the remarkable Cherry and Whites of Gloucester. A comprehensive victory has propelled the city club to the top of the league but sterner battles approach. However, a bonus point for achieving four touchdowns in the match is welcome especially as the team struggled last term to really ‘put away’ opposition outfits. I’m so glad no Gloucester player was picked to represent England in the World Cup. Viewing the humiliating defeat to South Africa on Friday was akin to witnessing a car crash; I am delighted that none of our proud lads are associated with that ghastly rabble.

Samoa lost to Tonga today so I may as well tear that betting slip up.

Not Special K

The Klaxons swooped and won the Mercury Music Prize last week. The tipsters thought the intriguing Bat For Lashes or the powerful Amy Winehouse would vanquish while this scribe crossed everything and hoped against hope that Fionn Regan or Maps would surprise everyone. It wasn’t to be. This sounds daft but I’ve taken against all recent bands that start with ‘K’. The Killers and Kaiser Chiefs are overrated junk in my very humble opinion. Who on earth are The Kooks? The Klaxons, rightly or wrongly, have been caught up is this maelstrom of disaffection and venom. I just think these bands are just a lazy route into ‘alternative music’; a couple of NME front covers and suddenly these ‘K’ bands are all appearing at Glastonbury and adorning the walls of a thousand mundane indie kids’ halls of residence walls. Razorlight doesn’t begin with a ‘K’ but it may as well; I flippin’ hate them too. I’m glad that The Guardian shares my suspicion that The Klaxons might be a bit ropey. There’s much better stuff around; if The Aliens aren’t at least shortlisted for next year’s Mercury with the staggering Astronomy For Dogs I shall despair.

I’ve had a wager on the Rugby World Cup and I’ve published my betting slip for the nation to admire. It’s a ‘double’ so I need both events to come off. I’ve invested four pounds and, for those that find my handwriting an acquired taste, I need France not to qualify for the quarter finals and for Samoa, in contrast, to find their way through the pool stages. Four hundred quids will wend their smashing ways into my wallet if it comes off and, I reckon, the results of two matches will prove crucial: England vs. Samoa and France vs. Ireland. It’ll make things interesting.

Symphony Hall/Carnegie Haul?

This month sees the Coles heading north twice to the splendid Birmingham Symphony Hall. In a fortnight, ambient explorer David Sylvian will take to the stage while last night the greasy-quiffed and wry rocker, Richard Hawley entertained the masses. I doubt whether the aforementioned Sylvian will close his set with the earthy, ‘We’re off now cos I’m gagging for a pint and a fag’, but there was a certain charm to the Sheffielder’s banter that enhanced some excellent singin’ and playin’. I’m playing the new Hawley album Lady’s Bridge as I pen these musings and reflect that most of these songs were played last evening. It’s a recording that’s taken a while to grow on this punter but experiencing the varied numbers in a live setting merrily enhanced their quality and, as a bonus, they were belted out with no little aplomb by a marvellously tight combo. It is a cracking album and last night opened my eyes to its worth. The classic Coles Corner long player was represented heartily too. The title track, one of the finest popular songs of the past decade, was a sumptuous treat while The Ocean, the set’s closer, proved a moody, brooding delight. Actually, it was all very impressive. I enjoyed Hawley’s acerbic and dry persona although I had been warned in the bar pre-gig that he could be a miserable so-and-so; I think we caught him on a good night. I would suggest, to adapt a sporting cliché, that songsmithery proved the winner in the second city; Hawley’s songs are almost timeless, full of melody and atmosphere, and although the band and singer proved tremendously skilled entertainers, it was the songs that made the evening for me. Hurrah!

I was heartened to discover that the rugby club I hold close to my heart, Gloucester, had defeated Ulster tonight in a keenly contested pre-season friendly. After a disappointing loss to Cardiff last weekend, I am pleased to see a bit of momentum and, importantly, a confidence building victory chalked up. I hope the team’s form will be sustained for next week’s opening league fixture against Leeds Carnegie.

Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes

Is it only one year ago that I was willing the magnificent Scritti Politti to win the Mercury Music Prize? Alas, the gong went to the Arctic Monkeys’ fairly worthy but over-hyped debut and Green Gartside had to content himself with this very website’s hard-won accolade, ‘Album of the Year’ for the bewitching White Bread, Black Beer. The 2007 winner will be announced tomorrow evening and I’m gunning for either Maps or Fionn Regan although one would be hard-pressed to find two more disparate recordings. Maps’ We Can Create is a shimmering shoe-gazing/nu-gazing slice of fattening indie-tinged gateau while young folk prince Regan’s understated but fulfilling acoustic ramblings on The End of History allow this listener to tap his foot, smile wistfully and nod appreciatively at unusual melodic joy all at the same time. If you click the above links, you can read what I thought about these recordings at the time. None of the other nominees interest me too much although I have enjoyed, thus far, what I have heard of the improbably nomenclatured Bat For Lashes.