Though we have sparred, wrestled and raged ...

I’ve lost a bit of enthusiasm for the rugby football. Normally I would have purchased my season ticket by now, would have spent the summer working out my first choice starting fifteen and could even be querying what Malcolm Preedy might think about Gloucester Rugby’s chances for the forthcoming campaign. I would certainly have attended any pre-season friendlies but yesterday I opted to give the match against Glasgow a miss and instead helped construct a stunning composting area on our front lawn using stakes and wooden palettes. By all accounts, the occasion was fairly typical pre-season fare with mistakes galore and the cherry-wearing fellows making heavy weather of it. Our lads ne’er do themselves justice when there isn’t an ‘r’ in the month. I’m not sure what has caused my lack of zest. I certainly was much more excited about the team’s adventures twenty years or so ago when the fifteen was made up of local heroes who rampaged round the park for nought but pride although the standard of football is much higher these days and I still have my huge favourites from the modern era (the young prince Simpson-Daniel, the noble Boer, the expressionist aesthete-cum-athlete Forrester). The season’s structure bothers me too; I’m tired of the play-off system but even more wearied by the seemingly blind acceptance with which it has been greeted by so many Gloucester supporters. I’m sad that I’ll never be able to salute my team as champions because finishing top means nothing and winning the championship final means even less to this old-fashioned saddo. Luckily in the Heineken Cup there is a trophy with gravitas and dignity and I find myself supporting these fixtures with added zeal. Sorry for such a negative posting. I’ll endeavour to snap out of my maudlin aspect in time for next week’s opener against those Tigers.

A Bunch of Posers

This month’s Uncut magazine contains a smashing little free booklet, a pamphlet containing clever quiz after clever quiz about music and film. The Beatles questions are really enjoyable and cunning and here is a brace of belters:

1. What are the two things that money can’t buy according to Beatles lyrics?

2. The Beatles mention three English towns and cities in their lyrics. What are they? Can you also name two American towns and cities they refer to in their songs?

I’ll try and remember to publish the answers soon. One of the English towns appears in the Liverpool beat combo’s best ever (in my humble opinion) popular song. That’s a clue. You can view my list of favourite Beatles songs here if you need to peek. I’d rather you didn’t though.

Law

One hears of fellows and females who win the national lottery, enter again and miraculously win a fortune for a second time. I can vaguely identify with this. Six or seven years ago I won a sort of lottery: I was selected, at random, to serve on a jury at Gloucester’s Crown Court and, lo!, an official letter has arrived demanding that I should do the same again this autumn. I am twice blessed. I loved the first occasion. It was like being part of a film or television drama with plots and sub-plots being acted out with witnesses, the accused, forlorn victims and thrusting legal personages all cascading in front of the bench and adding to the suspense and excitement. I took the role very seriously and debated the ins and outs of the case with real vigour in the jury room. I proved an earnest ‘Mr Liberal’ figure, keen to lead my rather intolerant colleagues – who would have hung their own grandmamas 'n' grandpapas at the drop of a hat I fancy – to consider any evidence that might prolong the fairly obvious call of ‘Guilty!’. I wonder what will happen this time.

Monkey Magic

I miss the Olympics. I admit my feelings have changed over the weeks. ‘Early doors’ I grew tired of the over-exposure of that little diving boy and didn’t warm to his synchronised antics; little else in the first week grabbed my attention and a soupcon of world-weary cynicism entered the psyche especially as we didn’t seem to winning a great deal. However, with a few British gold medals on the table, a large bandwagon bearing the legend ‘Jump on me!’ careered past and I leapt desperately ‘pon it. There was so much I loved watching and even that little diving boy won me over in the end. The single-mindedness and professionalism of our bicycling team proved, I found, utterly awe-inspiring; the daily quest on two wheels for gold by our lads and lasses was joyous to behold. The rowing was a thrill too and I salute those who wielded oars for Team GB and, ultimately, us. I swapped SMS texts with D last evening and we debated which of the nineteen British golds had satisfied the most. The Newent-raised fellow selected the controversial 400m scamperer Christine Ohuruogu and her epic sprint for glory, overtaking rivals galore on the home stretch. I am tempted to agree; this is a supreme athlete and she has now cracked, in the finest style, the elusive World and Olympic ‘double’. It is surely time for the issue of her missed drugs tests to be laid to rest for ever. My favourite gold medal was the last one claimed by our triumphant team by middleweight boxer James DeGale. This was a most exciting bout of pugilism. Our lad built up a seemingly unassailable lead of points which led to his Cuban challenger, Emilio Correa, fighting back in the most aggressive manner possible, landing shot after clumsy shot so that our hero was left holding on by his glove-clad fingertips at the end while I leapt about the front parlour in giddy sports ecstasy. Marvellous stuff.

And when you get the chance...

I do appreciate so-called ‘quality’ cinema and the latest Guildhall Arts Centre brochure indicates this; a variety of serious features has been energetically ticked by this keen punter, demonstrating a desire to go and watch artfully shot bio-pics, earnest documentaries, New Wave classics and low budget nuggets. One or two of these films might even be in a foreign language for heaven's sake. Having said all that, I have to confess that I visited the local multiplex picture house with my family earlier this week to view a piece of cinematic fluff, a lightweight load of old nonsense that I also happened to enjoy as much as any film I’ve seen for ages. I own up; I loved Mamma Mia, every single mad minute of it, every corny song and dance routine, every ridiculous plotline and twist. The story is paper-thin and is something to do with a wedding, some pressing paternity issues, lost love and all that malarkey. What I adored was the gorgeous Greek setting in front of which the likes of Pierce Brosnan, Meryl Streep (acting her bleeding socks off), Colin Firth and Julie Walters (playing Julie Walters), on a fairly regular basis, unexpectedly break into song, belting out with gusto galore an appropriate Abba classic that had something loosely to do with the current state of play with the wedding, the pressing paternity issues etc. For example, Streep runs a hotel and it’s a bit short of cash so she breaks into Money, Money, Money unapologetically; Walters, at the wedding feast, reckons one of the paternity issues blokes should take a chance on her romantically and, well, one can guess the rest. This was an unashamed feel-good feature and I admit I fell for its unsophisticated charms hook, line and sinker; the two hours flew by and I’m not too proud to state that another half an hour or so more would have been fine by me. After all, we didn’t get The Name of the Game, Knowing Me, Knowing You, The Day Before You Came or Eagle and I’m sure the plot could have been stretched even more tightly to allow for these favoured hits.

Try to win and suit your needs

The current issue of Mojo is a belter. Occasionally, my favoured journals produce an edition in which each and every article is resonant and crucial and September’s Mojo is to be acclaimed for its fine array of pieces. Two of its features highlight a pair (I can’t bring myself to type the word ‘brace’ again) of classic albums that are celebrating anniversaries this year and I’ve been revisiting, with no little relish, these recordings on my information pod. The Beatles’ eponymous classic double album, known by the masses as ‘The White Album’, is forty while Murmur, R.E.M.’s mumbled, melancholic masterpiece of a debut, was released five-and-twenty years ago.

I’d suggest there was a period in my life when I played Murmur four or five times a week, on my much-loved and battered old car stereo in my much-loved and battered old car. I would have been wearing desert boots and a plaid shirt. Listening to it again for the first time in ages and having lost some of my familiarity with its songs, I’m staggered how wondrous this long player sounds. Naturally, Perfect Circle exists as the most strikingly beautiful and haunting three and a half minutes in the Athens group’s canon but there are many other moments of greatness and splendour to appreciate. The Stipe fellow’s slanted and enchanted lyrics and, ahem, murmured vocalisations proffer proceedings a murky, dreamy quality with a barrage o’ off-kilter melodies and gee-tar hooks adding a folk-rocky atmosphere that remains irresistible. So many highlights. The first twenty-five seconds of Laughing, with its sparse percussive introduction, evocative and sudden vocal and chiming stringsmithery, is majestic. 9-9 is all Gang of Four austerity and angular menace, a compelling post-punk treasure while the whispered obliqueness of Pilgrimage soars and stuns. Funnily enough, the one song I can live without on Murmur is the opener and single, Radio Free Europe which, for this punter, possesses an over-produced clarity of sound and forceful nature that sits at odds with the understated subtleties of the other eleven numbers. It is a brilliant recording though, and for old time’s sake, I’m going to spin the blighter four or five times this week.

It was once fashionable to suggest that The White Album, if shorn of some of its ‘filler’, could have been one of the greatest single albums ever; it is now modish – and heartening – to notice a new school of thought ululating the proposition that the sprawling, untidy mess of genius, folly and fun should be celebrated for what it is: a hotch-potch of wonder and wit that English popular music has ne’er seen the like of before or since. This is not my most-played Beatles album – Revolver wins that accolade – but so many of these songs are firmly embedded in the old consciousness. For every number I could live without (Piggies, Honey Pie, Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except Me And My Monkey) there are a host of dazzling, clever and essential tracks that maybe I couldn’t. I guess my favourite song is Happiness Is A Warm Gun, a challenging cornucopia of magical moments linked together with aplomb and dexterity. I also adore the pastoral tenderness of Mother Nature’s Son, the fragile and poignant Julia, the lilting whimsy of Dear Prudence and the Nick Drakey acoustic gem, Blackbird. The White Album does appear in many of those Top Albums of All-Time lists and often makes the top ten. I don’t hold it in quite that level of acclaim but I’ve really welcomed its eclectic brew again and, while I know this sounds a bit shallow, I salute the fact that all songs (apart from the experimental musique concrete piece Revolution 9) are all roughly four minutes in length or shorter: one doesn’t have to wait too long for the next jewel.

Happy birthday both.

Party Fears Pesky

It wasn’t a totally negative experience at Green Man. We met some charming people there. At the Café on Thursday night, a group of fellows shared our table and fell laconically into conversation as we supped our pints o’ ale. They hailed from Blackburn and owned plenty of beards although their leader and talisman – name of Vic – was clean-shaven and debonair. My word, they knew their music: a brief mention of Sufjan Stevens and they were quoting obscure lyrics back at one, a fleeting recall of an underground lo-fi band led to them parrying back a brace of e’en more subversive acts. At a certain point I may have lied about owning an early Associates album but one had to try and hold one’s own somehow. The Blackburn boys were great company though and we continued to bump into them (mainly the non-hirsute Victor) throughout our brief sojourn. I salute them.

Less celebrated types frequented the area near our canvas abodes. The first night proved a disastrous non-sleeping marathon. I was awoken about midnight by a couple in the next tent playing music on a portable gramophone; the male partner launched into a long and involved anecdote about tyre pressures that had me silently weeping as I knew I’d struggle to slumber again. At half past three, a group of very drunken Mancunians arrived and started pitching tents near us, holding conversations that were as inane as they were loud. A middle-aged fellow known mysteriously as Pesky was the worst offender; his booming and meandering rants about the housing crisis and other issues had my blood boiling. I’m very easy-going but Pesky and his chums had me seething; I didn’t kip for a minute after that.

They run and hide their heads

Oh heck. What a pathetic display of muddy, ruddy wetness. As S and I discussed, when children it seemed all summers were hot and dominated by skies of dazzling blue and, as youths, festivals proved mainly sunny and unblemished by foul weather. What has gone wrong? Anyone would think the planet is in some way warming up causing meteorological conditions to become haphazard and unpredictable. I suggest that scientists start looking into this especially as, for the second year in a row, the Green Man Festival has been ruined by the wettest rain known to humanity. Friday, it has to be said, was rather fine and S and I caught some decent music. I rather enjoyed the shoe-gazing, nu-gazing intensity of Norfolk’s very own Sennen while, in the evening, the heavy rock and scuzzy Sturm und Drang of Canada’s Black Mountain had my head banging ever-so-slightly. Alela Diane possesses a sweet voice too.

Saturday was a rotter. Grrr. It poured and poured and our spirits sank into the mud. A few hardy souls huddled at the front of the main stage for the raw-boned and idiosyncratic School of Language and I appreciated their fine furrow, ploughed with unusual and quirky angularity. We didn’t do much else. I watched North Sea Radio Orchestra in the Folkey blinking Dokey Tent and they were adequate only. They lacked warmth and were a tad dull. Happily we did approach and get to chat to the remarkable and amiable Jonny Trunk – a hero of S – in the Rumpus Room, the large DJ marquee. This fellow, dressed to kill, runs the eclectic and marvellous Trunk Records. Last year, he was DJ-ing at the festival; this time round he was entertaining the kids on the site with the charms of 1960s Music and Movement recordings. Despite all the best acts appearing on the Sunday, we left for Merrie Gloucester on Saturday night. We’d had enough. Sitting shivering in a tent on a murky evening listening to a million raindrops thudding into the canvas knowing that even a shortish walk to go and get some food would leave one utterly sodden proved too much; we legged it. I’m really gutted that I missed The National but, and I know it sounds as square as square, I’m too long in the tooth and too cosseted by modern comforts to be able to cope with such rank conditions. How disappointing.

Here is a brace-plus-one of photographic images.

1. S on Thursday afternoon: Blue sky, green field, pleasing view, optimistic vibrations, innocence, joy.

2. Friday. Sennen nu-gaze for non-crusties energetically. Footwear: model’s own.

3. Coats, cagoules, capes, caps and creative compositions from School of Language.

A Hardy (Country) Annual

The Cole family has returned to Gloucester, quietly and away from the media glare, having relished a sunny summer holiday in picturesque Dorset. We stayed in a bonny little village called Lulworth and from our abode we could walk to three splendid beaches, Lulworth Cove, Man of War and Durdle Door. The latter has a remarkable sea arch but gorgeous aspects were to be enjoyed at each coastal area. Dorset is a rather beautiful, unspoilt county full of thatched cottages and verdant, sweeping rural views that reminded us a little of Ireland. I’m glad we went. It’s nice to be home though.

Look above for some views:

1. On Chesil Beach, literally

2. Durdle Door

3. View from Maiden Castle, a remarkable Iron Age hill fort near Dorchester