Frank

It was wryly noted last evening that a major difference exists between the Guildhall Arts Centre cinema and the Cineworld Multiplex near the Docks. Yes, the screens are larger at the Cineworld but you can’t take a steamin’ mug of tea or a frothin’ pint of Guinness in with you like at the Guildhall. And the seats are more comfortable at Cineworld too. But we knew that already. It dawned on me that at the Guildhall the whole audience remains seated at the end of the film and reverentially views the credits, nodding unselfconsciously and sagely on learning the name of the best boy or gaffer; at the Cineworld, the whole ruddy auditorium is emptying within a second of the merest hint of an end credit. I found this a fairly interesting sociological observation and I reckon it indicates two very separate film-going groups.

Anyway, The Coles were out watching Brüno last evening. I must admit I laughed like a drain throughout this feature which deserves every year of its 18 certificate. A bit like its star Sacha Baron Cohen’s previous vehicle, Borat, this film is essentially a series of set-pieces woven together into a loose narrative, in this case a gay Austian fashionista’s feckless attempts to seek fame and fortune in Los Angeles and other varied parts of the United States and, indeed, the wider world. It’s a churlish criticism to suggest that Baron Cohen seeks easy targets but it proves all-too-easy for the film-makers to discover rabid homophobia within redneck hunting groups, cage fighting fans, the fundamentalist Christian community and the military. This is of no real matter. The situations conjured up are so clever, so painfully inventive and, at times, so dangerous and risky that to censure the producers for setting traps for only the most gullible and stupid is difficult to justify. Importantly for a comedy, Brüno, is very, very funny; the character’s nuances, both physical and vocal, are beautifully observed, the dialogue, often adlibbed, is exquisite while the ideas which bombard the viewer (extremely graphically at times) are first class and consistently hilarious. Basically, if you want to vigorously express amusement and, simultaneously, witness a bunch of barely evolved dolts looking pitifully dim-witted then this film might be for you.

Rob me a colour, make the sound duller, but never go away

Word reaches these ears that new Prefab Sprout product will be hitting the record shops this autumn. The album is called, with admirable understatement, Let’s Change The World With Music and I’m sure it will enrich lives throughout the shires of Merrie England. I recommend this group to all hipsters. I suppose the starting point for anyone investigating Prefab Sprout would be the 1985 classic long player, Steve McQueen which contains the peerless When Love Breaks Down and the delicate and almost fragrant Appetite. Howe’er, other LPs by the combo are even more treasured by this punter. The 1984 debut album Swoon remains a key component in the Cole record collection; it is oblique, wordy, difficult and takes a good half dozen plays to ‘get’ but once it’s under the skin it stays there. Swoon is an old and treasured friend, purchased after hearing the opening track Don’t Sing on The Tube. I salute it. Protest Songs is a fabulous album too, a whimsical and breathy collection of songs full of warmth and joy. And Andromeda Heights is a favourite as well; any punter requiring a superior collection of sumptuous pop delirium should seek out this underrated and almost forgotten record. This is an eccentric, arty and enthralling group. This is an eccentric, arty and enthralling group.

And our talk was old and dust would flow

I salute the England cricket team. I confess I was despairing at close of play last evening. A not unexpected declaration had set the intrepid Australians a massive 522 to win the second Test Match but a tremendous sixth wicket partnership between the spirited Clark and Haddin had propelled the outfit from the Antipodes to an overnight score of 300-odd. The odds still favoured the home team but one should always fear the nuggety manner of the Southern Hemisphere side. At my pessimistic worst, I was convinced the Aussies would cruise to victory this morning. Unable to face the torture of the telecast, I hastened to a local supermarché for the first hour of play and committed myself to buy-one-get-one-free offers and the like while the English bowlers did their best at Headquarters. Nervously tuning into Test Match Special in the store’s car park proved a happy occasion as the two key batsmen who had started the morning had both been dismissed. On returning home I was able to watch the giddy scenes at Lord’s as the talismanic Flintoff and the wily Swann mopped up the last three wickets. England go one-up with three to play. This is the greatest sporting event in the world.

Hazy cosmic jive

Ok, it wasn’t Citizen Kane or Battleship Potemkin but the feature film entitled simply Star Trek proved an unexpectedly pleasurable treat at Gloucester’s impressive Guildhall Arts Centre last evening. It was one of those prequel things and not, I venture, based on a true story. The grateful audience learned how the youthful Kirk, Spock, Bones, Uhuru and the rest of the merry company came to work together on the good ship Enterprise. This aspect of the film was rather charming and worked well; the actors (including local hero Simon Pegg portraying Scotty with élan and vigour) developed their characters with rewarding subtlety and warmth. The main plot concerned, er, black hole devices, magnetic fields, time travel and nasty aliens called Romulans and was both reasonably easy to understand (except the time travelling bit) and remarkably pleasing on the eye. The two hours raced by. There was a happy ending. An infinitive was split. Star dates were ululated. Iconic tunics were worn. Engines were given all they’ve got. Concepts were decreed ‘logical’. Beaming-up went on gleefully. And phasers were set to ‘Stun’. Marvellous.

Strung out in heavens high, hitting an all-time low

I shall tune in and watch the start of the second Ashes Test on the merry morrow but, and I warn them publicly, the English team cannot bank on my unconditional support if they continue to play as inadequately as they did in last week’s first rubber. The draw was fortunate indeed. After all, the earnest yet unspectacular Australians managed to take nineteen English wickets while the home bowlers toiled mundanely to take a mere ‘alf dozen in return. Twenty wickets are required to vanquish in a five day Test and I’m unsure whether in Stuart Broad (although he possesses a fine haircut) or either of our spinners we possess the artillery to bundle out sufficient Antipodean batters. I’d like Stephen ‘Steve’ Harmison to return to the eleven. I am convinced the Aussies would prefer him not to be in the team; the lofty Durham fellow can bowl wi’ real pace and venom and we require his unpredictable sturm und drang at Lord’s. Most of my ire from Cardiff is reserved for the hugely talented but irresponsible Kevin Pieterson. Where the pragmatic and hard-nosed wearers-of-the-green-baggy batted with guts and drive and determination, Pieterson chose to put personal glory ahead of any team ethic. His attempted sweep (resulting in the simplest of catches) in the first innings was embarrassing, his decision to flamboyantly leave a delivery which then knocked his stump clean out in the second was simply foolish. The ruthless and indomitable Aussie skipper, Ponting, would have attempted neither stroke (or lack of one); for this fellow the team comes before the individual and I hope that this Pieterson chap soon grasps the importance of constructing a major innings not for himself but for the wider good. Despite these moans and groans, I’m right behind the team and excited by its upcoming challenges. As Michael Parkinson declared on the Today Programme earlier, this is The Ashes and it remains the greatest cricketing contest on the planet.

Volume

I rattled through another book today. John Healy’s The Grass Arena is, I’ll have you know, a Penguin Modern Classic. It’s one of those new-fangled autobiographies but is not for the fainthearted. Essentially, Healy tells a tale of his hugely violent and horrifying childhood which unsurprisingly leads to years and years of alcohol abuse, criminality, brutality and, interspersed with numerous spells in forbidding prisons, the unrelenting misery of living rough on the unforgiving streets of this nation’s capital. The ‘grass arena’ of the title refers to the parks where Healy and an ever-changing cast of vagrants, no-hopers and vicious felons meet, drink, pop pills and inflict mayhem on each other and society as a whole. It’s a wretched and miserable picture but Healy’s honest and fascinating prose renders the whole sorry tale compelling. There are glimpses of hope throughout the narrative. A successful fledging boxing career and a brief sojourn in the army provide glimmers of optimism but alcohol and an inability to conform utterly ruin the fellow’s chances. As it is, an unexpected addiction to the game of chess, learnt in prison, saves Healy. His dependence on the intricacies of the black and white squares replaces a reliance on liquor; remarkably Healy becomes a hugely successful and skilful player and, although never fully accepted in the rather middle class and traditional world of club chess, relishes the cut and thrust of match play. A discovery of yoga helps the author put his alcoholic past even further behind him and, although this is not implicitly mentioned in the book, a flair for writing completes the journey from complete desolation to something approaching peaceful and uneventful normality. Healy now lives frugally in a London council flat. He’s lucky to be alive, frankly. His story is principally bleak but, ultimately, one of courage and accomplishment.

Check the guy's track record

I’m looking forward to relaxing for a while. I am now on leave for a number of weeks and it’s pleasing to ease into a less hectic way of life for a change.

I completed Renegade, Mark E. Smith’s memoirs, yesterday. It proved an unusual read, more an off-the-cuff monologue than a traditional autobiography although there is a roughly chronological sequence of events to explore. The sections dealing with The Fall front man’s childhood are poignant and I suppose, for a fan of the band, the sections where Smith discusses group members and the merits of various long players are worthwhile. There are a few too many incoherent rants for my liking though. Everyone and everything from the Match of the Day team to New Labour falls victim to Smith’s snarling pithiness while praise is seldom won although, surprisingly for a Manchester City supporter, a deep admiration for both Sir Alex Ferguson and George Best is displayed on more than one occasion. Renegade is a rambling read. It’s entertaining but I would have appreciated more structure and more substance.

There's a splinter in your eye and it reads "react"

There’s a cracking article about R.E.M.’s bewitching sophomore long player, Reckoning, in this month’s Uncut Magazine. I recall plenty of celebratory prose saluting the 25th anniversary of the band’s mighty debut, Murmur, last year (not least on these earnest pages) and, verily, a year on, the silver-jubilee-celebrating Reckoning seems to be getting the same retrospective, under-the-microscope treatment. It’s my favourite R.E.M. album. It’s a little less murky and mystical then Murmur and I appreciate the crisp sound and the cascade of brittle pop majesty that bombards the listener. A melancholic air pervades my favoured tracks. The haunting Letter Never Sent and Camera are tender and evocative mini-masterpieces of regret and lament while the introspective Time After Time (Annelise) and the plaintive So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry) convey similar sentiments; these are beautiful songs. More upbeat treats lurk elsewhere. Harborcoat is a rousing opener, full of swagger and lo-fi elegance, Seven Chinese Brothers is an arty yet melodic slice of idiosyncrasy while the powerful Pretty Persuasion remains an indie gem, full of melody and guitar-led bliss. I recommend Reckoning wi’ no little zest. I note that each of the next four years shall herald twenty-fifth birthdays for the group’s other early-period tours de force (Fables of the Reconstruction, Lifes Rich Pageant, Document and Green) and I look forward to reflecting sagely on each of these wondrous works.