You know this scene is very humdrum

The Coles went to the nearish and notable city of Bristol on Monday and packed plenty in; a monumental Chinese meal and a trip to @Bristol proved particular crowd pleasers. Personally, it was merry to shop in Fopp, my favoured music store chain which has an outlet at the bottom of Park Street. To be honest, I could have spent longer in there as racks and racks of utterly tempting treats costing as little as 3 or 5 British quids were beckoning me brazenly. I ended up purchasing Our Favourite Shop by The Style Council (as I only read glowing reports of this long player) and a Brazilian post-punk recording by the esteemed 1980s combo As Mercenarias called, rather apocalyptically, The Beginning of the End of the World. I quite like investigating Brazilian records; I have a theory that you can choose a genre (1960s psychedelia, synth-pop, funk, post-punk) and the canny South Americans were producing incredible variants on what their earnest British and American counterparts were crafting. They can play association football a bit too. The As Mercenarias album is fine but a bit shouty and hectic; I prefer my post-punk to convey mystery and gloom and an existential otherness.

Talking of post-punk (this isn’t thrown together, you realise), my favourite Fopp acquisition was a remarkably interesting tome, Totally Wired: Post-Punk Interviews and Overviews by Simon Reynolds. Essentially, this book is a companion volume to the splendid and indispensable Rip It Up but, instead of scholarly prose about that wonderful musical movement, consists of countless delightful interviews with key post-punk movers and shakers. There are too many highlights to mention but, as ever, anything coming out of Green Gartside’s mouth is worth listening to and I liked learning that all he listened to during his youth were recordings of John Peel shows which he’d play again and again during the week. Edwyn Collins wryly looks back at Orange Juice and is agreeably pithy; Steven Morris examines with a refreshing candour the myth of Joy Division and Ian Curtis; Phil Oakey scrutinises early Human League and the impact of sudden fame; Andy Gill, despite Gang of Four’s serious and stern image, emerges as self-deprecating and humorous; and Alan Rankine warmly observes the flawed genius of his Associates band-mate Billy Mackenzie. Totally Wired is a tremendous read and a glorious reminder of, in my opinion, the greatest, most challenging and important field of music that these shores have fostered and nurtured.

What are the implications of the club unit?

I’ve used the last day or three to view (on Digital Versatile Disc) a couple of feature films that for one reason or another I missed when the local and outstanding Guildhall Arts Centre proffered them recently. Both motion pictures possessed an association football theme.

The Damned United was based on the wondrous novel by David Peace and focussed on the infamous forty-four days that Brian Clough managed Leeds United in 1974. I preferred the book. Its pages successfully portrayed the fragility of Clough, his drinking, his insecurities, his reliance on the canny and level-headed Peter Taylor, his uncontrollable ego, his strutting arrogance and his undoubted genius. The feature proved mightily entertaining though. The remarkable casting needs to be saluted. The key characters of, inter alia, Don Revie, Billy Bremner and Taylor were represented accurately and wittily while Michael Sheen’s portrayal of Clough was utterly remarkable and completely mesmerizing. I noted and appreciated the film’s successful attempts to sum up soccer in the 1970s with its complex concoction of brutality and bewitching skills, muddy fields of play, the peeling paint of the stadia and array of multifaceted characters on and off the proverbial park. The Damned United (movie) was a pleasure, an agreeable and nostalgic glimpse at a footballing era that lacked the finesse and moneyed (excuse the pun) sheen of today’s sport but remains forty-four times more interesting.

Looking For Eric was tremendously pleasurable. I was concerned that veteran director Ken Loach had crossed the line into a rather gimmicky realm by making a film where the central character, downtrodden postman Eric Bishop, enjoys an imaginary relationship with retired footballing genius Eric Cantona. However, the two interact beautifully as the Frenchman offers up philosophical gems and more earthy maxims in advising the hapless Bishop to face up to a series of dismal circumstances. The postman’s relationships with his ex-wife, his stepsons, his daughter and his tight-knit colleagues are examined with warmth and intelligence and glimpses into a somewhat bleak life are handled tenderly and, while all the social-realist boxes are ticked, there are enough happy outcomes to warm the hardest of hearts. The interplay between a host of beautifully painted characters is exquisitely and subtly created and this viewer found the camaraderie and community spirit of Bishop’s friends especially striking. Several stunning set-pieces raise laughter, arouse fear or anguish and provoke thought while the final scenes, vivid and unusual, conclude the narrative really satisfyingly. Looking For Eric is an understated and lovingly constructed nugget and I recommend it willingly.

While my dreams decay

I don’t want to dwell too long on last night’s rugby union. My favoured club Gloucester appeared devoid of ideas and inspiration and lost heavily to a Wasps outfit that appeared mediocre and below par itself. It was, by a margin, the worst Wasps side I’ve seen at Kingsholm and they had the city on toast. Alas, I’m finding myself more and more adrift from the Gloucester club and am beginning to question why I continue to proffer it my support. Almost everything that I loved about the Kingsholm culture has either disappeared or been dramatically diluted as the years have passed. Back in the day I relished the genuinely witty and passionate crowd, heralded the committed, brave, steely (and defiantly local) characters on the park, and soaked up the history, the heritage, the uniqueness, the insouciant us-against-themness of the scene. What brings me to the terraces nowadays apart from force of habit? On Friday, the lack of imagination displayed by the players was overwhelming. I don’t doubt that several of the team were proud to wear the colours and demonstrated significant endeavour and enterprise but, alas, a tangible lack of game plan and a dubious selection of key players out of position stymied the city club’s attempts to win the fixture.

I envy the Saracens club from the south-east and I ne’er thought I’d type those words. They possess a coach with true vision, intelligence and an ability to think outside the box (our leader has an inability to think outside the box-kick) and has transformed an underachieving rabble into a real force in English rugby. The Gloucester club could really do with a Brendan Ventner; anyone with imagination or verve or creativity would be an improvement on the current regime, a team that dominated last season’s failure-dominated management structure but yet still, somehow, clings to power. I can see this proving a watershed season for my favoured team. Relegation is certainly possible and, I confess, an outcome that may not haunt this scribe too much. A season in the second tier did not seem to do Harlequin FC or Northampton any harm and this supporter would welcome the chance to rebuild the club’s infrastructure, shed the overpaid dross that permeates our squad, rediscover some of the values that drew me to Kingsholm in the first place, and allow a new and lively coaching panel (led by the ebullient Mark Mapletoft) to instil wit and excitement into our play. As things stand I care less and less with every defeat and I’m becoming worryingly laissez-faire about the present woes. I’m no recent arrival or fair weather fan and the organisation should note my increasing disappointment with and, sadly, lack of interest in a club I’ve supported for over thirty years.

Tonguehorns belched fire

Here is the Top Ten and I’m rather pleased with it. There’s a bit of dance music, some esoteric British aptitude/attitude and experimentalism, plenty of guitars and plenty of synthesisers, some hearts worn on sleeves and some curious meanderings that keep you guessing. These are recordings I return to again and again, old friends and worthy cohorts. I could cope quite happily with just these ten LPs for company and ne’er feel bored or unchallenged. Deciding which Sufjan Stevens album was my favourite proved tricky but the sheer class and majesty of Michigan won through.

1. Sufjan Stevens – Michigan

More breathy and less vigorous than Illinois. An understated classic teeming with subtle glimpses into ordinary lives and humble routines. Makes trailer parks and K-Mart jobs appear utterly mesmerizing. Contains countless unreservedly astounding and beautiful songs. Spine-tingling and essential.

2. Sufjan Stevens – Illinois

A colossal kitchen sink is dropped on the Prairie State from a considerable height; the resulting blast offers significant aural treasures. Songs about serial killers, superheroes and sightings of extraterrestrial craft intersperse with more personal reflections on death and self-discovery. Striking American songcraft dominates every second. Every home should possess this recording and play it at least fortnightly.

3. Midlake – The Trials of Van Occupanther

A delectable and rather unfashionable collection of songs transporting the listener into a strange other-world of isolated communities, hunting trips, hardship and youthful brides. Authentically bewitching.

4. Wilco – Yankee Hotel Foxtrot

Perfect songs galore. Uncompromising and belligerent and challenging and tuneful and gritty and poignant: a grateful audience genuflects.

5. Sufjan Stevens – Seven Swans

Weighty and reflective. Endorses the ‘less is more’ maxim with pared down arrangements supporting introspective musings and spiritual contemplations. Utterly beautiful.

6. Calexico – Feast Of Wire

A spectacular aural trip into sun-baked one horse towns and scorpion-infested desert-scapes. Evocative and resonant. Big, big music as wide and as awesome and as sweeping as a Monument Valley sunset.

7. Radiohead – Kid A

A guitar-free zone and convincing evidence that electronic music can proffer moving and emotional sentiments. Challenging yet reassuring; obtuse yet charismatic; otherworldly yet recognizable.

8. Scritti Politti – White Bead, Black Beer

Homemade treats. Tender, delicate and haunting lyrical offerings and soaring melodies. A plush pleasure from start to finish and - important this - a grower that throws up new hooks, new ideas with each spin.

9. Ryan Adams - Gold

Was playing this fellow’s Heartbreaker this morning and experiencing pangs of guilt that it hadn’t made the thirty. Gold deserves this high placing though. A storming and sprawling set of brooding and/or bombastic belters.

10. LCD Soundsystem – Sound of Silver

Sardonic wit and acerbic knowingness gleefully smothered in big beat beauty. Glorious songs about cultural differences, growing old and general world-weariness with the catchiest IDM rampaging in the background. All killer, no filler from the coolest man on the planet.

Green Moths Shivered

Here are the twentieth to the eleventh finest long playing records of the past decade (in the opinion of your humble host). As Radiohead crooned – but far too early to qualify for this list – ‘No surprises’. The Top Ten follows soon. Blazin' Squad, Scouting for Girls, Maroon 5, Does It Offend You Yeah? inter alia wait with bated breath.

11. Joan As Police Woman – Real Life
As 15. but wi’ a touch more sass and sizzle.

12. The Go-Betweens – Oceans Apart
A sumptuous farewell from the Antipodean Lennon and McCartney. The final contribution to a most peerless body of work. Dripping with wit and wonder and wisdom and wistfulness.

13. Beck – Modern Guilt
Elegant, breathy, neo-psychedelic ambience. A dazzling and challenging sonic gem.

14. Wilco – A Ghost Is Born
Distortion, nods to Krautrock, euphoria. Vital.

15. Joan as Police Woman – To Survive
Sultry perfection shimmering with coolness and melody and assurance.

16. Vampire Weekend – Vampire Weekend
Unashamedly smart, knowing and cerebral. More hooks than a very, very large cloakroom.

17. Boards of Canada – Geogaddi
Not for the fainthearted. Sinister and dark electronica as far removed from ‘chill-out’ as possible. An uneasy yet compelling listening experience. A disturbing masterpiece.

18. White Stripes – White Blood Cells
The wounded and obtuse cousin of 20. Percussive hammer blows underpinning growling guitars and frenzied vocals. A manic pop thrill.

19. Blur – Think Tank
A bewitching collection. Something original, refreshing and challenging reaching the ears every three and a half seconds.

20. The Strokes – Is This It
Skinny ties, Converse All-Stars, cheekbones, attitude, cool. Perfect pop song following perfect pop song following perfect pop song.

Midges Hovered

Was it really almost ten years since I cowered, trembling, expecting the Millennium Bug to cause planes to fall from the sky and nuclear power stations to go into meltdown? Where did that decade go? Whoosh... There’s been some wondrous music produced in that time period though. Having pored, brow furrowed, over Uncut’s 150 albums of the decade, I’ve drawn up a longlist of my own which, over the past few days, I’ve snipped away at and rearranged lovingly. Twenty or so (it has to be said) absolute belters have been discarded and I have constructed my Top Thirty favourite long players released since 1st January 2000. I have deliberately ignored any 2009 recordings; they are perhaps too fresh in the memory to analyse too minutely and, besides, I have the traditional album of the year to decide upon yet. This current year’s favoured sounds will be debated in December.

I shall announce my Top Thirty in three stages. Today I 'umbly present numbers thirty to twenty-one.

21. Kate Bush - Aerial
Whoops. Only three albums on the list are by womenfolk. Apologies to da sisters. Can you guess the other two, gentle reader? This is a clever-clever and compelling listen. Eccentric and eventful.

22. Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – Master And Everyone
See 25. More of the same but equally as inspiring.

23. The National – Alligator
Velvety tones mask dark subjects. Uplifting melancholia for hipsters.

24. Richard Hawley – Coles Corner
Epic and soaring songsmithery. Big voice and bags of charm.

25. Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – The Letting Go
Breathy acoustic joy. Fabulous backing vocals. Timeless loveliness. Beards.

26. Bon Iver – For Emma, Forever Ago
A surprise hit. Slow-burning classics of love and loss. Deer harmed in making of this album.

27. Beck – Sea Change

Nick Drake time-travels to 2002, has a bit of a haircut, and records fragile, wistful masterpiece.

28. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky
Fabulous first three songs followed by other gems. Cultured and elegant rock music.

29. Boards of Canada – The Campfire Headphase
Superb title. Electronic pastoral splendour with – shock! – guitars.

30. Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes
Harmonic and contemplative beauty. Echoes of Laurel Canyon at its finest.

Jake Boer witnessed in rugby crowd

I joined A at Kingsholm Stadium last evening; a last minute decision to attend the Gloucester club’s ‘A’ team fixture against counterparts from the Harlequin FC tempted me away from the warmth and comfort of the front parlour. I haven’t been to one of these fixtures for a while. I used to trot along to most of the old style United matches a few years ago and enjoyed spotting players on the way up and players on the way down – there were often several from both category. I made the fundamental error last evening (as did the noble A) of expecting to position myself in my usual spot in the popular side of the ground. As it happens, the entire crowd were given no choice; all sat in the new South Stand. It was comfortable and pleasing to witness the action from a different spot although the pillars are large and do block significant areas of the pitch. We ended up in front of the said columns and it was merry. The match itself was fairly uninspiring. Gloucester, despite being under the cosh, somehow contrived to turn round 14-7 in the lead but the more streetwise, well-drilled and, well, imposing visitors pulled ahead deservedly and comprehensively in the second half. Nobody caught the eye too dramatically but Freddie Burns showed a few classy touches, the centre Tim Molenaar occasionally ran with abrasiveness and intent while the home team’s openside, James Davies (I think) was busy and prominent in the face of a dominant Quins pack. Young Jonny May took his try nicely. It was pleasing to witness so many first team players in the seats supporting the fellows. The mighty Jake Boer was there, in earnest conversation with another legend of the blindside, Peter ‘Pete’ Glanville and ‘twas reassuring to consider the South African talisman is now, happily, back where he belongs.

Was it really murder? Were you just pretending?

Verily, gentle reader, it has proved a busy weekend. Last night proved late and giddy; a colleague’s wedding near the Welsh border entertained and diverted. This fellow is wan and delicate as a result. On Friday night – and it seems like ages ago to be honest – the crack squad of S, A and your humble host cascaded down to Bristol to attend a musical concert.

Girls were playing at a new venue for me, The Cooler Club on the mighty and pleasing Park Street and, I’ll tell you what, I haven’t enjoyed a gig as much for a long while. Girls aren’t, er, girls but an uber-hip collective of Californian fellows of varying hair length who proffer woozy and wistful and wondrous treats, drenched in melody and Beach Boys-esque harmonic brightness. Girls might be lo-fi. Their new album named, er, Album is currently the most-spun disc at Cole headquarters and this recording’s exotic slices of pop perfection sounded glorious in a tiny club and from a low stage. The intimacy of the recital took S and me back to the glory days when we’d check out up-an’-coming acts like Pixies and My Bloody Valentine in similar small arenas. Girls are slightly shambolic and lack the sheen and the tightness that arrive with rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal but they have tunes galore and it was charming and fascinating to witness a triumphant and very loud noise a couple of nights ago.

The vinyl front...here...

Well, the new scheme to set up a vinyl listening area is gathering pace. Earlier, during a visit to a local supermarket store, I purchased a home cinema surround system which I constructed with sagacity before plugging in my turntable. It sounds wonderful. Ironically, perhaps, the first song I blasted out of my new speakers was the sublime It’s Better This Way by The Associates from the peerless Sulk long player. I’ve also been spinning - literally, pop-pickers - some Go-Betweens and some Fall 33 and a third treats. The plan is to buy some ‘new’ vinyl soon. I browsed the racks in the city’s numerous charity stores yesterday and will begin my collection in earnest during the half term holidays. I expect Stroud or Cheltenham might have a few treasures hidden away in the rear of their Age Concerns and Oxfams. As I mentioned recently, I don’t really want any brand new products or recent releases but am keen to snaffle some old recordings, things I wouldn’t normally think of owning. A Glen Campbell Greatest Hits album caught this eye and I warmly held a Tony Bennett recording in the Mind shop which I contemplated owning. I may return.

And when a train goes by it's such a sad sound...

Gloucester’s narrow victory against on Friday against a limited and pretty ordinary Newport/Gwent Dragons collective was barely deserved. A late Nicky Robinson penalty snatched the spoils for the home side but the crowd filed out of the Kingsholm arena muted and with a hollow sensation that this season could prove long and arduous. It seemed as if Gloucester were fielding a scratch fifteen; any evidence of a team ethic was well hidden and it proved frustrating to witness a tangible lack of cohesion, passion and skill from my favoured side. I confess I look back to April 2003 and wonder what has gone so terribly wrong since then. The Powergen Cup winning side contained player after player that the club has emphatically failed to replace. The likes of Boer, Paramore, Forrester, Woodman, Vickery, Roncero, Gomarsall, Delport and, even, Mercier would have added grit, guile and class to Friday’s rabble. They are missed. Without players of that quality the club is heading ever downwards. I would also suggest that a coach with the wisdom and nous of Nigel Melville is equally as missed. The taciturn and over-pragmatic Ryan proved a barely adequate replacement for Melville, while all I hear from Brian Redpath are clichés and manager-speak. I don’t detect a hint of vision or strategy or inspiration beyond the obvious. Part of me would like some of the club’s highest earning players to depart at the end of the season and the resulting surplus spent on a visionary coach with a hard-nosed back-up staff who can construct a squad of hungry, zestful and talented youngsters underpinned by an experienced backbone of canny and proven performers. As things stand too many of our athletes are below par and straining to attain satisfactory status.

But when the music is loud, we all get down

The Cult proved a blast on Thursday night. It was pleasing to chalk up a new venue - Wolverhampton’s Civic Hall – and reassuring to realise how close said auditorium is to my home city of Merrie Gloucester. The concert showcased 1985’s classic Love album and the hits came thick and fast. Naturally, a highlight was the seminal She Sells Sanctuary but Nirvana, Big Neon Glitter and Phoenix all rocked triumphantly. Well-chosen and interesting video images accompanied the singing and the playing (being a champion of the smaller venue, I’m not used to all that multimedia malarkey) although at times the bleedin’ obvious was stated: during Rain there were some arty rain images, a wolf and a moon featured heavily during Brother Wolf, Sister Moon while the gathered crowd gasped at a montage of revolutionaries during Revolution. The band was tight and loud and cranked it up to eleven. The lead vocalist Ian Astbury was adorned with a Jim Morrison-esque beard and flowing locks; he spoke in an American drawl which was surprising for man born and raised in the Merseyside region. He was a bit silly. Billy Duffy, on the other hand, was a down to earth gentleman with his flat northern vowels and affable nature evident on the few occasions he addressed the throng. His guitar playing was fabulous; I’m not really a rock dude but I rated Duffy’s forceful and persuasive, er, axe-work. Some of the audience were old enough to know better; Gothic embellishments and styling are suitably distasteful at twenty but appear frankly ridiculous over the age of forty. Yuck.

CL

Uncut Magazine produced its 150th edition this month and celebrated with a list (‘Not another one!’ I hear certain hepcats sob) of the finest, in its opinion, 150 long playing albums of the first decade of the twenty-first century. Perhaps it was the impending end of the ‘noughties’ that prompted this register of recordings. Anyhow, it’s interesting enough although, not unexpectedly, a few of the decisions are open to debate. The list, which can be viewed here, contains no less than seven albums associated with Jack White and proffers respectful nods (perhaps a few too many?) to several old stagers (Dylan, Bowie, Waits, Cohen, Young, Thompson, Cash, Wilson). I’m disappointed that Sufjan Stevens’ Michigan or Illinois albums weren’t placed higher and that no room was found for the young prince of popular music’s bewitching Seven Swans. The wrong Go-Betweens long player was selected; Oceans Apart is a far more enjoyable and essential listen than the (admittedly very lovely) The Friends of Rachel Worth. There is quite a Wilco love-in (no bad thing) but I was surprised that Yankee Hotel Foxtrot wasn’t that combo’s highest placed effort and that A Ghost is Born was placed as high as third in the roster. I’ll think of my Top Ten of the decade soon or at least before the end of the year.

Theres a destination a little up the road from the habitations and the towns we know

I thought Wild Beasts were superb last night. S, A and I embarked on a noble and brave quest to journey from the calm and charm of our GL postcodes to the edgy city streets of Bristol and the fabulous venue known simply as the Thekla. It was fine to view such a compelling and original pop group in a compact and atmospheric arena. Wild Beasts provide epic, sweeping soundscapes utilising a persuasive combination of voices; the thrusting falsetto of Hayden Thorpe complements the croony, Scott Walkery tones of Tom Fleming earnestly and well. The songs from the band’s latest long player, Two Dancers, are elegiac, magisterial and, well, big and the small stage and the wonderful sound of the Thekla embellished these well-honed slices of art perfectly. Highlights included an imposing All The King’s Men and a striking Hooting And Hollering. The haircuts were splendid too; I particularly enjoyed the guitarist Ben Little’s angular quiff. This is an unusual group with real presence. The new album is packed with ostentatious treasures and it was merry to witness this young collection of hepcats proffering their delightful wares with such energy, wit and aptitude.

I note that little is happening gig-wise at the Gloucester Guildhall this autumn and this disappoints. I am pleased to report that tickets have been obtained for a couple of Bristol concerts though and I look forward to seeing The Fall and Girls soon. I am off to Wolverhampton on Thursday evening to witness The Cult showcasing their lively Love LP and I am happy to revisit my youth for an hour or so. I’m tempted by the tasteful and melodic Grizzly Bear at Bristol’s Anson Rooms in November too.

I made a compilation CD last night to play to my chums as we travelled on that Holy Trinity of motorways (M5, M4, M32) towards our recital. The song titles spelled out ‘Wild Beasts Thekla’ (I had a bit of time on my hands yesterday) and it was engaging to watch my comrades trying to guess each song from its intro and second-guessing what my next selection might be. I publish my setlist for posterity above.

A place we saw the lights turn low; Jigsaw jazz and the get-fresh flow

I am vaguely planning a scheme. I have loads of vinyl upstairs, long players galore that have not felt the delicate touch of a stylus upon their subtle grooves for years and years. Having said that, I’m not sure I want to play much of it. Plenty of it has been replaced by the new Compact Disc format or the even newer MPEG-Audio Layer 3 files. And plenty of it, it pains me to state, I have no great yearning to play anymore. My eighteen year old alter ego would have scoffed should you have remarked to him (perhaps as part of a science fictionesque time-travelling experiment) that one day there would no longer be any love in his heart for The Smiths but that’s the way it is. I purchased every Smiths recording on the day it was released for several years but, despite an occasional frisson of excitement when I hear This Charming Man, Hand In Glove or What Difference Does It Make? on the wireless, I no longer yearn for this combo’s numbers. I guess the same could be said for a few groups. Time and age have dulled my affection.

What’s my scheme then? I have a turntable and have today placed it (after giving it a ruddy good clean) in the summer house at the bottom of the garden. I’m going to get some speakers and turn this horticulturally-based space into a designated vinyl area. I’m tempted not to play any of my old vinyl but to start building a new collection from - excuse the pun - scratch. I don’t want to buy anything I can’t get on CD or MP3 as it is very convenient to play stuff I really want and admire and dig on my iPod or on the lounge’s hi-fi system. I scoured Gloucester’s charity shops this morning and browsed the vinyl on sale. There were of heaps of easy listening recordings that I’d quite like owning, lots of 80s synth pop and plenty of other so-out-it’s-in treasures. I sense that I only – please excuse the pun again – scratched the surface of what is available too. Car boot sales, eBay, junk shops and the myriad of charity shops that I didn’t visit must house tremendously exciting acquisitions. I’ll report back. I need some speakers first though.

Take off your watch, your rings and all

I was engaged by the feature film I watched last evening. S and I laconically strutted down Eastgate Street and, with not one backwards glance, entered Gloucester’s Guildhall Arts Centre in order to view Broken Embraces, the recent motion picture directed by Pedro Almodóvar. I enjoyed the fellow’s last feature, Volver, and its star Penelope Cruz sparkled again in Broken Embraces. Cruz plays a secretary-cum-call girl whose attempts to become an actress impact on a range of finely crafted characters. The plot is fascinating, full of twists and turns, while the varied personalities’ idiosyncrasies and nuances entwine with wit. It proved a fun and challenging hour or two.

I encountered a charming fellow in my local Cooperative Store this evening. P was in my year at school and I haven’t seen or spoken to him since 1984. It was pleasant to shake his hand (in the biscuit aisle) and chew the fat but it was vaguely unsettling to meet a chap after 25 years and be casually discussing the cricket score within just three minutes of crying ‘Halloa’.