No precaution leaving the fold

I’m happy to report a fine victory for my favoured rugby team yesterday. My word, the Kingsholm pitch was wet and muddy and grassless but the players responded intelligently and seven tries wi’out reply tell the story well. Gloucester continue to climb the league table but will require doughtier opponents than yesterday’s lacklustre and underwhelming Sale outfit to truly test progress and prowess. This season seemed to be slipping away before Christmas but now the club finds itself in two cup semi-finals and with a chance to end the season in sixth spot and achieve Heineken Cup qualification. I would settle for that sixth place now at the expense of cup joy; it would prove a decent reward for improved form of the squad and the improved skills and imagination of numerous squad members.

Yesterday’s match saw a belligerent and confrontational eight wield large spades and construct a pleasing platform for the backs to spin magic. The wing-threequarters, in particular, relished the battle. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel made countless yards with electrifying running and will-o’-the-wisp craftiness while his less subtle partner, the Tongan behemoth Vainikolo sought contact abrasively and bounced through tackle after tackle. The pair is scoring tries for fun at the moment and will relish firmer pitches and sunnier skies. This punter is satisfied that there is plenty still to play for this spring.

I’ve been listening to plenty of sounds. I am going through a huge Super Furry Animals/Gorkys Zygotic Mynci phase and lapping up as much melodic Welsh mischief as possible. Recommendations include the, ahem, Furrys’ MWNG which is sung purely in Welsh but is utterly beautiful and teems with subtle treasures. As a lovely companion piece to MWNG, I would suggest Gruff Rhys’s solo effort, Yr Atal Genhedlaeth, another non-English-speaking offerin’ that drips with pastoral and gentle songsmithery. Gorkys Zygotic Mynci’s Barafundle is becoming my ‘go to’ long player of choice; it’s a charming and jaunty beast with many moments of pop perfection. I span former Gorky fellow Euros Childs’s recent album, Son of Euro Child, yesterday. I rated this collection to be the second finest of last year and my view has not changed in the least; here is an eccentric, quirky and lovable set of songs.

I bought the new Field Music album a week ago. It remains an album I admire rather than like at the moment. It lacks a bit of warmth. A few spins may change this.

I hope I can continue to keep this blog going but I’m posting less and less often. My affection for micro-blog facility Twitter (although I am sulking today because I’m not receiving the tweets of those I follow for some reason) grows and grows daily and I suppose this is having an impact on the time I spend here. I had had a PC-based Twitter account for a good few months but it was only on owning an iPhone and summoning the marvellous Echofon App that my attention was fully grabbed. I am now hooked and am beginning to learn more about Twitter daily. My enjoyment would be more complete if I could harvest a few more like-minded followers but I’m just two months in really and I’m more than content with the quality and affability of those I mainly engage with. I’m just warmed by the amount of intelligence and creativity that floods my Twitter feed every day. Things like the forthcoming General Election, for example, are hugely embellished by Twitter and a steady stream of insightful messages (often with hyperlinks taking one to fuller pieces) by political analysts, bloggers, journalists and certain key politicians adds a vibrant and brilliant dimension to events. All my interests – music, news, films, sport – are caressed lovingly by tweets from fascinating folk. I’m entertained greatly by this world; it’s making me a lot more informed and enriched. Stereotyped ideas about Twitter being a log of what people have just had for breakfast remain low brow, lazy and manifestly ill-informed. This is a splendid scene bristling with intellect and vibrancy and I recommend it wholeheartedly. I’m afraid that this old place is suffering a touch though.

I woke up in your sheets of rain and everything you touch around here

Like London omnibuses, when one moving image period drama examining a 20th century icon appears over the horizon, another is sure to follow imminently. It was the turn of John Lennon last evening. Gripping steaming mug of tea and with Mars Bar coquettishly poking out of breast pocket, I entered the Guildhall kino with expectations high. Nowhere Boy awaited, impatiently tuning a banjo. It did not disappoint.

This proved a beautiful feature film, highlighting a fascinating section of the youthful Beatle’s life. Here was the era of skiffle, drainpipe trousers, fleeting glimpses of a shimmering young Elvis and the nation’s gradual emergence from post-war austerity. Against these landmarks, a young scouse rebel strutted, forming bands, meeting George and Paul, learning chords, sucking on scrounged ciggies, dodging fares and, crucially, coming to terms with a complex and hauntingly sad mother-aunt-absent father triangle. The story of the young Lennon is familiar and one that this punter has read again and again, most latterly within the many pages of the fine Philip Norman tome (which heavily influences plenty of this film’s narrative methinks). The impact on screen of such a well-documented, well, legend was tangibly forceful; the tremendous acting, the evocative late-fifties interiors, the capture of a characterful city’s heart all combined to proffer a sumptuous hour or two. It was all so believable and raw and exciting and sharp. The details – deckchairs, tea-pots, crates of ale – were deliriously thrown at the viewer and would have sufficed to keep most audiences riveted; add to the mix a joyous script and a breathtakingly exhilarating tale and one is privy to some brilliant film-making. Nowhere Boy was a tremendous treat and this grateful fellow can’t recommend it highly enough. I’d like to see it again.

The sun upon the roof in winter will draw you out like a flower

Me and Orson Welles proved an engaging feature last evening. A party of three Coles enjoyed the hospitality of our favoured arts centre; warming beverages, invigorating cola drinks and an array of chocolate treats accompanied us into the auditorium. It was merry.

I would suggest that the ‘Orson Welles’ of the title engaged this viewer more than the ‘Me’ aspect. ‘Me’ was Richard Samuels, played fairly routinely by teen heartthrob Zac Efron, a youthful chap decreed by fate to join Welles’s company and play the small part of Lucius in his 1937 production of Julius Caesar. The nipper’s elevation from high school routine to the centre of theatrical splendour proved an interesting and enjoyable plot. The film’s main purpose was to proffer an autobiographical snapshot of one fascinating slither of a fabulous life (played brilliantly by Christian McKay). This is Orson Welles before the War of the Worlds controversy, before Citizen Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons and The Third Man. The portrait of the flowering of a genius is splendid. Welles’s production of Julius Caesar, a ground-breaking modern-dress effort, quite brutally edited and set in a European fascist state, was highly acclaimed in its day; this feature’s ability to recreate a master’s directorial hand, taking a diverse yet talented cast through rather eccentric rehearsal processes, through rows and rages to a triumphant opening night is worthy and credible. The last hour of the feature is truly compelling. The ‘Me’ portion of the film is generally left to one side in order for Welles’s alchemy to be displayed; a series of scenes from the play are presented and it is jaw-dropping stuff. I can only imagine what an impact this play would have had on a 1930s audience; being privy to such original thinking and brave conceptualisations must have been tremendous. The feature succeeds partially in suggesting the sense of wonder a young actor must have experienced but fully in demonstrating the awesome talent of one of the last century’s major players.

Take me down from the ridge where the summer ends; watch the city spread out just like a jet's flame

My favoured rugby club, the Gloucester outfit of Gloucester, is enjoying a year of feel-good fervour. Key players are re-signing in droves, the coaching team seems focussed and invigorated and the first fifteen seems to be on fire with splendid wins arriving relentlessly.

Last Saturday was smashing. There are many genres of Gloucester victories (rearguard, gritty grind; forward slog rewarded by high penalty count; elegiac comeback against all odds; insipid limp-to-the-line against poor quality opposition etc.) and I am able to classify our latest victory against an adequate Harlequins team thus: a widely expected win embellished by sparkling and witty play and an unimpeachable team ethic.

This was one of those matches that the enthusiastic supporter wishes would last just a few minutes longer. Teams within teams seemed to be clicking beautifully for the city club. Its centre three-quarters, Fuimaono-Sapolu and Molenaar, continued to link merrily and form a sensational combination, the front row (Wood, Azam and Somerville) were abrasive and to-be-feared, the back three (Morgan, Vainikolo and the young prince Simpson-Daniel) attacked wi’ verve and intent while the back row twinned defensive duty with offensive glee. All individuals performed zestfully and with skill. ‘The lads’ are playing rugby union with smiles on their faces and, by heck, it’s catching.

I’ll highlight three Elver Eaters. The aforementioned prince of the wing seems back to his best. The fellow they call ‘Sinbad’ hardly touched the oval in the first quarter of the match but responded with some breathless support running, great guile, and general intelligence. Another hat-trick for the young thoroughbred was deserved and wildly acclaimed. I shall mention the under-mentioned outside-half Nicky Robinson too. He ran proceedings calmly and cleverly at the weekend. One of my favoured sights at Kingsholm is the alert Welshman spotting a gap and surging through it at pace. Robinson looks marvellous with ball in hand. I rate him. My third doff of the cap is attempted in the direction of another Celt, the charismatic captain Delve. I believe his Gloucester career is drawing to an end but the loyal Gloucester support will remember him fondly for performances like Saturday’s. The Welshman ran and ran, sought contact (and gaps) vigorously and capped a man of the match display with a sumptuous interception and sixty yard dash. His vision and ability to sense the rapidly arriving Simpson-Daniel on his shoulder and deliver a cracking pass was worth the admission fee alone.

I salute all associated with the club’s playing and coaching organisations for a fabulous afternoon.

The above photograph originally appeared on my Twitter feed. It was captioned at the time, '1.40pm. The popular side waits and expects. Japandroids on my iPod cannot hide the buzz of eager chat.'

Angle for the ringside seats

It was a special occasion on Wednesday. Former Trade Minister and Postmaster General Tony Benn was appearing as part of Gloucester Guildhall’s ‘Speakers’ series and it was merry to witness quite a key figure in our nation’s recent history. The evening kicked off with Benn being interviewed about his life, influences and outlooks before the audience was given the chance to question the ageing politico. It was an interesting event although understandably Benn, at 85, cuts a more tired and less passionate figure than the firebrand that stood at the centre of British politics for decades. It proved charming to meet the fellow afterwards; he had time for all that queued to have books signed and I appreciated his cheery words and firm handshake.

Endless treads like waves of regret

Heck, I’ve been playing the new Midlake album to death. A quick glance at my iTunes facility (wi’ a grateful tap of the forelock) informs me that I’ve spun The Courage of Others a dozen times and each listen has been intense and focussed. It’s that kind of record – it demands attention and concentration. This is the embodiment of the long-awaited follow-up. Midlake’s last collection The Trials of Van Occupanther proved to be one the few classic albums of the past decade and wooed this consumer with its evocative and atmospheric songs and tales. Could the earnest and bearded collective pull it off once more? I am delighted to report in the affirmative. The Courage of Others is ambitious, thoughtful and successful.

Essentially, this is a lovingly crafted homage to these shores’ folk-rock to the extent that vocalist Tim Smith appears to these ears to be singing in a studied English voice. The musicianship is tremendous; not a note is wasted from guitar solo to drum fill and the arrangements are absolutely splendid. It sounds beautiful and especially wondrous on headphones. There’s a melancholic feel to proceedings though. Eleven of the twelve tracks are in minor keys and I’m guessing (no expert here) that this adds to a fairly dark ambience. The songs are of a similar tempo too, mid paced but all possessing subtly different melodic structures and striking harmonisations. Lyrically – and this reminds me of Van Occupanther – we are taken far away from the mundanity of modernity and transported to some undesignated point in history. Personally, the songs’ wearisome and bleak themes and frequent references to the mysteries of the earth and to fertility lead me to consider they are being sung from the point of view of a thoughtful, troubled and tremendously articulate medieval serf. Perhaps it’s just me. Anyhow, I’m aware that fans of the last Midlake LP occasionally pass by these pages and I’m happy to answer the unasked question, ‘I loved The Trials of Van Occupnther but would I dig the follow-up?’ My answer is unequivocal. This is an utterly sumptuous recording and a shining treasure. You’ll have to spin the blighter in the knowledge that it’s no bundle of laughs but the textures, the intellect, the precision, the haunting and soaring music all more than compensate. Who needs giddy pop thrills all the time?

I said don't stop, do punk rock

Just popping by to greet hepcats. Without ever knocking plaintively at death’s door, I’ve been a touch under the weather for the past week and I’m already working out the most constructive time to slurp some Night Nurse.

The rugby union was pleasing and moderately enjoyable yesterday. Although there was, officially, a competitive edge to proceedings, Gloucester’s clash against Worcester carried more of a ‘friendly’ feel and it was refreshing to witness a fair degree of adventure and verve from, it has to be said, both teams. I liked Freddie Burns’s composure at full back and, not for the first time, appreciated the complementary skills of Molenaar and Fuimaono-Sapolu in midfield. The home side’s 17-5 victory was deserved but hard-fought. It proved an engaging and diverting hour and one half but I anticipate more meaningful fixtures keenly.

I’ll be glad to see the back of January. It’s been cold, dark and wet and the delayed return to work proved frustrating. The nights and mornings seem a touch lighter now and I’ll salute spring to the rafters when it returns.

Mrs Cole has been fedging this morning, a completely legal practice that refers to the construction of a living fence, a hedge/fence if you will. This erection will form a useful barrier between the peaceful contentment of the summer house and patio and the more prosaic trampoline. I think it looks bonny. Also scoring top marks for general bonniness is the new arbour that a courteous and articulate craftsman constructed for us – in return for fiscal remuneration – yesterday. Both look thin and bare at the moment but months and years of growth should transform the fedge and arbour into eye-catching garden features. I wish them well as they mature.

Fab Five Freddie told me everybody's high; DJ's spinnin' are savin' my mind

It’s always fine to have things to look forward to and I am contented that tickets have been acquired this week for a brace of splendid-sounding future events. The Coles will be attending Tony Benn’s, er, gig at the Guildhall next month. I don’t often pull rank and insist on Master Cole’s attendance at an ‘appening but I’ve bought him a Tony Benn ticket and am keen for him to listen to one of the great names in post-war British politics. I’m imposing at least a two line whip on the lad. It should prove a thought-provoking and fascinating evening; we live in interesting times, readers. I’m struggling to think of any link between Tony Benn and the other act we’re going to see apart from my deep admiration of both. LCD Soundsystem are touring this spring and this grateful punter is now promised the aural double-whammy of new LP and concert to anticipate. This is a remarkable popular music combo and I’d recommend both their existing long players to all hepcats. I’m banging out the group’s eponymous debut on iTunes as I type these weary words (The track Too Much Love as you’re asking...) and, as ever, am relishing the intoxicating hybrid of Remain In Light and Power, Corruption and Lies and the resultant swagger, insouciance and style. LCD Soundsystem’s sophomore (sorry) effort, Sounds of Silver, was even finer and, remarkably fought off the likes of Radiohead and Field Music to become these august pages’ LP of the year in 2007. I can’t wait. Bristol Academy should be the perfect venue for these hipsters.

I’ve been a little disappointed with the Guildhall’s filmic profferings (I simply can’t believe there are nine showings of Amelia) in the wintry month of January but the city’s majestic arts centre has redeemed itself with a wicked roster for February. The quartet of Bright Star, Nowhere Boy, A Serious Man and Me and Orson Welles shall keep aficionados of the silver screen more than happy. March looks good too.

I can’t speak highly enough of the new Vampire Weekend long player, Contra. If you fancy a bit of inside information, it could be a potential album of 2010 for this music lover’s weblog. Get yourselves down to Ladbrokes now. Reassuringly – and this often happens – my early disquiet and ambivalence have dissipated and made way for celebratory fervour. Cousins if the catchiest song in recorded musical history and I sang (in my head) I Think UR A Contra non-stop for about two and a half hours yesterday. This is a brilliant pop group. I received the new Eels recording on Friday and I’ll let you know my views on it soon.

Operator's Choice

I’m back in the habit of playing plenty of long playing albums although, having written that, I’m struggling to recall a time when the habit left me. 1975 possibly. Anyhow, I have a hat trick of home deliveries to appreciate this month and the first one arrived on Friday. Vampire Weekend’s long awaited follow-up to their eponymous debut is entitled Contra and early spins indicate a slight departure from the earlier stuff. There’s a bit of unexpected electronic enhancement to Ezra Keonig’s vocals and a few less guitars and more synthesized pleasures to enjoy. Plenty of the learned combo’s constants remain with sufficient up-tempo rattlers and staggering rhymes to satisfy loyal fanatics. My favourite track is, thus far, Cousins, a blitzkrieg of high-life shimmer and quick-fire wit and wordplay. It rocks. Happily, new layers and new quirks emerge with each listen and I think I could grow to really appreciate this recording. Releases by Midlake and Eels will complete the aforementioned hat trick soon. I’ll report back.

Talking of Eels, I’m really enjoying their/his back catalogue at the moment. I span Daisies of the Galaxy this morning, a recording that is teeming with gorgeous melodies and personal and affecting lyrics (as well as plenty of that new-fangled cursin’). Jeanie’s Diary is my favourite track which, in true Eels style, couples a sweet tune with heartrendingly tender and evocative words. Reviews promise the listener similar bittersweet treasures on the forthcoming LP.

When your birth right is interest you could just accrue it all

It is curious how one’s mindset changes in a short space of time. Yesterday morn, I steered my motor car elegantly past Kingsholm Stadium, noted the flags were flying proudly, the age-old indicator that a rugby football match would be played out that afternoon, and cogitated sombrely. I reflected upon my differing outlooks towards my favoured sporting team, the Gloucester outfit of Gloucester. As a youth I would have glanced up at the flapping ensigns and be filled with great excitement that my heroes would be running out upon the fabled turf before nightfall. Yesterday I deliberated how my peep up at the large flapping pennants brought me no such sense of electric anticipation. I knew I would be attending the afternoon’s fixture but was not exactly punching the air with delight.

Ironically, at a quarter to five I was punching the air with delight. My team, hosting a fancy-dan Biarritz side who were certainly keen to claim the Heineken Cup points, was a revelation, evicting lacklustre form and moribund tactics, playing with great ambition, élan and enterprise and mixing will-o’-the-wisp wit wi’ strong-arm sturdiness and surly shrewdness. I’m sure my eyes didn’t deceive me but at one point the city club contrived to run the ball from the shadow of their own posts, making forty-five fine yards and giving the popular side, browbeaten by too many pointless kicks to count this term, something to shout their collective throats raw with. It was wonderful to witness so much fluent and fabulous running rugby football.

Plenty clicked. The centre partnership of ‘Big’ Tim Molenaar and ‘Less Big’ Eliota Fuimaono-Sapolu proved a handful, the former’s abrasive, no-nonsense straight running complementing the latter’s subtle sleight of hand and sublime sprinting. The young prince, Simpson-Daniel, relished his return to the wing and seemed back to his electrifying best, appreciating the extra space and a rare chance to paint expressionist canvases rather than whitewash breezeblocks; fresh freedom over failed functionality made the skilful sorcerer twice the player yesterday. The behemothic Tongan, Vainikolo enjoyed one of his more productive days, roaming the field with delicious intent and I savoured his keenness to leave the wing and come seeking the egg in midfield; the South Sea Islander is much more effective when he appears aggressively on a comrade’s shoulder. Elsewhere, behind the pack, Rory Lawson was as busy and hardworking as ever, Nicky Robinson mixed things up nicely and demonstrated his deceptive pace and eye for a space on several occasions while Olly Morgan produced a masterclass in full back play with too many fearless catches and counter-attacking careers upfield to count. It was marvellous.

An abrasive pack performance both in tight and loose provided the spadework for the back division to strut its stuff. Scott Lawson galloped round the park with gleeful abandon while his rival, in my opinion, for a player of the season gong, Dave Attwood, continued to further his claims for representative honours with another burly showing alongside the stylish Alexander Brown. The wing forward Qera is, thankfully, returning to some decent form; the fizzing Fijian was a right handful yesterday and is happily breaking more and more tackles and gain lines. The side needs him firing on all cylinders; at his best he remains a potent weapon in the Elver Eaters’ armoury.

I am aware of the old proverb featuring swallows and summers but shall ignore its lessons and simply reflect upon a hugely satisfying victory. Leaving beside the more pragmatic requirements of yesterday (potential qualification for future European quests), I’m more content to consider gained confidence, rugby football played with smiles on faces, adventurous and effective tactics and the whole team exhibiting spirit and grit and guile. I salute the Gloucester players warmly and with gratitude.

The photograph (taken with my iPhone – a new and potentially annoying habit) is entitled ‘A Triumphant Army Returns From Battle’.

Thought that I'd forget all about the past but it doesn't let me run too fast

My Christmas holidays are lasting longer than expected. I was supposed to head back into work on Wednesday and here I am, on Friday, still to return. Britain is freezing and ice and snow dominate the section of Regency Longlevens that I call home – and beyond. The Cole females and I met for lunch at Gloucester’s splendid Guildhall earlier (a warming spicy lentil broth, since you were curious) and the walk home from the bus proved utterly chilling. I sense the temperature may drop further. It is unsettling and awkward but there are worse off than me.

May I recommend a sports book? Duncan Hamilton’s biography of Harold Larwood is a superb read. It’s a tale of class and politics and ruthlessness and, ultimately, forgiveness. The world of Gentlemen and Players is ever fascinating to glimpse and the loyalty ex-miner Larwood, ‘the world’s fastest bowler’, shows to his patrician skipper Douglas Jardine is remarkable. The whole Bodyline episode is examined in minute detail but the chapters that deal with Larwood’s life after cricket are equally captivating. The humble and vaguely anonymous former hero’s emigration to Australia is dealt with tenderly while the recurring motif of Larwood’s rivalry with Donald Bradman (which continued until both cricketers were well into their nineties) is captured skilfully. This is a marvellous story.

May I recommend a feature film? A rare trip to the city’s large and imposing Cineworld complex proved worthwhile. My two eldest children and I attended a screening of the sequence of moving images known worldwide as Avatar. This is a spectacular piece of work, shimmeringly beautiful and captivatingly imaginative. I won’t give away the plot although the basic premise (‘Hey, we don’t care enough about the, y’know, environment, man’) is relatively simplistic. It’s the setting that really impresses. A lot of the reviews compare the planet known as Pandora to a series of sumptuous Roger Dean album covers and I can appreciate the comparison. The imagined flora and fauna of Pandora are tremendously unusual and splendid to gaze ‘pon and the scenery is stunning and breathtaking. It looks great. The bonny backdrops sit there, all lovely, while a fierce man-vs.-alien dispute rages and rather clumsy good guy/bad guy caricatures battle it out cartoonishly. Refreshingly the aliens, thin, tall, blue, cat-faced athletic types are cast as symbols of beauty, integrity and ecological hope while us humans, it pains me, are gun-toting, greedy, insensitive ne’er-do-wells. I suppose Avatar is a feature film to make one think although similar environmental messages are to be discovered within any daily newspaper and any news bulletin. Conversely, it’s a film where, if you desire, it’s possible not to think too much and just let splendour and magnificence wash over you. It’s a win-win. We caught the 2D version, by the way. 3D is yet to lure this punter.

Don't you think life would be a little drab if we had the same thoughts?

I thank A, whose love of podcasts is rapidly eclipsing mine, for subtly introducing me to my latest favourite, the Classic Albums production. This is a defiantly lo-fi, under-produced half hour which remains utterly charming and fascinating thanks to the giddy enthusiasm conjured up by the genial hosts Gary and Stephen. These two fellows, hailing possibly from Manchester (but we’re never told) have devised a beautifully simple format. Effectively at the end of each show they swap long playing records that are personal favourites and that they want to introduce or reacquaint their affable cohort to. These recordings are taken away, diligently played to death (usually on the hosts’ much-loved iPods) and then discussed earnestly on the next occasion the podcast is recorded. I’m pleased to report that the pair’s taste in music is similar to mine and it is marvellous (and mightily reassuring) to hear my favourites (Sufjan Stevens, Wilco, Bonnie “Prince” Billy, Ryan Adams etc.) being eulogised with such warmth and vigour. Gary and Stephen also spend five minutes or so at the start checking up what else each other has been listening to since the last podcast and there’s a neat little interlude between the discussions of the swapped LPs when they exchange, nerdily and ebulliently, themed Top Fives that were also decided upon in the previous episode. This is simple broadcasting but all the better for it. Like all the best podcasts (Word, Sound Opinions), the sense of eavesdropping on an enthralling conversation is evident; Gary and Stephen remind me a little of myself in that they are not backward in coming forward when proclaiming the worth, wonder and wonderfulness of a particular long playing record although I wish I could conjure up a tenth of their articulacy and ability to sum up a record’s essence with real clarity and astuteness. My dilemma at the moment is choosing which of the 40-odd episodes to select next. Thus far I’ve been mainly choosing those which feature albums I already know and love but I am very keen to be alerted to newer sounds so will be seeking out those shows that highlight stuff by artists (Willard Grant Conspiracy, David Kitt, The Auteurs) that have ne’er appeared on this radar. I really admire Stephen and Gary for producing such a treat; Classic Albums is obviously a true labour of love with its do-it-yourself quirkiness and the sense of homespun enjoyment it conjures up. This is cracking stuff and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Thanks, fellows.

Blind to the last curse of the fair pistols and countless eyes

I did enjoy yesterday’s rugby union action at Kingsholm Stadium. Other commitments insisted that I arrived two minutes before kick-off and had to guiltily scurry away at the very, very death (although I missed not one second of the drama). It was strange not being stood in the Popular Side an hour or so before the referee’s 3pm blast and, in a strange way, my tardiness meant it took me a while to really warm up, focus on the match and analyse the performance. Scampering up Worcester Street at 2.53pm, I was surprised to witness so many supporters making their way to the stadium too although I would confidently venture that the vast majority of the late-cats were sitters rather than standers.

The match itself, while no classic, was rather exciting and I enjoyed watching my favoured team, the Gloucester outfit of Gloucester, dismiss, to an extent, the mundane aerial pong-ping of recent months and attempt to overcome a routine and mundane side (Worcester, ahem, Warriors) through some incisive and inventive back-play. The home side’s outside-half Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Robinson caught this eye with some splendid surges through the visitors’ midfield and, in the second half, our enterprise stepped up a gear when the (slightly below par) wing-threequarter Sharples departed injured, the burly Molenaar entered the fray and the wasted-in-the-centre young prince, Simpson-Daniel found himself out wide and with more space. The final score 13-13 flattered the South Midlanders despite the home side trailing until the time period formerly known as 'injury time'. A last gasp try by the energetic and hugely promising Attwood levelled the scores but a tricky conversion proved too difficult for the enigmatic Spencer. Frankly, the game was there for the taking so a draw could be considered a disappointment. Robinson missed two or three fairly routine attempts at the posts and, on too many occasions to count, Gloucester failed to capitalise on gilt-edged opportunities to cross the whitewash for tries. Whilst encouraged by my team’s ambition, I shall be more content when chances are taken with a tad more ruthlessness.