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.