Guinness

I’m a touch hungover today. The Big Laugh Café provided us with merely adequate entertainment – I am ever convinced that I don’t really enjoy stand-up that much – but also with an opportunity to sample the Guildhall’s Guinness in four-pint pitchers. I’ve been a bit tender as a result. In Ireland the Guinness doesn’t tend to give one a hangover which begs an obvious question…

The bulk of yesterday was spent in Bath. John Hegley’s poetry show for children, ‘I am a Potato’ was fun, clever and knowing. My three enjoyed it. Before the show I saw Jonah Lomu strolling up Milsom Street with his female partner. They were contentedly clutching shopping bags. In a charity shop I purchased a Smiths singles compilation for a quid. For a band that used to dominate every waking hour when I was a youth I am surprised how rarely I yearn to listen to their songs any more. I guess they don’t mean so much now that I’m grown although a part of me confesses that I lost interest in the group when they became popular and uber-hip. When C and I were the only ones to know about them, eagerly awaiting early sessions on the John Peel show, they were sparkling and wondrous and ours. I’ll never forget strutting into the school sixth form common room with their debut album, released that day, under my arm and nobody, nobody having the slightest clue who The Smiths were. Heck, I felt smug.

The video to The Beatles’ Something is one I’d never seen before. Its monochrome charm and simplistic quaintness are gorgeous.

I’m sad that Terry Fanolua is leaving Gloucester at the end of the season and admit to experiencing the faintest moisture around the old peepers when I read the message to his fans on his website. Fanolua joined the city club as a lad really and will leave as a legend. Whatever his shortcomings as a player – and I have criticised his over-zealous desire to seek contact and avoid passing the ball – I have always relished his dedication and ability to give his all for the cause. His final match at Kingsholm will be an emotional occasion and the sentimentalist in me can’t wait. Part of me welcomes Ryan’s decision not to offer the Samoan an extra year though. It hints at a steely determination to create the right squad to challenge for honours. I would rather have a Jack Adams or an Anthony Allen in the ranks any time.

May Be Busy

A blooming busy weekend beckons in May. Friday 5th sees Martin Stephenson visit Gloucester for an Acoustica session at the Guildhall, Saturday 6th brings Wasps to Stade Kingsholm for the last league game of the season and Sunday 7th I fully intend to travel to Bristol to catch Shack at the Fleece and Firkin, a much underrated venue (and band). I wonder if they have any new material coming out?

This coming Saturday I’m looking forward to seeing, avec famille, the fantastic performance poet and all-round good egg John Hegley at the Bath Theatre Royal before dashing back to Gloucester to enable the Cs to accompany the Ls to the Gloucester Guildhall for the Big Laugh Café comedy night, always a hoot and always an opportunity to have a few pints and relax.

Flat-Packed Furniture

I don’t really want to bang on and on about last week’s Ryan Adams concert but it actually put me off listening to music for a few days. Yesterday, however, while I gleefully constructed an item of flat-packed furniture I listened to Adams’ ‘Heartbreaker’ and ‘Cold Roses’ albums. This was the musical equivalent of climbing back on one’s bicycle after tumbling off. It was reassuring to hear how marvellous these recordings sounded and, despite his failings in the live arena, what astounding songs he has composed over the years. He is forgiven.

There are a couple of albums I desire. The new Durutti Column album harvested a really fine review in last Friday’s Guardian, prompting me to play their soaring – and superbly named – debut, ‘The Return of the Durutti Column’. The opening track, Sketch for Summer is, frankly, as good as ambient guitar music gets. This remains, after 27 years, outstandingly beautiful music. A re-release has caught my eye also. Stephen Duffy’s ‘I Love My Friends’ has been heralded within the media as a lost treasure full of staggering pop moments.

This month’s Mojo hit the doormat on Friday. I’ve saved if for this week but there is plenty I long to read with articles on Wire, Van Morrison, Pink Floyd and Morrissey to pour over. The free CD features bags of sixties Psychedelic gems and I can’t wait to hear it.

Bath loss; pathos

I don’t want to dwell too much on yesterday’s rugby. Any Gloucester loss to Bath is hard to stomach but I have rarely felt as gutted as I did at the final whistle yesterday. However, a day on I feel a little more positive. Judging by the comments of others, I was the luckiest guy in the ground having missed the dire first half because of work. The second half was wonderfully – and often for the wrong reason - exciting and contained plenty of incident and I relished watching the skill of Simpson-Daniel and, to a lesser extent, Peter Richards carving Bath up and creating plenty of chances. The introduction of Fanolua for the underwhelming Keil was fascinating; the Samoan’s spirit seemed to change the match and the presence of a character who epitomises all the club stands for was almost enough to win the match. It wasn’t to be. The last passage of play was unbearably thrilling and that made defeat all the harder to swallow. One level head at the death would have sent the stadium into delirious raptures but a miss is as good as a mile at this level. I’m still disenchanted today but I know that such dark thoughts will help render the next glorious win all the more agreeable. It certainly is not easy following Gloucester at times. At least my mood indicates how much I still care after all these years.

I have been investigating a website I read about in yesterday’s Guardian, http://www.youtube.com/, a huge archive of music videos, both commercial and bootlegged. The concert footage available is mind-blowing. This recording of Gang of Four playing ‘He’d Send in the Army’ from 1981 is simply joyous. Gill et al seem to be wearing futurist shirts and are definitely as po-faced as ever. There’s a gorgeous bit of Go-Betweens too, playing ‘Clouds’ in concert and looking and sounding imperious. Some kind punter has chucked some footage of Ryan Adams’ Bristol gig from a few days ago enabling more poor suckers to suffer as well. Adams apart, this is a real Aladdin’s Cave.

The majestic Shack are touring this year and playing Bristol. I must tell S.

The picture of the kitten is to help embittered Gloucester supporters focus their energies on something more positive and life-affirming. It's the best I can do. Sorry.

What a Pathetic Display 2

It seems that my rather disparaging comments about Master Ryan Adams are shared by others, and others who are quite prepared to be franker than me. The reviewer in the Evening Post attempts to be balanced in his report of Tuesday’s ghastly occasion but to no avail; a series of anguished punters vent their spleen quite merrily on the newspaper’s webpages. I was obviously not alone in my disappointment. I particularly appreciated the comment, 'I don't want to pay £20 to watch an embarrassing drunk. I can see them for free in Trowbridge park on most days.'

Rugby Football

Verily, the fates have conspired against me and, due to work commitments, I shall be missing the first half of tomorrow’s crunch match against Bath. I finish at midday so shall be bounding speedily down the Valley of Gold, listening intently to Radio Gloucestershire’s commentary, and hopefully parking sufficiently near to the stadium to enter the Kingsholm bear-pit as close to half-time as possible. Although Bath are missing some crucial forwards, they should still possess sufficient grunt and astuteness to cause the city some problems. The key should be to attain at least parity up front, provide quick ball and attack with alacrity and verve. Key figures should be Hazell, Mercier and Simpson-Daniel; if they all play to their considerable potential and the forward effort suffices, the spoils should be Gloucester’s. I take nothing for granted though.

What a Pathetic Display

The Ryan Adams concert on Tuesday night could euphemistically be described as ‘different’ and undoubtedly as 'disappointing'. I was certainly looking forward to seeing Adams, who, if not quite a ‘hero’, is definitely a musician I regard extremely highly. Last year’s trio of albums '29', 'Jacksonville Nights' and 'Cold Roses' emphasised the artist’s prolificacy but also showcased a rare talent for producing incredibly moving, melodic and tender country music. Earlier albums, 'Heartbreaker' and 'Gold' are truly superb too. Tuesday at Bristol’s Colston Hall was awful though. Adams played for almost three hours but a refusal to adhere to a set-list for artistic reasons along with, shall we say, a tendency to behave with a certain eccentricity led to a rambling, disjointed and unsatisfactory event. Too often Adams started a wonderful song only to halt after a minute or so because something or other wasn’t quite right, on one occasion because he realised he had two cigarette lighters in his rear pocket and felt he had to walk off stage to deposit them with a road crew member. He incessantly talked gibberish and spent minutes between songs mumbling and murmuring, moaning and sighing. He indubitably has problems and issues but spending twenty quid and a whole evening being forced to voyeuristically witness them was not what I anticipated or desired. And neither did the other punters: I have never heard so much heckling and disquiet at a gig. A few folk walked out in exasperation and I sympathised. Amid the debris a few moments of clarity and beauty rendered the evening a not total disaster but they were few and far between. 48 hours on, I can reflect calmly on a fairly appalling effort. However, at the time it was like watching a car smash.

Ciao!

Possibly not the greatest ever, ever 24 hours in the city club’s history but certainly up there in terms of positive news and feel good factor. First up, the team eked out a crucial away win against the despised Rob Andrew’s mob in the far north. The four points claimed via a try from the old stager Fanolua and eight points from ‘Monsieur Points’ Mercier could prove essential in the lads’ noble quest for European football next term. Today that news was embellished with the signing of Jake Boer, certainly one of my all time favourite Gloucester players, for an extra year that will mean seven years in a cherry and white shirt for the all-action South African. The icing on the cake was a new signing, and one that this supporter finds incredibly exciting. Gloucester have managed to attract to the club the star Italian lock forward and current captain of the Azzuri, Marco Bortolami. This shows we are keen to build a powerful and skilful pack for next season and with the peerless Alex Brown, imposing Will James, underrated Adam Eustace and improving Jonathan Pendlebury also on the roster, things look good for next season’s engine room. I am both mightily encouraged and excited by this news.

Scandinavian Searches

I have been browsing others’ weblogs today. I couldn’t find anything that changed my life but I enjoyed Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset’s wit and humour and wry look at life. It is bright and possesses a self-assurance that I quietly envy. I stole the idea of adding a short list of favourite postings from this site so the right hand side of my blog has grown noticeably since this morning. I have also added a few new links just to liven things up a bit. A week ago I subscribed to something called Stat Counter which tells me how many hits this site receives and also other fairly interesting (well, to me, anyhow) information. Most visitors to this site are from the UK but characters from as far away as France, Bermuda, Italy, U.S.A., Canada and even Chile have popped by. Today I discovered that someone from Sweden had logged onto this blog after searching for ‘Richard Hawley’ on Google. I hope he or she wasn’t too disappointed by my rather insipid comments about the Sheffield songster.

I’m off to see Ryan Adams at the Colston Hall on Tuesday evening. I must telephone B and make arrangements.

Society

I watched Vera Drake for the first time last night and thoroughly appreciated a moving, thoughtful and superbly acted feature. The tagline, ‘Wife. Mother. Criminal.’ sums up the film well; the double life led by the title character dominates the plot and narrative. However, the evocation of an austere post war England is for me the major charm of the film. Nobody has a great deal, cars and televisions are rarer than hens’ teeth and houses and flats are practical rather than comfortable or luxurious. However the sense of community in the London streets is so deep that a lack of consumer goods is not felt and the love of family and friends more than makes up for any poverty. It is telling that the unhappiest people in the film are those keenest to climb socially. Vera’s friend – and accomplice – Lily is ‘on the make’ and driven by a greed that renders her suspicious, bitter and miserable while the Drakes’ sister-in-law, Joyce, is the epitome of the aspirant new middle class that were to ‘never have it so good’. Her resultant shallowness, voracity and lack of beauty all echo a good deal of what I despair of in today’s Britain.

Pat

I hadn’t thought too much about the Gloucester Player of the Season until I read through today’s postings on the Kingsholm Chronicle. I must confess that I agree with most of the messages and that, right now, Patrice Collazo has my vote. The rugged Frenchman has been the pillar of a much-improved city pack and his uncompromising grittiness must be a real hassle to play against. Taking the silver and bronze medals for me – and it is only February, mind – are the elegant and dashing Oliver Morgan and the noble Alex Brown. Good players.

Chance Meetings with Folk

I downloaded 'Coles Corner' by former Longpig Richard Hawley today. It is one of those albums that appeared on various best-of-2005 lists and generally received glowing reviews. On first listen I must confess that it isn’t my thing but I shall not give up yet. It is a bit too ‘croony’ for my liking; I have gone off big arrangements and overblown orchestrations. I’ll probably love it tomorrow.

This morning’s visit to the barbers proved stressful and uncomfortable. A former teacher of mine strolled in, a fellow who is now in his mid 80s and who retired twenty years ago, a couple of years after I left school. He was not my favourite then and I fear the feeling was mutual. Today’s brief meeting and exchange, facilitated by my affable hairdresser who knew no better, was a touch awkward and one I could have done without. Part of me feels a bit shoddy that I could have rather negative thoughts about someone who was part of my life so long ago and who is now a very elderly and harmless soul. He was welcomed into the shop by the barbers like a long-lost returning hero. My heart, frankly, sank. I probably felt guilty remembering what a terrible fool I was at school as much as everything.

My haircut was cracking so it wasn’t a totally desperate half hour.

Heading South

Some weeks off need to be packed with fun and incident but others require leading the simple life in order to recharge and relax. This week certainly falls into the latter category. Listening to the radio, checking out a few albums, playing word games with the family, making decent progress with the current reading material: all simple pleasures but so worthwhile nonetheless. Today the Coles are heading to Bristol but separating on arrival. The female 60% is trotting purposefully to the zoo gardens in Clifton while T and I are staying around the docks and intend to visit the Watershed, the Arnolfini Gallery (where we may watch a film) and At Bristol, the science place. I’ve been dragging my heels purchasing the Calexico tickets for April so might nip up Park Street then down the steps to the Bristol Academy to buy direct for a change. The forecast was lousy for today but right now, at half past eight, the sun is cascading through the blinds and causing me to squint a tad: a good omen. I hope the weather is suitably splendid in the south of the county.

A Frequent Returning And Leaving Unnoticed

It is funny when you have known and loved a record for over twenty years then, heck, you discover something rather marvellous about it that means you’ll never be able to listen to it in quite the same way. I speak of Talking Heads’ 'Remain in Light' and specifically the final track, The Overload. According to this month’s Word Magazine – excellent as ever – Brian Eno had described to David Byrne the kind of music Joy Division made, prompting the band’s front man to produce The Overload, a pastiche of the gothic, atmospherically charged work associated with the Manchester post-punk giants. Listening to The Overload with that information is rather stunning and truly fascinating; apart from the American accent, it could well be any outtake from the Closer era, a sparse and haunting piece in the style of Decades or 24 Hours. What is remarkable is that Byrne had never actually heard any of Joy Division’s music before creating that song. That is currently my favourite rock fact.

With a bit more time on my hands I am able to listen to plenty of sounds and am revisiting some old favourites as well as hearing some new stuff. Filed under ‘old faves’ is 'Disintegration' by The Cure which sounds really marvellous, superbly produced and teeming with fragility and haunting melodies. This sounds downright old-fashioned but the album is full of fabulous songs from the melancholic Plainsong to the charged Untitled. A lost classic methinks. I also played Nick Drake’s final album 'Pink Moon' at the weekend for the first time in ages. I know this sounds daft when one considers how commercially unsuccessful Drake’s work was but I always think of 'Pink Moon' as the album without the hits. No Northern Sky, no Hazy Jane, no Fruit Tree but a studied, consistent array of delicate essentially English folk songs. Lovely. The new stuff has included the Antony and the Johnsons album, 'I Am a Bird Now' which is stunningly arranged and full of tender, very emotionally charged numbers. I had always obdurately considered it to be a tad over-rated, its success down to a media hungry for something different but I am wrong. The eulogising reviewers were right. This record moves me and is as good as it gets.

Winning Team

Gloucester 34 – Leicester 16

After the torpid frustration of the London Irish loss, this proved the perfect antidote to murky mid-season blues and a firm response to those dejected detractors (me included) who doubted that today’s set of players possessed pride and passion in the shirt and the colours. This was a splendid, Technicolor happening, vivid colours, sharp as a razor, clashing and etching a thrilling screenplay before the gathered. Floodlights add so much to the Kingsholm theatre; tackles appear keener, breaks more rapid, contacts, collisions and interactions more telling and potent. This was a great occasion and I had forgotten how ardently great occasions at the remarkable old stadium make the blood pump through the veins, focus the mind on nothing, nothing but victory and reaffirm one’s firm affection for the old city club.

Friday meant more than a fine result against traditional rivals. The sense of a steely collective standing shoulder to shoulder and demanding nothing less than victory proved tangible and irresistible; the Gloucester fifteen were desperate to win and the levels of concentration, single-mindedness and desire ebbed within the squad and permeated the spectators. It was electric and exciting and transcended mere entertainment. It mattered.

Unlikely heroes sprang forth. Jon Goodridge, for this punter often a gaunt, complex, almost haunted figure, banished demons and produced one of those moments that harvest footballing immortality for the individual athlete. His run from 22 to the shadow of Leicester sticks was brave, shrewdly intelligent, breathtaking and sublimely agile, swift and confident. The lad produced art. Not a hand was placed on him until too late and, importantly, the resulting score was telling, a psychological blow to a confident and streetwise visiting team. The exultation was immense, the buzz and thrill colossal. It was a vast, vast moment.

The rest of the game didn’t disappoint either. From hope emerged expectation and from expectation sneaked a lurking fear that the big names from the Midlands could conspire to deny the braves. The resolve paid dividends and all players contributed immensely. The proud skipper Boer, led with power and purpose and the forwards responded with a passionate doggedness to give not one inch and to fight for every scrap. All were heroes from the pillars in the front row to the more expressive back rowers, Forrester and Merrimen, who grafted like Fowkes or Fords to eke out every last inch and second of territory and possession. Behind the pack were nuggets too. The uber-competitive Amor harried and carried all evening, Mercier attacked with poise and kicked with precision and guile, the wings were busy, the warhorse Fanolua was the warhorse Fanolua and Rudi Keil, the South African newcomer to the colours, oozed class and self-belief. And we’ll be speaking of Goodridge for decades after that run.

As I mentioned earlier, Friday was more than a good result. For me, it restored a good deal of faith in the old team and in the old stadium. This was a passionate hour or two and reminded me of why I turn out for less stirring fare and why I shall always support the city. A great result. A great occasion. A great club.

Fast Team

I have played the Mogwai album a couple or three times now and it is superb. I feel a post-rock phase coming on and I and keen to investigate more Mogwai (I already own Come On Die Young) and other bands dealing in brooding melancholia and atmospherically building mood pieces. It’s got to be the way forward. ‘Young Team’ is by no stretch of the imagination a bundle of laughs but its studied intelligence and understated melody render it a pleasure to savour.

To Kingsholm tonight and a decimated Gloucester outfit hosting a decimated Leicester. A speedy Gloucester forward pack will take the field and it will be interesting to see how the likes of Merrimen, Forrester and Pendlebury play against bulkier and more uncompromising opponents. The stadium under lights always adds something to the occasion and I anticipate a fine atmosphere this evening.

Young Team

Despite having half a dozen or more albums on my MP3 player that I haven’t really played enough – the Antony and the Johnsons long player springs to mind – I have spent the last twenty minutes searching my favoured download site for something new and challenging to purchase. I’ve plumped for Mogwai’s debut album, ‘Young Team’ and, judging by the reviews on Amazon, it should be right up my street. ‘Beautiful, life-affirming music’ states one punter and that’ll do for me. The cover is lovely.

I must ask D what he thinks of the Kanye West album he bought recently. I wouldn’t mind checking out some intelligent hip-hop. It might make a change.

I was roaring Senegal on to defeat the hosts Egypt in yesterday’s African Cup of Nations semi-final. I would suggest that Egypt have been the best team in the whole competition while the Senegalese have struggled with form but I appreciated the underdogs’ valour and attacking zeal. A 2-1 score line saw Egypt home but they were fortunate as the referee ignored Senegal’s claims for the most blatant penalty ever in the last minute. Ivory Coast are the other finalists, a pragmatic, well-drilled side that I’m tempted to chuck an each-way wager on for the World Cup. Paddy Power have them at 100-1 for the tournament. I would fancy them to squeak a result against Serbia and Montenegro but would have to rely on either the Netherlands or Argentina slipping up too. It’s a tough group but stranger things have happened.

Feeble Effort

I’ve struggled to work all week but, my word, I have felt rather poorly and feeble and unable to attend to my weblog duties. I thought I had better explain myself. I’m a touch better today but not out of the woods yet. I even missed Acoustica on Friday which was a real shame.

I have watched a fair bit of the rugby this weekend. The England win against Wales was bullying and pragmatic but a reasonably complete performance. However I have to confess that I kept on furtively flicking over to the soccer on the other side. The African Cup of Nations has subtly cast its exotic net and wheeled me in. The penalty shoot-out between Ivory Coast and Cameroon was incredibly exciting: two-and-twenty consecutive successful penalties. The finest oval ball action of the weekend was at Murrayfield where a rejuvenated Scotland played some majestic stuff against a subdued French team to end up 20-16 winners.

I’m keeping an eye on this thread on the Gloucester message board which is discussing an allegedly racist shout that emanated from The Shed during last weekend’s match. I was pretty near to this incident. I didn’t witness who shouted out a rather pathetic Love Thy Neighbour style attempt at humour but I have my suspicions that it might be a rather boorish large fellow whom I’ve stood behind a few times this season. I’ll be watching him like a ruddy hawk from now on.

I've enjoyed one or two very pleasant lunchtime meals at The Guildhall recently and, having checked out the cafe-bar's website, think I shall be returning for more fare soon. The family sat by the bar is particularly stylish and very much 'my types'. The guy in foppish scarfly attire reading a daily journal just exudes a certain je ne sais quoi.

Stark

Gloucester 9 – London Irish 13

This was a stark disappointment and those who chanted ‘Boring, Boring Irish!’ had it wrong (as blinking usual). The Irish game plan was simple, efficient and represented what Gloucester should aspire to. I’d settle for a bullying, juggernaut forward pack with a few brain cells behind it any day. My goodness, it worked against a lacklustre Gloucester side that not only deserved to lose but by more than the meagre four points that separated. Had Gloucester have snatched it at the death – and we had a line-out in their 22 in the dying seconds only to mess it up – I would have been leaping around like a leapy thing but with a hint of sheepishness about the size of the injustice too. Irish were a country mile better than the city.

But, and there is always a ‘but’, this should always be regarded as a season of transition. This term’s Gloucester are vastly better then last year’s Kiole/Bezuidenhout mortification and with key men signed up early and the transfer of big Will James indicating a desire to beef up the front five, one should not reach for the prozac just yet. Expectations are always high at Kingsholm but, it has to be said, the club is a top six outfit only. Only gradual rebuilding will propel us higher. Right now, qualification for the Heineken Cup must be the only target for the rest of the season, by any means. I’d wager we’ll take on Leicester in a week and, with a bit of extra fire in our bellies, sneak a win that will dispel the current gloom and doom. We are still fourth in the league for Preedy’s sake.

Nouvelle Vague

To the Guildhall cinema last night for some 1960s French new wave cinema, Godard’s Bande a Part. Ninety minutes of style and exquisite and quirky characterisation flew by. The plot was secondary; a series of set-pieces kept one interested. The dance scene (see above) was a rare treat of Gallic cool.

I am aware that this is oldish news but I am delighted that the young prince James Simpson-Daniel has signed an extension to his contract and will be with the city until at least 2009. I recall the first few times I saw the nipper play in cherry and white and, in particular, a damp night at Oxstalls when the fledging teen Sinbad wore a ten and mesmerised with an array of silken skills that had those assembled gasping in admiration. All our young stars are now signed up for the foreseeable and I am heartened by the good sense of sorting out all the business now and not at the fag end of the season when one needs the players’ minds to be concentrated firmly on rugby football and not off-field politics. I salute Dean Ryan’s intelligence surrounding this matter. I hope that he can now persuade Gary Powell to remain at Kingsholm especially with the noble Vicks out for the count for, at least, the medium term.

The other Gloucester rugby news this week indicated a potential move to an all-seater stadium near the railway station. I can cope with this and would welcome the chance to take my seat fifteen minutes before kick-off instead of having to pick my spot in ‘the shed’ an hour and a half before kick-off. The whole shed’ thing is beginning to agitate both S and myself: too many humourless people yelling abuse without a hint of irony or wit simply because it is what’s expected. Boring. Call me an old killjoy but it was better in the old days although many fine people do help lessen the blow of the witless. The demographic has changed (see here) and not for the better. The Johnny-Come-Latelies help pay for – inter alia - Sinbad’s contract but I wish I didn’t have to listen to their moronic hee-hawing quite so much. Perhaps a nice new stadium will dilute that nonsense but I won’t hold my breath.

I hope any new stadium doesn’t have a running track as I wouldn’t be quite as interested in attending football matches. I like to see the whites of the players’ eyes.

Monkeys und Wallys

The Arctic Monkeys are nineteen. If I were nineteen - and verily, I am not – I would consider their debut album, ‘Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not’ the most incredible thing ever and I reckon, conceivably, that it would change my life in the same way the Smiths’ debut did back in February 1984. I’m sure it is changing young lives as I write this. The hype surrounding this recording is astonishing with all the publications I’ve read giving it glowing reports and the maximum number of stars. Andrew Collins, a journalist and broadcaster I admire, in this month’s Word Magazine, tells how he paid from his own pocket to see the band in Europe recently. I do enjoy the album myself having listened to it a couple of times but it is far from astonishing. There is a confidence about the songs, a raucous tapping into a South Yorkshire adolescent zeitgeist that impresses and begs, begs to be liked and I must admit to appreciating deeply the lack of hip, the unselfconscious untrendiness and lo-fi insouciance that permeate proceedings. The songs are witty, clever, knowing and, heck, tuneful but I was moved and awed a great deal more by the splendour of Bjork’s ‘Homogenic’ which I played today and by the multi-layered textures of ‘Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven’ by Godspeed You Black Emperor! which I had on my headphones last night in bed and took me on an unbelievable musical journey. In contrast, The Arctic Monkeys are a little contrived and I’m sure I’d easily tire of their stuff but then again I’m not nineteen.

Like a wally, and, to boot, a wally trying to be far too clever, I wrote ‘durm und strang’ instead of ‘sturm und drang’ last night and S, of course, couldn’t wait to let me know my error and tell me how hard he’d been laughing. I apologise. But not to him. I've used the word 'zeitgeist' tonight to show I'm not upset.

Can You Keep a Secret?

Solemn and angular Texan – yet New York based - art-rockers The Secret Machines are playing the Bristol Bierkeller in March and I am more than keen to attend. I’d imagine that they’d make a heck of a racket in such a tiny venue. They are an interesting band and I greatly admired the studied poise and swagger of their last long-player, ‘Now Here is Nowhere’ which reminded me a little of an airbrushed Killing Joke, bags of durm und strang but lacking the menace. I am also thrilled, and a tad surprised, that glitch-hoppers Prefuse 73 shall be supporting the ‘chines. Their two albums, Vocal Studies + Uprock Narratives’ (after which this website is named no less) and, in particular, ‘One Word Extinguisher’ buzz with textures, smart and streetwise samples and out-there riddims. Part hip-hop, part self-assured electronica, I’d imagine their live set would prove one to remember. That evening has to be inked into diary now. The enigma that remains ‘S’ has been contacted and he is up for it too.

Dear Old Vicks

The injury news regarding Phil Vickery and his troublesome back is most distressing. The self-styled ‘raging bull’ has been in immense form for the city recently and was contributing so much to the tight exchanges as well as rampaging round the park like a demented loose forward when he found the ball in his mighty paws. The fine form the team has found itself in has been due in no small way to the Vickster’s example and leadership qualities. Obviously there are insurance implications to him staging another comeback and the few reports I have read have seemed a touch bleak. I just hope the fellow makes a miraculous recovery but I’m not holding my breath. The prop forward has his knockers (to coin a phrase) but I consider him to be Gloucester through and through. He understands the club more than most, appreciates its history and expectations, and nods respectfully to legends who have pulled on the famous shirt before him. Despite what some say, I believe he loves the Gloucester shirt as much, if not more, than the white one of Albion. If he has played his last game for the cherry and whites, I’ll be genuinely upset. The guy is a hero.

Top Seeds

Gloucester 35 – Bayonne 19

So Gloucester finish the qualifying leagues as top seed for the knock-out stage and have a home quarter-final draw as a reward for their enterprising and ambitious play in this competition. This punter thought that, with two French clubs in the group, qualification would prove tricky but in five of the six games played by the city, the team has achieved a bonus point and I salute this wholeheartedly. Today’s match saw a workmanlike performance from one to fifteen but a special mention should be given to Marcel Garvey who appeared lively in attack and determinedly resilient in defence. He outclassed his rival for a wing berth, Mark Foster, in every department. Foster remains the team’s weakest link and I am increasingly aware that he conspicuously fails to beat his opposite number on a one-on-one encounter every time. His tackling and ability to cover is suspect too while he lacks the pace one would expect from a Premiership winger. Personally I would consider playing another of our wingers, Thirlby or Bailey, or perhaps Jon Goodridge in his stead.

Meanwhile, Oliver Morgan goes from strength to strength. His intelligence, bravery, pace and alertness impressed again today. He does the basics so assuredly and has to be the most improved player in the squad. His lengthy run in the team has done wonders for his all round play so one is unable to criticise Dean Ryan too much for sticking with the lacklustre Foster when a similar approach has proved so valuable for our superb and eye-catching young fullback.

Mixed Bills and 'Cello-based Thrills

Last night the three eldest Coles hurried themselves heartily to the Gloucester Guildhall for the latest ‘Acoustica’ evening. We merrily endorse and support ‘Acoustica’ and have yet to enjoy a less than very satisfactory time there having been sumptuously entertained by the great Boo Hewerdine and the idiosyncratic but rather marvellous Duke Special – a firm favourite in the Cole household now – last year. Yesterday evening saw a mixed bill and three very diverse artists. Sweet Laredo was a duo, a guy in a nice shirt a-strummin’ and a-pickin’ on a geetar while a large-lunged gal belted out torch songs and gospel with gusto. Not my thing exactly but an unchallenging and not unwelcome hors d’oeuvres nonetheless. I did fully appreciate the second act Bela Emerson though. In my eyes, half an hour of experimental ‘cello playing with sampling and loops can never be frowned at. This was challenging stuff, make no mistake, and I was smilingly taken by how warmly those in the audience appreciated what was, it seems, a largely improvised set. Hats off, I say, to the gathered Gloucester cognoscenti. I can now see why Emerson warranted a Peel session and my only regret was that she couldn’t play for longer. I sense that the first act – humdrum in comparison – overran and if that were the case, I can only mutter darkly, ‘criminal, criminal…’ The final act, The Family Machine, were a feel-good trio, full of whimsy and tune who crooned plush harmonies and performed charming songs, all with a hearty and unembarrassed English theme, about roadside floral tributes and lethal drug cocktails. They drank cups of tea on stage, indulged in banter and were rather entertaining. I spilt half my Guinness three-quarters into their set and that I didn’t mind shalt be my tribute to them. They reminded me of earnest Irish hopefuls Hal a little with a soupcon of Lemon Jelly – they used a fair few samples – and a small pinch of British Sea Power thrown into the mix. They were fine.

The legend that is Martin Stephenson plays 'Acoustica' in May. Such thoughts help a man through the dark mornings of a bleak English winter.

The Four Eternal Truths of United Fixtures

Monday night at Kingsholm was interesting. The United, or ‘A’ team in new money, always throws up plenty to think about. It used to be maintained by one or two of my circle that a United fixture always contained one almighty punch-up, at least one superb try, one Gloucester player emphatically on the way up and, to balance this, one emphatically lurching towards an ignoble end to his Gloucester career. The fixture against Leicester didn’t disappoint on any of these counts. The forward battle was uncompromising and, at times, heated. Quick hands led to some well-taken tries and our new South African Rudi Keil scored a beauty, set up with some sublime running lines and slick passing, not least from returning prodigal Henry Paul. The player on the way up is young Jack Forster whose bulk helps him dominate scrums and set pieces but is adding more and more to his game each time I see him in action. Sadly, and I feel the dream is over, Quentin Davids contributed very little and I reckon his days may be numbered. His line out play is non-existent to be frank and, apart from throwing his huge frame at the occasional ruck, he offers little in the looser exchanges.

The greatest record of all time

Many (too many?) albums embrace the mantle of ‘lost classic’ and none more so than Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ from 1985 which I have often read about as being a work of staggering genius that was purchased by the merest handful of payin’ punters. The two previous Dexy’s albums, ‘Searching for the Young Soul Rebels’ and ‘Too-Rye-Ay’ were massive hits but a lack of record company interest and a belligerent refusal by Kevin Rowland to release singles conspired to sound the death knell for ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’. I purchased the blighter yesterday, more through curiosity than anything, from my online music file store of choice and 24 hours later I’m sat here grinning like a loon because I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a long playing recording as much as this scamp for ages. I’m playing it now and I had it banging through my ears as I did the weekly shop at Sainsbury’s this morning. As one would expect from Rowland the melodies are exquisite and life-affirming but the whole production delights – it is so unusual and quite unlike anything I’ve ever heard. For example, the track I’m playing right now, This is What She’s Like, is twelve minutes long (a length that would normally put me right off…), kicks off with a gloriously paranoid conversation between Rowland and bandmate Billy Adams, before embarking on a mesmeric montage of soaring melody, Beach Boys harmonies and engaging earnestness with the occasional snatch of conversation mixed in to provide the icing on the already pukka cake. This is stunning stuff. Rowland and Adams’ murmured chit-chats permeate the whole collection. They are enchanting. At one point somebody coughs loudly and apologetically. I think it might be post-modern. All the songs are compelling and make the heart burst and I’m mildly nervous to consider that, as I’ve only played it three and a half times, it might grow on me. I don’t think I could cope with liking this album even more than I already do. It might be the greatest record of all time and it has taken me over 20 years to discover it. Heck. In the mean time I’ll keep on grinning.

The great Chris Roberts, ex-Melody Maker, has a website all about ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ and it can be found here. You need to click on the arrows at the bottom of each page to access the next ‘chapter’. I would urge anyone to read this. And I would urge anyone to listen to ‘Don’t Stand Me Down’.

Balcony Scene

A busy week so little time to attend to this site. B emailed to tell me that he’d sorted out a pair of tickets for Ryan Adams next month. They are balcony seats which led me to consider the last time I sat in a balcony for a concert. I think it may have been at the same venue – Bristol’s Colston Hall – for a mighty, and unprecedented, double bill of The Blue Aeroplanes and John Martyn. If memory serves, Helen Lederer compared and it was a charity event. I have been playing ‘29’, the new Adams album this week. It really is rather gorgeous. The song Night Birds is my favourite track of the year so far – so delicate and haunting.

Gloucester defeated Bucharesti this afternoon, picking up a four-try bonus in their closer than predicted 27-13 victory. Next week’s home match will decide the spoils in Gloucester’s group. The visitors Bayonne stand four points behind the city so could conceivably top the mini-league with a large win but I would anticipate a home victory and a resulting home quarter- (and semi-?) final for the lads.

I think I like the Arctic Monkeys.

Winning Football

Saracens 9 – Gloucester 19

A reasonably rare but hugely welcome away win ushered in the new year for Gloucester RFC and this supporter was mightily impressed with a rugged forward performance that the likes of Gadd, Teague and Preedy would endorse. Alex Brown had a towering match in the engine room, controlling the lines out with ease and putting in the hard yards with ball in hand as well as enhancing his reputation for ruthless defensive work. Mefin Davies is enjoying possibly his longest run in the starting fifteen and I appreciated his adherence to the basics yesterday, particularly in the loose where his used all his experience to retain the ball skilfully. He is thriving. Gloucester now lie fourth in the league with ten games to play, six of which are at Stade Kingsholm. With the gap between us and the fifth placed club, London Irish standing at a healthy six points, our next match, against the exiles, takes on much importance. We have a fine opportunity to consolidate and cement ourselves in that all important top-four. All is well, it seems.

Eight Goal Thriller

Liverpool’s 5-3 FA Cup victory over Luton Town was a joy to behold and I was bewitched by incident after incident in a dramatic second half. The last thirty seconds contained a last-ditch attempt by Luton to salvage a draw involving the goalkeeper coming up for a corner. I always love it when that happens. The icing on the cake came when play broke up and, with the goalkeeper stranded and Liverpool gaining possession, Alonso belted the ball into the Luton net from well inside his own half. I love it when that happens too. For the neutral it was compelling stuff.

For fun as much as anything, during the last general election campaign, I filled out an online form, answering numerous questions about my views on a host of matters, to ascertain which political party I was most closely aligned to. It turned out to be the Liberal Democrats although, apart from tactical votes at local polls, I have never supported the party. Nevertheless I was saddened today as Charles Kennedy, hounded by colleagues who lacked any semblance of loyalty, compassion or bravery, resigned as leader. I really felt for the geezer. His courage at confessing to a distressing drink problem two days ago indicated a human side rarely witnessed in a major politician. My respect and admiration for Kennedy’s outstanding condemnation of the Iraq situation was matched by more personal sentiments. I wish him well.

Americana

Perhaps I am deluded but I look forward to Sunday’s Gloucester match at Saracens with a hint of confidence. The Leeds match was not the bleak disaster that some folk are considering it and I anticipate that a fired-up fifteen will cause problems for a star-studded Watford-based outfit. A recall for Pendlebury is deserved, a return for the noble Collazo is welcomed warmly while the only caveat about the pack is the seven that the old warhorse Boer wears on his broad back. Does the South African possess enough pace for openside flank forward? He has never particularly impressed there and I suspect the remarkable talent of James Merrimen may impact on proceedings at some point. Behind the scrum, continuity is the key and the same backs that started against Leeds are again selected. I appreciate this. Chopping and changing teams rarely works and the youngsters that Ryan is placing such faith in can only benefit from a decent run in the team and the confidence it provides them.

I am overdosing on serious and worthy North American songsmiths right now. I am playing lots of Ryan Adams (including his new and admirable ‘29’ album which I like immensely), Calexico, Iron and Wire, Sufjan Stevens and The Cowboy Junkies. I loathe the expression ‘background music’ and the whole concept grates. These musicians provide the antithesis of such an idea; each song commends the greatest of attention and repeated studied listening does pay dividends. Part of me is crying out for something a tad sunnier though, particularly as I spent some of the recent festive period reinvestigating the gloomy Cure trio of albums, ‘Seventeen Seconds’, ‘Faith’ and ‘Pornography’ – three belters, it has to be said.

No Place Like Rome

It’ll be an early night tonight. Although the new term starts with earnest tomorrow, a need for a good night sleep is a notch or two down my list of priorities. No, tonight is ‘Rome’ on BBC television and my routine dictates that I shall be tucked up and glued to the only programme I need to watch each week. No distractions please. The politics of the era fascinate with Pompey now out of the equation and with an oily Brutus and supremely confident Marcus Antonius currently eyeing Caesar with interest. Away from all this high-powered stuff the ongoing ‘soap opera’ involving two former soldiers Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo remains a treat. Their close friendship is under considerable threat after Pullo killed a slave in cold blood outside Vorenus’s villa last week, was sent packing, sank too much vino and was offered a job by a local racketeer, a sworn enemy of Vorenus. That cliffhanger will, no doubt, be resolved tonight.

I’m not a huge fan of Steve Lamacq on BBC 6Music but after the fellow played both New Face in Hell by The Fall and Ping Pong by Stereolab on tonight’s show, I salute and doff my cap to him. It is easy to take for the granted the high quality of music that wonderful radio station churns out throughout the day. I wonder how I used to cope.

The Live Experience

I look forward to attending a gig or two in the New Year with a few impending treats to warm the heart during these dark post-Christmas days. In April the mighty Calexico are playing Bristol Academy along with Iron and Wire. Having seen the ‘lex a couple of times I know that will be a great show with wonderful musicianship and the finest of songs. Ryan Adams at the Colston Hall is in February – that should be wonderful. The guy is a huge talent and I find myself returning to his albums again and again. As discussed with D and S on the Kingsholm terrace at the weekend, Adams’ solo debut Heartbreaker is a masterpiece of intelligent and emotive songwriting but all his recordings hit the mark. Another great songwriter is Martin Stephenson and he will, I hear, be playing Gloucester Guildhall in May. I last saw Stephenson at Sheffield Leadmill in 1992 and am keen to see the fellow perform again. The Fall website indicates a few recently added British gigs this spring so I shall keep a close eye on developments there.

Rock 'n' Roll Tales

A slight regret is that I haven’t managed to read as much as usual this holiday. I did throw myself keenly at the John Peel/Sheila Ravenscroft biography ‘Margrave of the Marshes’. Like many Peel fans, I was disappointed to discover that his autobiography was only half-written when he died a year or so ago but ‘The Pig’ has completed the book with honesty and humour. It is certainly not a lesser book because of her contributions although the trademark Peel wit lights up the first third with fascinating tales of surviving public school and the army before embarking on a DJ career in Texas. Although tales of the famous and infamous abound, the glimpses into the home life of Peel are equally compelling. I wish he was still around.

I’m currently reading ‘Time Travel’ by Jon Savage, a collection of the rock journalist’s essays, features and reviews from a variety of publications including Sounds at the time punk exploded. Early pieces include reviews of seminal Clash and Pistols gigs as well as appraisals of key groups (Penetration, Magazine, Subway Sect and Throbbing Gristle) emerging away from the epicentre of the punk movement. Savage’s key work on punk, ‘England’s Dreaming’ is quite a scholarly, academic tome but ‘Time Travel’ is more vivid and captures the zeitgeist of the late seventies underground scene vibrantly and with the insight of the enthusiastic insider. I’m fascinated.

Positives amid the gloom

Gloucester 31 – Leeds 7

I would have accepted this result before kick-off. Four Gloucester tries propelled the city club to a temporary third spot in the Premiership and that bonus point could prove crucial come season’s end and the shake-up for European slots. There exists an element of doom and gloom on the message boards this morning but the team is improving and, importantly, it appears evident where the team could benefit from some changes. We need a heavyweight to partner the excellent Alex Brown and a couple of speedsters on the wing who can benefit from the space created by our international centres and beat their oppos on a one-on-one. Perhaps young Marcel Garvey is one of these fellows.

I wasn’t too despondent with yesterday’s performance. Although the team could not sustain the passion, the first half an hour was refreshing to behold with plenty of ball being spun out and three tries (including a deserved penalty try) to celebrate. I felt Mercier enjoyed his finest match at home thus far this season with some superb kicking complemented nicely by some elusive running and alert distribution. He took his try well and cleverly kept the over-the-hill Fanolua out of proceedings as much as possible when Gloucester were pressing for the bonus score in the last ten minutes. Why the affable and loyal – yet limited - Samoan is preferred over the more than promising Anthony Allen in the matchday 22 remains a mystery. There are other positives. Michael Tindall’s contributions are becoming more and more important and his partnership with the young prince Simpson-Daniel is developing shrewdly. I do like Ollie Morgan and not only because he was the epitome of politeness and assured good manners when he chatted to me at the last Open Day but one. His performance yesterday was unfussy and lacked frills but he did everything calmly and maturely. He cares too. His despair and self-flagellation after spurning a late chance to attack with a chip and chase displays a real passion and desire both to win in the cherry colours and to improve his own game. I admire that.

Apeman

Went to watch King Kong yesterday afternoon and arrived daunted at the prospect of a three hour epic but left in an invigorated mood. The time had flown by. I suppose it was an old-fashioned film experience – set piece following set piece with too many exciting cliffhanging moments to count. I unashamedly and thoroughly enjoyed it. The IMDB suggests that director Peter Jackson paid homage to the 1933 Faye Wray version by slipping in several knowing details into his epic. I like that sort of thing.

Hey Chick

Hetty and Bella, the two chickens that joined our family unit in August continue to go from strength to strength. Despite gloomy murmurings that they would cease laying during the winter months we are consistently presented with two large and delicious eggs each day. Being off work has enabled me to cook their favourite treat, spaghetti. I am convinced the daft things reckon they are knocking back the tastiest worms in Christendom as the strands hardly touch the sides as they force them down. They adore any form of pasta and enjoy rice – which we believe they think are really maggots – too. I am really fond of these beasts and feel tangible pride in them whenever I poach another pair of their ova.

Tomorrow I shall be at Kingsholm Stadium to cheer on the city against the league’s bottom club, Leeds Tykes. We should win this one especially after a reported fine second half against Wasps on Boxing Day. Confidence should be fairly high but it is slightly disappointing and lacking in ambition to be using a defeat as a springboard for greater things. I am yet to see the team lose this season as I rarely attend away fixtures but am yet to witness any real art from the side, especially in the back division. Hopefully the dream pairing of Tindall and Simpson-Daniel will start to click soon. Oliver Morgan has proved my player of the season thus far. I appreciate his head-up, intelligent runs and dedication to the cause. I rate him highly. The returning hero Mercier has yet to get the backs purring but I recall in our wonderful cup and league winning season three (?) years ago that we scored marvellous try after marvellous try – and that was with the rather predictable bash-through-the-middle centre partnership of Todd and Fanolua and Mercier. Perhaps it will all click soon. No matter. It will be great to meet up with folk and appreciate fine banter for an hour or three.

Yesterday afternoon I strolled around a chilly Gloucester for a few hours, wrapped up warm as toast and with the sunny sounds of Dr. Alimantado filling my ears and transporting me to warmer climes. A search for new trousers proved fruitless and I returned home with only a few library books and a pack of empty CD cases from Smiths to show for my efforts. A poor return indeed.

Records

It is difficult to pick up this weblog. Does one recap all that needs mentioning from the past three or four months or does one pretend the site is up to date and carry on as before? Hmmm…

There were plenty of fine CDs released this year and I guess it is right to celebrate this here. One of my favourite discoveries of 2005 was Sufjan Stevens. His ‘Seven Swans’ album – a year or two old now I think – has been playing on my MP3 player almost non-stop for the past few months to the extent that I put off exploring his album from this year ‘Come On Feel the Illinois’ in case it didn’t live up to the genius of the former. I needn’t have worried. Both albums are full of subtlety, delicate melody and, heck, whimsy. What else have I enjoyed this year? 'Campfire Headphase', the longingly anticipated new long player from Boards of Canada didn’t disappoint. Swirling soundscapes and bags of atmosphere were aided and abetted by, heaven forbid, a few guitars strummed by the reclusive electronic uberstars. 'Aerial', the new Kate Bush album was lovely and intelligent and unusual. The song all about pi on the first CD remains a favourite. Not many people could get away with that kind of eccentricity but the mighty Bush managed to sit songs about maths, washing machines, Elvis and Joan of Arc together with insouciant ease. I loved the new Go-Betweens pop album ‘Oceans Apart’ and really thought the Gorillaz’ ‘Demon Days’ was clever and knowing and funky but was tainted by mass appeal. I know that sounds snobby. My Morning Jacket’s album ‘Z’ - pronounced 'zee' I believe - was eminently listenable to and the latest new Joy Division, The Editors, lived up to that tag as well as any with a fantastically gloomy recording, ‘The Back Room’. S is going to arrange a copy of Vashti Bunyan’s new album soon and I look forward to that. The Observer Music Monthly printed a Top 100 albums of the year review recently which led me to investigate Camille’s album ‘Le Fil’ which is a kind of French Portisheadesque ambient thing with, joy of joys, a drone that runs throughout the whole album. It really is rather beautiful and I have been listening to it while I pen these words. The Observer also pointed me towards the blind Malian couple Amadou et Miriam and their exuberant album ‘Dimanche a Bamako’. I sometimes worry that I only play miserable, contemplative stuff but this soaring, infectious recording bucks that particular trend. It’s noisily life-affirming.

Two Score Years

It is a touch embarrassing to realise that my last posting was in August albeit at the very end of that fine month.

So, what to report? My 40th birthday was just before Christmas and the landmark was passed with fun and friendship and fine food. I feel no different and have, indeed, utterly forgotten that I am now ‘closer to sixty than twenty’. My birthday bash was at the wonderful Café Rene, an oasis of good sense in a world of brand names and theme pubs. It was splendid to be surrounded by super people. My Mark E. Smith cake went down a treat and I received more reggae CDs than you could conceivably shake a Camberwell Carrot at. My current favourite is the mighty ‘Best Dressed Chicken in Town’ by Dr. Alimantado, a seventies roots classic. S presented me with The Fall’s Complete Peel Sessions (interesting version of my favourite Fall song L.A.) which I have been dipping into with relish.

Back

It is always good to be home although a rather damp Ireland proved a relaxing week and was all I expected and wanted. The scenery was spectacular, there was plenty to get up to and the black stuff went down sweetly. We spent a few days on the beach where C and I indulged in some hard-fought matches of boules. An early encounter on Vestry Sands would have displeased the purists. A strong wind was thrusting the jack a vast distance on alternate ends so skill was irrelevant; it was simply a case of who could chuck their boules the furthest. It was ugly, vulgar and brutal but nonetheless compelling. I won all the up-to-eleven-best-of-three rubbers while C was unbeatable at first-to-twenty-one. Honours even.

Professor Noel Sharkey who used to appear on Robot Wars was travelling on the same outward ferry as us although my travelling companions were hugely underwhelmed.

The pictures above show a view of the Blasket Islands and our holiday house just outside Dingle. The former involved having to walk a fair distance. It was worth it.

GL2

A quiet pint with S last night ‘down the Ted’. He has settled comfortably into his new abode but I wish that, with a GL2 postcode and an 01452 dialling code, he wouldn’t keep insisting he lived in Stroud. Ah, the ignominy of having to shop in Quedgeley’s Tescos! I look forward to receiving reports of the young gentleman’s foray to this weekend’s Green Man Festival near Hay-on-Wye as I am considering the whole festival scene for next summer. I am keen to return to Camber Sands for another ATP weekend but – and I think last month’s day at Ashton Court has whetted my appetite – I wouldn’t mind an outdoor weekender especially if the whole family would enjoy it. Green Man looks fine and the accent on the folktronic end of the market appeals.

I am trotting to Kingsholm Stadium later to watch our young guns in action. It’ll be my first chance to see Anthony Allen in action. As ever, my optimistic outlook has mentally deemed him to be better than the callow Matthew Tait and I’m already labelling him ‘the next Brian O’Driscoll’. Sadly, my favourite nipper, Ryan Lamb, is on the bench tonight as I always love his attacking zeal and crafty ways. Olly Morgan is at full back and needs a big match to contest the wearer of the 15 shirt against Worcester. I must confess that Jon Goodridge, not my favourite player, looked confident and assured when he came on against Calvisano last weekend.

The chickens have settled in beautifully and now allow themselves to be picked up which was inconceivable a couple of days ago. I have been cooking them a dozen or so strands of spaghetti every day and they adore their daily treat of ‘worms’. They also go mad for budgie food. Hetty and Bela have proved to be lovely pets and it only remains for them to start laying eggs and then they’ll really be paying their rent. The cats are less sure of them (see above).

Tomorrow we set sail for Ireland and a week on the West Coast. It’s a holiday that is eagerly anticipated and I can’t wait to be back in Dingle again, pint of G in paw, listening to some cracking music.

Summer Sun

Yo La Tengo at Koko, Camden Town 16.8.05

The bloke who yelled ‘Louder!’ had a point I suppose. Purposeful art-house lo-fi hepsters such as Yo La Tengo should really play it soft. The mumbles, the gentle backing tones and the understated riddims were certainly what I alighted at Mornington Crescent in high hopes and expectation for. The cognoscenti should have been ejaculating a polite, ‘Quieter!’ It didn’t quite work out that way. I respect the London gig scene, I really do, but there were too many art threats, too much tourist trade stalking the splendid and beautiful former Camden Palais. And they didn’t stop talking.

Heck, they chatted over some rare beauty. ‘Everyday’ trotted elegantly by, all muffled mentions of Kate Moss and crossing your heart and hoping to die. That was lovely. ‘Let’s Save Tony Orlando’s House’, all wit and knowingness stood out while ‘The Crying of Lot G’ was a melodic gemstone as was the sun-bleached and tender ‘Little Eyes’. Amid all the quaint and studied objets d’art, the occasional sleet storm of noise terrorism cascaded towards the music fans and the tourists. The fans were challenged and appreciated the need for a bit of sturm und drang to counterbalance the gentility and sophistication. The tourists just carried on chewing the fat. Shame.

The Italian Job

Gloucester 61 – Calvisano 0

These are optimistic times at Kingsholm. Even before yesterday’s pre-season friendly I was quietly pleased with the sensible recruitment in key areas and the subtle mix of experience and raw young talent that the club was developing and entrusting with our hopes. Yesterday’s romp against an admittedly average Italian outfit confirmed my positive feelings. Gloucester bullied in the right areas, were abrasive as heck when they needed to be but, when the canvas required, painted beautiful brushstrokes.

The forward pack fought doggedly for the ball. The Balding fellow, captaining the city with assurance and maturity, led by example and contested the breakdown fiercely. The likes of Eustace and Wood were not far behind in terms of application and hunger for work. New dad Vickery concentrated mainly on the rigours of the set-piece but his day with ball in hand shall come soon. James Merriman did a few decent things and showed fine pace at times but was not as involved as I would have wanted. His time will come; experience counts for a good deal and the nipper needs more game time at this level.

Behind the pack lurked nuggets. James Simpson-Daniel was barely stoppable. His speed, both of thought and deed, had the hapless Italians chasing shadows all afternoon. He chose some peerless angles and scored a most remarkable first half try carrying the ball across the pitch and defeating defender after defender before touching down under the sticks. A second period ankle injury must cause concern; we need his class in weeks to come. The second nugget was burly, brave Jack Adams who dominated the midfield with his no-nonsense running. He forced his way through tackle after tackle, scored a couple of smashing tries and seriously looked the part. Lads of his age should be wearing braces not scoring them but this punter is not complaining. I thought young scrum half Hadyn Thomas had a satisfactory home debut too. His first half radar was slightly out and McRae had to stretch to receive a couple of efforts but, after the break, he appeared sharper, more composed and ready to take on the oppo back row with some sniping breaks and pacy runs.

Late on, a trio of substitutions proffered real heart to the supporters. Patrice Collazo relished his return to Stade Kingsholm and completely dominated the tight and was a handful and a bit of a nuisance in looser exchanges. Olivier Azam took Collazo’s lead and used his aggression and passion with no little effect. Finally, a returning hero, Ludovoc Mercier captured the crowd’s imagination with a sublime cameo and fluent running, fine vision and beautiful passing. Essentially the man kicked superbly. His first kick from hand sailed from 22 to 22, a driver’s whack when we have been used to one or two irons for the last year or two. All of his goal kicks bisected the uprights and he scored a well-taken try with his first touch. It was marvellous. I think we’ll do extremely well this season with Ludo at the helm.

On returning home it was a delight to watch our youngish team win the Middlesex Sevens – and Gloucester fans of more than fifteen or twenty years service will appreciate how bizarre that concept is. Simon Amor led the side with pure class but it was our other teenage centre, Anthony Allen, who really caught the eye with classy, powerful running and a wide range of exquisite skills. It was a thrilling final against Wasps and I felt huge pride in the city lads for a wonderful achievement.

All looks mighty fine then as the new season approaches. We have so many talented youngsters in Allen, Adams, Morgan, Narroway, Wood, Merriman and the acutely talented Lamb. The forward pack has been bolstered by new signings and players returning from injury - the arrival and potential impact of the Springbok Davids will be intriguing – and we have a player who can kick us deep into opposition territory and score point after point from almost anywhere.

I can’t wait for proceedings to commence.

Coops and Campfires

Our chickens arrived today and I’m really rather fond of them. The man from Omlet delivered them mid-afternoon and after their eglu was erected and the ladies’ wings were clipped (under supervision I sliced through one wing with a pair of scissors rather nervously), the pair of them spent some hours getting used to their new surroundings. They pecked a lot. I must confess I spent ages just watching them. As dusk fell we managed to shoo them into their coop for the night and locked them safely away. It seems we can’t expect any eggs for six weeks or so.

I received a charming email from Warp Records earlier. It consisted solely of the front cover of the new Boards of Canada album and the date of its release, the 17th of October. It appears that the recording is to be called The Campfire Headphase – it had to be really - and I simply can’t wait. There have been numerous fabulous records released during 2005 but this has to be the most eagerly anticipated. .

On the way back from Yorkshire yesterday we overtook, on the M5, the Grimsby Town FC team coach. I guess that this was at about three o’ clock and we were somewhere in Worcestershire. I noted that a few of the players were fast asleep. On our return I checked the BBC website and discovered that they were to be playing Bristol Rovers that evening and a further visit ascertained that they had beaten The Pirates by two goals to one. I derive a sad pleasure from any glimpse into the lives of professional sportsmen and felt vaguely contented that the lads whom I had spotted enduring the grind of a longish bus journey had ‘done the business’ against The Rovers.

Harmy Army

Yorkshire proved an enjoyable few days for all of us. I introduced my dear old friend M (pictured above, with yours truly) to Su Doku, Laura Cantrell and late-period Prefab Sprout while he introduced me to Terry Riley and I play the orchestral minimalist’s Shri Camel album as I write this. Both our MP3 players are fuller as a result of the past few days. Pickering is a fine place to live, gentle and unassuming and peaceful. Some time spent in York was worthwhile on Sunday although we arrived too late to take advantage of the array of eclectic shops. For the second year running Theo and I went on the Ghost Trail, this time accompanied by older sister and M and the boys. It was almost exactly the same ‘script’ as last time and the actress lacked the warmth and good humour of last year’s guide. I was disappointed but unsurprised.

A sudden migraine headache on the Saturday meant I missed the trip to Filey and instead stayed ‘home, alone’ and rested. The opportunity to stop in and watch the Ashes Test was not wasted though and I was glued to every ball. Steve Harmison’s slower ball to dismiss Clarke was true art and rivalled Warne’s deadly spinner to get rid of the elegant Strauss as delivery of the match. The drama was immense on the Sunday and I was certainly resigned to England losing as the Australian lower order ate further and further into England’s lead. Any jubilation I felt at Kasprowicz gloving a beauty to Jones was certainly overshadowed by huge, huge relief. I was trying to explain to Theo why I enjoyed supporting Gloucester RFC the other day and I said that, after time, one starts to know the players really well and appreciate their quirks and personalities in the sporting arena so that one wills them to succeed for rather simple human reasons. The English cricket boys receive my support for similar reasons now and after watching them progress so encouragingly over the past couple of years* I feel I know them pretty well. I find it hard to express how desperate I am for them to reclaim the Ashes for the first time since I was a youth.

I am reading a really beautiful book at the moment, ‘The Shadow of the Wind’ by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It is set in post-Civil War Barcelona and is a ghostly mystery tinged with elements of romance and tenderness. It is an unusual read and struggles to fit into any genre. Its elegant, almost poetic style renders it a delightful piece of art though. I recommend it.

The chickens arrive tomorrow. Perhaps it is not the done thing to name pets before they are truly yours but we have decided firmly to name the birds after Gloucestershire’s prehistoric burial sites so they will be known as Hetty and Bella after Hetty Pegler’s Tump in Uley and Belas Knap near Winchcome. These are definitely more imaginative names than those our cats have: Ginger and Marmalade.

* S telephoned while I was typing this nonsense up and maintains strongly that my allegiance to the England cricket team is less tangible and much more recent than this. In fact he states firmly that, 'You hate the English cricket team.' I beg to disagree with the young man. I feel a bit hurt actually.

Plastic Sniffed

The plastic was sniffed before I had left the Kingsholm ticket office and, as ever, it reminded me of something from my childhood which, for the life of me, I can’t quite recall. Walkinshaw’s address to the masses was understated and fairly dull while the badge is larger than in previous years but still ghastly. I am a season ticket holder once more and approach the new term with plenty of optimism and zest. Close seasons are incredible for helping one forget atrocious performances and horrendous losses. Also, I am, it seems, gratefully in receipt of the hottest ticket in the west, and shall be attending the Worcester vs. Gloucester match at the beginning of September.

The Coles are heading to Pickering for a few days - gosh, I hope no burglars read these pages! - so a dormant period should be expected.

Sniffing the Plastic

I’m heartened and encouraged by the news that the city club defeated the might of Leeds yesterday and by a handy enough margin too. I’m glad that Collazo is back to shore up the scrum and I confess to feeling relief that Monsieur Mercier is back in the colours. We need to play uncompromising ten man rugby as often as we can this term and eke out territory before unleashing our remarkable backs. Frankly, I’m not sure where Henry Paul is going to fit into Gloucester’s plans next season. Tindall (Tinds?) and Simpson-Daniel would be my first choice centres with the loyal servant Fanolua and the young bucks Allen and Adams waiting in the wings. I didn’t rate Paul’s attitude last season and consider him an expensive makeweight. I’m looking forward to the rugby a lot more now. I’ll be purchasing my season ticket for ‘The Shed’ (I somewhat dislike that term) on Thursday. It shall be a cash transaction and, as ever, I shall vigorously sniff the ticket’s plastic wallet within seconds of purchase, read Tom Walkinshaw’s accompanying letter and fall for its charm before examining the pin-on badge safe in the knowledge that I’ll never be seen dead wearing it in public. I shall then flick through the pages of my ticket and consider what disasters and triumphs those unprepossessing pages will bring over the next few months. Then I’ll go home for a nice cup of tea.

We have changed our mind about the chicken house. Today we ordered the coolest coop on the market, the Eglu, made by the uber-hip Omlet company that has helped make chicken-keeping the hottest hobby around. Our Eglu and two chickens arrive a week tomorrow and I am beside myself with excitement.

Hot Chicks

A busy day or two. Today the Coles headed out to Honeybourne near Broadway and checked out a variety of chicken houses as we are to start keeping a couple of hens in our back garden soon. We’ll probably plump for a ‘Half Pint Penthouse’ which should provide a decent place for a pair of Black Rocks (see picture) to live in. Excitingly, these hens are prolific layers and could produce, as a pair, well over 500 eggs a year. I can think of few things more pleasing than tucking into a couple of boiled eggs, freshly laid in the back garden by two contented pets.

Gloucester, it appears, may have narrowly lost to Castres this evening in a tournament in France. I must confess that rugby football matters have passed me by recently. Murmurs on internet guestbooks continue to depress me somewhat. The latest causes for mass despair seem to be the changing of the badge on the team shirts and, this week, the unveiling of new unhooped kit. I can cope with both changes. Those up in arms over the new crest have shortish memories as I don’t think the team used to wear a crest until recently. In my early days at Kingsholm the lads used to wear a simple shirt with no embellishment whatsoever. I also feel folk fail to realise that we have absolutely no say what the players wear on the pitch as the club is owned lock and stock by Tom Walkinshaw after supporters overwhelmingly voted that the bloke should be able to do so. I’d rather the players wore cherry and white hoops but I’ll cope with a new modern look if the abject performances of last term are banished and results improve. Frankly, in these difficult times, there are more important things to worry about.

Watts Per

In a moment of consumer lust I bought a fabulous speaker system for my MP3 player yesterday. The manager of Dixons (sadly I couldn’t wait patiently and buy online) furnished me with item after item to plug my Creative into and test for loudness and greatness and eventually I plumped for the doughnut shaped beauty, a JBL OnStage, that is pictured above. It is only a tiny thing really but, by heck, it makes a wonderful noise. I love it very much.

This summer I have started working part-time (and on a voluntary basis) for Oxfam in Gloucester mainly because it keeps me busy but also because they posted an advert in their window asking for people to help redo their book department. They have a large warehouse of books ‘out the back’ and today I ruthlessly set about ‘culling’ (Oxfam’s word) the shelves of older stock and replacing it with higher quality and more sellable stuff. It was marvellous fun and the time flew by. At the end of my stint, the shelves were packed with lots of my favourite writers (Ian McEwan, John O’Farrell, Malcolm Bradbury) where earlier the likes of Maeve Binchy and Catherine Cookson had nestled dully. The staff were friendly and quite a mix. This afternoon a fallow seventeen year old lad in the warehouse tried to get me into Motley Crue and Green Day by playing me their hits loudly. Rather condescendingly I explained that ‘I was there’ for the original punk rock but must admit to surreptitiously tapping my toe to ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ by Tommy Lee and company as I priced up my next batch of modern literature.

The Sun!

These pages have been a tad neglected recently but I have nothing really exciting to report.

I vowed not to touch the blessed things but I have been sucked in and now am ever-so-slightly hooked and am developing a bit of a habit. I am talking about Su Doku puzzles. I have been a bit sniffy about these things mainly because, as an admirer of chess and crosswords, I have felt they lack a certain depth in comparison. I think that does hold true still but they represent a fine mental challenge and I enjoy tackling them. I have two Su Doku books and took one to a child’s party at the weekend so I could sit in the corner and cogitate. One mum spotting this, asked me if I, like her, had a go at the Su Doku puzzles in The Sun every day. I don’t think she realised that they also appear in most of the broadsheets too. I politely replied in the negative and made a mental note: Sun reader.

I am listening to the new Brian Eno album, Another Day on Earth a good deal. In fact, I’m playing it to death. It is a subtle item and it needs a few plays to fully appreciate its layers and profundities. Eno is certainly an artist I have to seek out and learn more about. The tag of ‘ambient pioneer’ is often given to the fellow and I am sure much of his back catalogue would be right up my street.

Capital

Yesterday was fun and certainly unusual. My dear son and I travelled to London Town by charabanc and were treated to a wonderful personal tour of both chambers of the Houses of Parliament by Stuart and Chris who work for our M.P.. I’m really interested in history and politics and all that malarkey and it was rather exciting to stand at the dispatch box where countless Prime Ministers have addressed the House. Later on we met Gloucester’s member, Parmjit and had a drink on the terrace of the Commons overlooking the Thames before watching half an hour of Jack Straw answering Foreign Office questions in the main chamber. It was certainly a day to remember.

The rest of the day was spent shopping. I ventured into the London Bridge and Chess Centre and bought some chess pens and postcards, a quaint and somewhat charming Russian chess puzzle book and a demonstration board that I’ve wanted for school for ages. We then strolled purposefully to Hamleys where T bought a magic set and helped…ahem…Mr Magic, Hamleys’ magic department fellow do a couple of tricks. There were lots of onlookers. Outside I spotted my only celebrity of the day if you discount Parliament: Ade Adepitan who plays wheelchair basketball for Great Britain wheeled past. I had to look up his name on the net but he was instantly recognisable.

It was somewhat eerie travelling on the London Underground after the awful events of the 7th but I’m glad we did it. I certainly felt a touch nervous when the doors slid shut for the first time of the day at Victoria but that feeling soon disappeared and it swiftly became second nature again.

A Pleasant Shock

I’m enjoying the process of unwinding and relaxing that comes from a period of holiday. On Saturday the Coles and the L family spent a smashing day at Bristol’s Ashton Court Festival. I confess that we didn’t get to see many bands but we certainly tapped into a fine vibe, ate well and exotically and, in the case of S3 and I, visited the beer tent regularly. The shopping experience was fun: one could buy anything, anything. I certainly would fancy 'doing' Ashton Court again next year.

One band that S3 and I did catch was Minotaur Shock (above) which is really another name for the young and affable Bristolian multi-instrumentalist David Edwards who was jauntily chucking energetic and angular gee-tar shapes over electronic samples and rhythms with another multi-instrumentalist, cheerful Emily Wakefield, adding soothing clarinet and flute textures to the whole mix. They made a joyful sound. They are on 4AD records. I’m playing the second album Maritime as I write this but Chiff-Chaffs and Willow Warblers, the debut, is also worth a close listen. I first mentioned Minotaur Shock on these pages back in April.

Longings

Hot and bothered.

I must confess that I long for the weekend. On Saturday the Coles are heading to the Ashton Court Festival in Bristol for the day, certainly a first for me. The Super Furry Animals - to a certain extent, a band who have regrettably passed me by - will be headlining but there should be plenty of other treats too. I note that both local drum and bass hero Roni Size (New Forms is a stunning album) and dub reggae stalwarts Zion Train will be in action at some point this weekend and I hope it is Saturday. There'll be plenty for the kids to do too. I simply look forward to chilling, preferably with the coolest of beers in my hand. There should be plenty of superb food on sale too. At midnight on Friday night I will collect the copy of the new Harry Potter book that I ordered from Ottakars last week. I plumped for the adult cover. I have my pride.

Terry Hall

I played the Terry Hall album this afternoon and it - no real surprise here - proved a delight, full of pop gems and intelligent lyrics. It was fun trying to guess who wrote what with Hall (see yesterday) and I still haven’t checked the cover to ascertain the information. Hall’s voice is a national treasure, as laconic, plaintive and mildly sarcastic on ‘Home’ and last year’s fabulous ‘The Hour of Two Lights’ as it was when he bleated out, ‘Ain't you heard of contraception?’ back in 1979.

This is the first time I have published a photograph on these pages. The new bass strap is seen in action. Paul Simonon eat your heart out.

Buy Buy Buy! Sell Sell Sell!

This was the first Saturday in a while that I’ve been able to fully relax and it’s been a pleasant day. I popped into Gloucester this morning for a few bits and pieces and dwelt on how old one feels when buying a bass guitar strap for one’s son. By chance I encountered S in town who was furtively attending to some financial transactions. We chatted amiably for five minutes outside The Body Shop.

This afternoon was spent profitably at the Sir Thomas Rich’s School car boot sale where I picked up four CDs, Maxinquaye by Tricky, Dummy by Portishead to continue the trip-hop theme, Home by Terry Hall and Debut by Bjork. Alas the Bjork CD case was empty of disc on our return home but I enjoyed the Tricky album this afternoon and look forward to further listens. I already have the wonderfully atmospheric Portishead album on tape but I really wanted it for my MP3 player and I always enjoy anything by Terry Hall. His album, which I haven’t yet played, contains songs co-written by Ian Broudie, Nick ‘Haircut 100’ Heyward, Andy ‘XTC’ Partridge and Craig ‘Briefly in The Smiths’ Gannon. I reckon it’ll be a fine listen.

I also bought a 1968 Roy of the Rovers annual to add to my collection and seven Charlie Buchan Soccer Gift Books from the sixties and seventies (including a few of these) for 50 pence each. This is somewhat out of character but I’m tempted to flog the blighters on eBay – something I’ve never done before – and make a few quid for the holidays. They are in incredibly good condition.

The Lions have been extremely disappointing in New Zealand and only a few players have emerged with any significant credit. For me, Joshua Lewsey has been the pick of the tourists’ backs and he has shown grit, skill, pace, power and intelligence in the tests. The best forward was Gethin Jenkins who held his own in the tight and rampaged manfully in the loose. Eventually I gave up hoping for any spark from our team and concentrated on appreciating the art served up by the All Blacks. They are a remarkable team and will surely prove worthy winners of the next World Cup. Unbelievably it will be 20 years since their last and only success.

David Essex

It is nice to return to these pages after a week or two’s break. My muses were needed elsewhere for a bit.

The South African Quinton Davids has signed for Gloucester. By all accounts this fellow is a bit of an underachiever and has perceived fitness – and possibly attitude – problems. Dean Ryan is building him up to be a key signing though and, as ever, I’ll give any new signing the benefit of the doubt. He is certainly a big chap and is being billed as the perfect foil for the more lightweight and effete Alexander Brown. We need a burly bruiser and I hope it works out. A South African colleague of D rates the guy. Fingers crossed, eh?

It seems that Alan Tait may be on the way to Kingsholm to replace surly David Ellis as the club’s defensive coach. I welcome this news. The new Scottish contingent on the management team shall certainly bring a professional outlook and a pleasing ambition to the Cherry and Whites. The Davids/Tait news has cheered me and I merely long for a new full back to complete the squad. My current opinion is that we must include Olly Morgan somewhere in the fifteen next season, possibly on the wing. I’d quite like a speedy, hard-as-nails guy to don the 15 shirt as well.

I got the new Saint Etienne album today, Tales From Turnpike House. It has received generally fine reviews apart from Q Magazine who panned it. The Guardian gave it five stars – a rare accolade – and on the first couple of listens I have grown to appreciate its wit and sunny textures. It is dubbed a ‘concept album’ because it features songs about a fictitious block of flats in London. I can cope with this. I detect a Free Design influence on the first track. David Essex is a guest vocalist on one song. I can cope with this too. I quite like the bloke. Rock On was a cracking number although I never fully appreciated the darker soundscapes of Winter’s Tale.

I popped into Gloucester’s best – well, actually I mean coolest – record shop, Pulp the other weekend to see of they had the Saint Etienne album. It hadn’t arrived in but the manager, a bit of a dude, was blasting out The Friends of Rachel Worth by the wonderful Go-Betweens. I know that S will hate me for this but I engaged the bloke in conversation about the acclaimed Antipodeans and probably sounded a bit of a pompous know-all to onlookers. However, I managed to drop into the chat that I had seen the band recently as well as proffering advice on Grant McLennan’s solo output. Frankly I feel I emerged from this encounter with great credit. I shall certainly stroll into the Pulp emporium next time with head held high.