Cheer

I shall venture to Kingsholm tomorrow to cheer on the Cherry and Whites against the hordes from Leinster. Disappointingly, there is nothing to play for for the home team except old-fashioned pride and, worringly, Leinster, with a dazzling array of backs on display, will be seeking a substantial victory in order to further their hopes of a home tie in the quarter-finals. I fear for my favoured team but look forward to and hope for a gritty performance, plenty of ‘dog’ and, perhaps, a memorable and morale boosting result. If nothing else, it will be remarkable to witness the world’s best centre, Brian O’Driscoll plying his trade at the historic ground.

I downloaded a couple more Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy albums today. I have popped Master and Everyone and I See a Darkness onto my MP3 player and shall give them a listen tonight. All the reviews I have read lavish praise upon these recordings.

Vert Enough

The deed is done and I’m off to a festival this summer. I booked a brace of tickets for this August’s Green Man Festival earlier this evening, one for me and one for the affable Warrington-bred S. I anticipate that other comrades may be heading to Brecon in the hols too. I hope so. No acts have been confirmed yet but by February I should learn who is playing and, by all accounts, the bill is an exciting one. In a way, knowing who is going to be playing can help determine what CDs I listen to this spring; it will be lovely to head off to Wales having really ‘got into’ a number of acts that otherwise would have passed under the old radar. I’m glad the tickets are booked; I reckon with this being a Glastonbury year, there might be a few disappointed people seeking a Green Man ticket soonish so getting in early might prove salient. As I’ve mentioned on here before, I don’t enjoy sleeping under canvas (an understatement!) but I’ll put that thought to one side for a while and start planning a mental-health-enhancement programme in July.

This may not be uptown Jamaica but we promise you a treat

Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy accompanied me as I strolled along the supermarket aisles this morning. The worthily bearded lo-fi singer-songwriter was not there in person as I perused the choices in the cereal section but I was playing his stunning recording The Letting Go that A wistfully delivered into my life earlier this week. It’s a beautiful album full of space, understated calm and sweet, sweet melodies augmented by some striking male/female harmonies courtesy of Dawn McCarthy and the man himself. I’m keen to hear some more by this fellow. I’ve heard The Letting Go five or six times now and each listen reveals more layers and more depth to the album and I’m excited by the knowledge that there is an extensive back catalogue to explore. As I am part of a expedition setting manfully out in a fortnight to see Billy at Bristol’s Colston Hall I am naturally eager to investigate his earlier stuff.

Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?

Last night’s loss against Agen was hard to take. Gutless capitulations are among the most awful losses to contend with but the defeat in France, brave, heroic and underpinned by gritty defence and exhilarating attack, seems almost harder to bear. I was convinced yesterday evening, and remain resolute in my opinion today, that the officials cost us the match with a series of shockingly inconsistent and deplorable decisions. Gloucester deserved at least two penalty tries (and, crucially, one towards the end), an Agen forward should have been shown a red card for holding the Italian behemoth Nieto by his flowing tresses while continually punching his gnarled visage, and Michael Tindall was binned immediately for entering a ruck at the side while French players, although penalised for similar and worse offences, were spared the yellow-hued punishment indicator. I dislike the city club losing any match but I feel especially miserable about the Agen defeat. We didn’t deserve this. I sense we were cheated and that hurts.

On a happier note, I observe that the main Gloucester library in Brunswick Road is hosting another mighty sale of CDs and DVDs on Saturday 27th January. I shall be there and I hope to have saved enough of my pocket money by then to really make the most of the opportunity.

The Forrester Fellow

James Forrester has signed on the dotted line today in a new deal that will keep the expressionist back row rascal at the city club until 2010.This news pleases me. Like Ryan Lamb, Forrester thrives more obviously on harder pitches, and when the ground is firm and a warm sun is on his back there are fewer more abundant talents to value. I would suggest that – and I type this as the rain lashes against my Longlevens windowpane – James needs to prove himself more consistently on the wintry mud plains and tag a bit of unfashionable Bucko-ism onto the rest of his bewitching talents. As things stand, I’m relieved he remains at Kingsholm; there are few match winners and gain line breakers of his quality in the English game and I hope to see his talent fully fulfilled in the next stage of his career.

Like a sucker, I always fall for the spin that accompanies any new signing or re-signing at Kingsholm and allow my eyes to mist over at the gorgeous expressions of appreciation the coaches seem to reserve for the new or renewed players, and the players for the city club. On closer inspection, I can’t believe James Forrester actually uttered these words today: “As a group we are very clear about where we are heading. The coaching environment is really stimulating and the players are given the responsibility to go out and play attacking rugby, which suits my game perfectly. The training facilities at Hartpury College are the best I’ve seen at club level, so the whole package is there.” He didn’t really say that, did he?

Do Belle & Sebastian Songs All Sound The Same?

I picked up a couple of 2006’s most critically acclaimed long players on Saturday for the princely sum of a single British pound. Admittedly, I don’t own these items but the local library in Longlevens allows members to borrow two CDs for the price of one on Saturdays. As a result, I am tapping these words onto my screen while I listen to Neko Case’s Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, a pleasing and tender collection of (I hate the expression) alt-country songs, delivered in a crystal-clear voice. This is only my second playing and I admire it thus far without being as astounded as some of its glowing reviewers would expect. I also hired The Life Pursuit by Belle and Sebastian. This is full of melody and wit and enjoyable numbers but, and I risk being lynched by floral skirt and ironic hairgrip wearing hordes here, a lot of Belle and Sebastian songs do, in my very humble opinion, sound the same. The formula seems to consist of a wibbly-wobbly (I can think of no better word) tune coupled with heaps of singing about the pain and angst of what everyday life must be like for someone who doesn’t have to consider mortgage payments or car insurance and only has to worry about whether its cool or not to enjoy late-period Tallulah Gosh records. The Life Pursuit is a fine record with some outstanding moments. It just seems a wee bit smug. I've been struggling with a virus for the past few days so perhaps cute indie-pop isn't hitting the spot for that reason.

Fowl Play

I promised back here that I’d report on the Cole chicken project and am pleased to do so today. It has proved a heady year for our poultry-keeping hobby. Back in the early summer, our two chickens, Hetty and Bella started getting broody, sitting on their eggs all the blinking time and becoming quite fierce if you took away the egg or disturbed them in any way. I suppose we could have continued putting up with this rather juvenile behaviour but instead we got hold of some fertilised eggs from a fellow fancier which we placed under our pair of birds and waited to see what happened. How exciting!

The momentous day that our first baby chick hatched is easy to recall: it was June 10th, the morning of the day that England kicked off their World Cup campaign against the doughty Paraguayans. I remember thinking, ‘Not now! I’ve an incredibly important association football match to inspect!’ Anyhow, after a week, five chicks had hatched and they were very fluffy and cute and everything a bona fide chick should aspire to. As the days passed, it transpired that four were female and just one, rejoicing in the name ‘Tweetheart’, was a strutting, haughty cockerel in the making. The good burghers of Longlevens would never allow us to keep a noisy cockerel so Tweetheart had to leave along with Peckham (named after the brave England skipper) and Angel. They went to a good home in the country.

We decided to keep a couple of hens, Pasty (named after the former Longlevens, Gloucester, Gloucestershire and England ‘A’ rugby footballer, Mark ‘Pasty’ Cornwell) and Grey Bird (a grey bird). I think Grey Bird was originally called Charlie and later became known as Dickie. They are adults now I guess and, happily, are producing eggs for us. All four in our family of hens lay practically every day so we enjoy about one hundreds eggs each month from our tiny flock. They are gorgeous eggs too and all the better because they came from happy – some would say spoilt – birds who live in our garden. Our chickens have a rectangle of land where they stroll around all day, eating and drinking and stuff before retiring to their des res Eglu or rabbit hutch. Their favourite foods are pasta (especially the variety known as 'spaghetti'), rice, cheese, worms and grass although they mainly consume something called layers’ mash. They drink only water.

Here are some photos. Look above you. Some captions:

1. Some baby chicks, a day or two old. England are still in the group stages of the World Cup.

2. Hetty with adopted son Tweetheat (four to six weeks old). England are probably still in the World Cup which has now reached the thrilling ‘knock-out’ stage.

3. Hetty and Tweetheart again at about the same time.

4. Today. The World Cup is a distant memory. Left to right: Hetty, Pasty, Grey Bird, Bella.

Londres

Yesterday was tiring but fun, a lengthy day spent in the capital sandwiched by two longish train journeys, the first of which rendered us five-and-seventy minutes late, ruining my well-planned schedule. We still packed a lot in, including an hour or so sliding at the Tate Modern before a hearty and spicy ‘Ruby Murray’ in Notting Hill. I am suffering from London Eye fatigue; yesterday’s ‘flight’, my third, was a touch underwhelming and I reckon the novelty has now worn off. It was almost a case of ‘Oh yeah, there’s Big Ben. Hmmm, the Gherkin…’ I don’t think I’ll travel on it again. My debut, a couple of years back, was thrilling though.

As so often happens, a heavy day is followed by a visit from Mr Migraine the next morning and I feel decidedly groggy today.

What do points make?

Gloucester 15 - London Irish 3

Oh dear. This must rank as one of the dullest matches I have witnessed at Kingsholm. The appalling weather conditions conspired with some less than satisfactory decision making to throw up a game that was short on excitement, thrills and any real skill or intelligent football. It was dreary but at least Gloucester collected four points and prevented our opponents, potential rivals for top-of-table spoils come late spring, from attaining a bonus point. As suggested in my words previewing this fixture, Balshaw eclipsed the boy Foster, and in a twenty minute cameo ran thoughtful lines, chose angles that Pythagoras himself would have saluted and, importantly, scored the try that made the victory safe. Lamb did not enjoy his best game for the city but the wind and rain excuse him and I feel he was, in the style of a Nazi leader at Nuremburg, only obeying instructions when kicking down his opponents’ collective neck so much. One to forget.

This morning was exciting though. I appeared on the Phill Jupitus Breakfast Show on BBC 6Music. I texted in my correct answer (‘Oliver Twist’ for posterity) and, minutes later, the show’s producer Phil Wilding called me and asked if I’d like to speak to Phill live on air. It was enormous fun and the jocular host put me at my ease skilfully as we chatted about Christmas and various CDs from last year. I’ve won a couple of books which are on the way, my first prizes from that fine radio station for ages (I must have won seven or eight prizes in the past). Naturally, being a vain so-and-so I was straight onto ‘Listen Again’ at the show’s conclusion to hear our jovial dialogue. It will be online for one week – our exchange takes place two hours and fifty minutes into the show and you are able to fast forward in units of five or fifteen minutes.

Happy New Year.

Y Viva Espana!

Winter in Madrid by C. J. Sansom is not a book I would have chosen myself. I was given it for Christmas and completed it this afternoon, having immersed myself in its drama and complexities for the past three or four days. Having half-heartedly studied the Spanish Civil War at school I was vaguely aware of the intricacies of a dark and bloody period and this book’s detailed exploration of that time and the politically strained aftermath when Spain’s role in the World War was under watchful examination from all sides brought a fascinating subject into close focus. The novel proved more than just a history lesson though. As a thriller, albeit one with more dialogue than raw action, its twists kept the pages turning routinely and the close attention paid to the nuances of the characters meant the denouement was all the more electrifying as one’s sympathies with or antipathies towards various individuals kept one on edge for the last hundred pages. I can imagine this book being filmed and envisage the last paragraph in particular, an absolute belter of a surprise, really jolting audiences. I’m not usually one for espionage-dominated thrillers but this novel certainly had me thinking and, importantly, made the heart race as events conspired and combined relentlessly towards a stirring conclusion.

London Irish/London

The splendid and celebrated city club faces a battle and a half on New Year’s Day. The visitors, London Irish, are renowned for their physicality and forward strength and I mournfully recall a defeat in the corresponding fixture last term when an immense Reading-based eight out-muscled and bullied the Gloucester forwards. A similar struggle meets the Cherry and Whites this time although the addition of Nieto, Califano and Bortolami to the pack will lend the home side more parity this time. The performance of Ryan Lamb (pictured) will prove crucial. The nipper has enjoyed an inconsistent season thus far but I am sure a performance where it all clicks and the Tredworth Tyro cuts an opposition fifteen to shreds will arrive sooner or later. Naturally I hope it is against Irish and the selection of energetic Scot Rory Lawson will help; the former Edinburgh scrummie has indubitably impressed recently and his keen pass and alert ways will help ‘The Lambster’ no end. I am glad the stylish Oliver Morgan is back at full-back but wish Balshaw was still in the fifteen, in place of the satisfactorily functional but vaguely underwhelming Foster.

I am taking the elder of the Cole girls to London next Wednesday, travelling on a locomotive for a change. We intend to visit the Tate Modern where Carsten Höller has filled the vast Turbine Hall with a series of huge slides. The Tate’s website calls it an ‘exploration of communal human experience’ but I sense we’ll just call it ‘a lot of fun’. I hope the weather is fine. I have embarked on a couple of ‘flights’ on the outstanding London Eye but each time the weather has been overcast and a touch damp. It would be good to enjoy the views from this remarkable erection on a clear day to really appreciate it. Third time lucky, hopefully.

180

I have become slightly addicted to the coverage of the World Darts Championships that Sky Sports is telecasting to a grateful nation. Some of the matches in Purfleet’s Circus Tavern have been incredibly tense and thrilling with a hint of controversy on occasions. Last night there was a right palaver when Chris ‘The Ace’ Mason verbally abused his vanquisher, Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor at the conclusion of their battle. Taylor was not happy. My favourite, Colin ‘The Wizard’ Osborne was knocked out this afternoon. I enjoyed the Middlesbrough-born darter’s modest and unassuming manner; his lack of histrionics and aggression proved a pleasing antidote to some of his less erudite and cultured rivals’ conduct. On achieving a ‘maximum’ or on winning a leg or set, the self-effacing Northerner seemed content to merely nod his approval rather than leap up and down or contort his face as others prefer. He was rather cool and the tournament is poorer for his absence. To be frank, I long to be actually in the Purfleet crowd if only for one evening, imbibing and bellowing unselfconsciously among the other ‘arrows’ fans. I would adopt a look of ironic detachment between matches but in the heat of the action might well ‘lose it’ slightly.

New

Whoosh. Christmas went quickly and is over for another year. I am happy to slip back into a semblance of a routine now and concentrate on listening to all the new CDs I have received and purchased with vouchers recently. Last week’s end of year Top Five may have been constructed a little too hastily as a trio of long players, all released within the last twelve months, is keeping me entertained and contented. I have mentioned Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan’s Ballad of Broken Seas already but I have also been listening to Cat Power’s The Greatest and Fionn Regan’s The End of History. The Greatest – not a Greatest Hits package, heaven forbid - is a classy piece of work, fragile yet striking, mainly down-tempo songs delivered in a country style with the crystal-clear and delicate voice of chanteuse Chan Marshall to the fore. It’s lovely. I have also grown fond of Fionn Regan’s album. A and I saw this young Irish troubadour supporting Midlake back in July and since then his debut album has been released to plenty of acclaim. And rightly so. The End of History is a charming, clever young scamp, packed with appealing melody and razor-sharp, world-weary and, at times, confessional lyricism. A few reviews make inevitable Nick Drake comparisons and Regan’s dextrous fingering of his guitar strings does suggest similarities but I sense more of a Ryan Adams influence in several of the numbers. I recommend.

Handy Beacon

The Coles (photographed standing in descending age order, left to right) enjoyed a bracing walk on Painswick Beacon this morning. It was a tad cold but, happily and like a chip oil of olden times, crisp and dry. The usual collective of dog walkers, golfers, runners, cyclists, horse folk, ramblers and gentlefolk merrily permeated the area. We usually have a stroll out on Christmas Eve, often in the Forest of Dean. Other activities planned for today include peeling vegetables, wrapping presents, wondering how Marco Bortolami is celebrating Christmas and listening to the Sufjan Stevens Christmas boxed set. I am participating in the last of those deeds (CD 5, ‘Peace’, if you’re asking) as I type these words.

Season's Greetings.

Festival Fever/Frenzy

A recent email from D highlighted problems with the recent All Tomorrows Parties festival at Butlin’s in Minehead that he and his posse attended. There seems every indication that the organisation may have overstretched itself on moving from the cosy, slightly ramshackle but extremely enjoyable Pontin’s at Camber Sands. When my cohort and I went to ATP a couple of years ago, there were no queues to speak of, one was able to drift between arenas and see who you wanted, when you wanted and, generally, chill. This appears not to be the case now. The articulate D maintains, ‘I hope they (ATP) can recover what they had,’ and if they can, I am quietly tempted by either of the Easter festivals when, inter alia, Echo and the Bunnymen, Shellac, Nick Cave, Joanna Newsom, Sparklehorse, Cat Power and Low are due to appear.

I was with S last night (not that S, but another one who is dear to me) and early negotiations took place regarding us attending next summer’s Green Man Festival. I await others’ views.

Punks Jump Up

The youngest Cole nonchalantly - and with the merest hint of insouciance - models a prize winner. Scritti Politti’s White Bread Black Beer is this humble website’s Album of the Year (2006). I informed D, on the Kingsholm terracing of all places, that WBBB was this year’s finest long playing record back in September to which he rather casually retorted, ‘Ah, there’s a long way to go yet’ or words to that effect. Well, he’ll be laughing on the other side of his face now. The Gartside fellow has pulled it off.

White Bread Black Beer really is a sweet record, full of personal reflections, tenderness, self-deprecation and mea culpas galore. It’s a clever recording too, packed with subtleties and nuances that only reveal themselves after several listens and I congratulate it for bringing a bit of patience and perseverance back into my listening life. Repeated plays really do harvest riches. To be frank, I’m just chuffed that someone I admired twenty years has returned, not with a clumsy reunion tour and a stewed, skewed greatest hits package, but with a fresh and vibrant piece of art that enhances a reputation and adds maturity, class and warmth to an already remarkable back catalogue. Bravo!

I know the music industry is waiting with bated breath so here’s my Top Five in full:

1. White Bread Black Beer – Scritti Politti
2. The Trials of Van Occupanther – Midlake
3. Ys – Joanna Newsom
4. Anti-Depressant – Lloyd Cole
5. The Avalanche - Sufjan Stevens

'Nothing by My Chemical Romance?' I hear you yell.

No Whole-Wheat Bisks Today

It is good to relax. Tonight we’re going to watch A Very Long Engagement on Sky Movies, sip pleasing drinks and indulge in up-market snacks. Not having to use one brain cell considering what to do tomorrow is so life-affirming after a hectic few weeks. Sitting here typing these few sentences into the computer while listening to Neutral Milk Hotel’s In The Aeroplane Over The Sea is as animated as I intend to be today. My breakfast this morning symbolised my holiday mood. Instead of the usual, rushed brace of whole-wheat bisks und soya milk, I was able to poach a pair of freshly laid eggs, fry a handful of closed cup mushrooms and lay said items tenderly upon some toasted wholemeal bread with a splash of Soy sauce and a scattering of sea salt to season the serving. This meal set me up for the day beautifully.

The Rugby

Edinburgh 14 - Gloucester 31

Although I watched the match on my own – we had Sky Sports and Movies reinstalled last week as a Christmas treat – I feel a bit hoarse. I was yelling like a demonic demon when Oliver Morgan flashed through to collect a Willy Walker kick and canter deliriously over the whitewash for Gloucester’s crucial fourth try. Gloucester deserved to win; the forward platform the dignified Bortolami and colleagues provided was awesome and, especially when Richards and Walker formed the half-back duo, the backs attacked with no little élan. It was terribly exciting.

With hindsight, I am glad that Leinster defeated Agen yesterday. The French team are rather unsatisfactorily positioned to qualify now and I’m not sure how much of a struggle they will put up against the esteemed and mighty city club in our next Heineken Cup fixture. If Gloucester can sneak another 5-0 victory (or 5-1 or 5-2) then the Leinster match will be a huge and historic battle. But, let’s take one game at a time and not consider the Irish for a while; I’ve suffered too many anti-climaxes to start fantasising about silverware yet.

Before Jimmy's machine and the rocksteady rub

My birthday was pleasant and low-key. The five Coles strolled to the Balti Hut in deepest Longlevens in the evening for a nosh-up. After twenty or thirty consecutive Vegetable Biryanis I have moved on to a new favourite: the Vegetable Bhuna. I have now had two on the trot. It’s a touch spicier and I rather like the texture of the thing. I was as full as a barrel at the end of the meal. We all trooped into the Co-op on the way home to buy some ice creams to consume when we arrived home. That was a nice touch.

The lucky birthday boy has got loads, loads of new music to play. I had five CDs on the day itself and some vouchers for Fopp and His Master’s Voice that I spent voraciously on seven further recordings this morning. The tokens were, as they say, burning a hole in my trouser pocketage. I won’t be a boring chump and list all I received and chose but it is a fine mixture of old and new. I’ve been sampling the ‘old’ mainly today while I viewed a host of superb European rugby football matches with the sound turned down, supine on the sofa, adopting a languorous and indolent manner. I especially appreciated Dexys Midnight Runners’ Searching for the Young Soul Rebels and I’m playing it for the second time now. The newish Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan album is a dainty and melodic treat and, by heck, I’ve loved reacquainting m’self with Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Juju, a powerful, macabre and haunting long player. I also got The Beatles’ Love album which sounds wonderful; I’m not entirely sure what the point of it is though.

I could have spent a fortune in Fopp. I unexpectedly alighted upon S in that shop, casually flicking through the jazz racks, a young and sharp blade that one wouldn’t guess was approaching his fortieth year. He described Fopp as ‘dangerous’; he is right – there is so much of quality to buy there. So many choices.

I say, I say, I say...

I’ve been a nervous wreck waking up in recent weeks knowing I have to tune in and discover the latest state of play in the Ashes fixtures down under. I honestly feel it has affected my sleep to a certain extent as stirring in the middle of the night during a Test has meant I’ve been immediately bolt upright worrying about Freddie and Harmy and company. This morning was fine though and I’m delighted that the irrepressible ‘Monty’ has lit up a day’s play with a 'five for'. With Australia, who won the toss, dismissed for 244 and England on 51 for the loss of a couple, it is all to play for. The team needs a big partnership or two and, hopefully, a three figure lead. The nerves are building; once again I’m not looking forward to switching on the radio tomorrow morning.

The Coles went to see The Queen tonight at t’Guildhall. It was quietly thought-provoking and, dealing with the events after the death of the saintly Diana, a tangible jog to the old memory. I recall a kind of mass hysteria in 1997 where, if you weren’t overcome, lachrymose and haunted by the passing of, in my humble opinion, a fairly humdrum individual, you felt you ran the risk of being lynched. In many ways it was not this country’s finest moment methinks. It worried me.

I was horrified to read a posting on a Gloucester rugby messageboard today where an individual had chosen to share three jokes about the recent and tragic murder of five sex workers in Ipswich. Young lives, young tragic lives are snuffed out and wasted, the lives of somebody’s daughter, sister, mother and someone is sad enough not only to find this humorous but is insensitive and ignorant enough to consider that others would welcome the chance to share in the fun. I ain't laughing. At times, contemplating the sort of thoughtless morons who sully our society with such a tactless lack of gumption depresses the life out of me. Is that all those girls' lifes were worth? The chance for a bit of a titter about hookers... Brilliant.