And always the traffic, always the lights

I’ve neglected the rugby union recently both on these ‘umble pages and in, as they say, real life. A family event in North Wales stole me away from the home European tie against Biarritz, I didn’t make the trip to Cardiff to watch the Gloucester fellows lose rather disappointingly and, as reported yesterday, missed the EDF fixture against the Dragons o’ Newport due to a desire for cinematic fun. I need to regain some enthusiasm for the cause but a fairly lacklustre start to the season coupled with a hugely upsetting injury to my favourite player, the young prince Simpson-Daniel, has left me lacking in zeal. Sorry for being so mundane.

Robert Forster’s solo album The Evangelist is beautiful and utterly moving. The former Go-Between has conjured up seven new songs and has recorded three numbers that he had written with songwriting partner Grant McLennan before his tragic and premature death three years ago. These tracks are the most poignant; they indicate just how wondrous the pair’s talent for melody and lyricism was and, sadly, could have continued to have been. Forster touchingly sings of his deep affection for McLennan throughout the record and it’s incredibly moving. The personal reflections like “It was a head trip, it was a friendship, he picked me up when I might have slipped and not done a thing” bring a lump to the old throat; it all needed saying though. It’s not all melancholia and affecting nostalgia. Forster’s gift for a killer line, a throwaway statement that most songwriters wouldn’t consider, remains. An example from the pleasing and up tempo Let The Light In, Babe: “I live by myself. A mile from the church and do my work at home. The house was a gift, given from a friend on whom I used to care. Named Silius Farm, though it’s not a farm, but a house amidst trees.” That’s classic Forster with its tiny details, the rhyming of 'farm' with 'farm' (!), the story within a story and even the quaint choice of language: I adore the use of ‘amidst’ and ‘on whom’. The Evangelist is a really fine album, critically acclaimed as Forster’s solo masterpiece, and, as a tribute to a lost friend, truly breathtaking.

Fly

S and I forewent today’s rugby union at Kingsholm, preferring instead a pint-cinema-pint sandwich scenario. We enjoyed a brew at the Guildhall Bar (where members of The Rifles who are playing a concert at the venue tonight were enjoying a wholesome meal) before strutting in to watch The Wackness, a diverting feature set in a sweltering 1994 New York. This was a film about young love, drugs and hop-hip and, historically, the first ‘movie’ I have viewed while wearing subscription spectacles. The soundtrack was a toe-tapping joy and Ben Kingsley played Ben Kingsley admirably. Our mini lost weekend concluded with a daring trip to the oft-neglected drinking den, The Imperial in Gloucester’s fabled Northgate Street. We survived.

While the clouds overhead cried "mutiny"

I own the new Calexico long player and have been spinning it again and again. It is called Carried to Dust and is a rather gorgeous collection of songs. Critics have described this album as a ‘return to form’ for the Arizonan collective but I reckon – and I know that S agrees – that this is a tad unfair on their last effort, the understated and subtle Garden Ruin. But I can see what them critical types mean: Carried to Dust sees Calexico doing what they do best, conveying atmospheric subject matter with lush, expansive arrangements and exhilarating blasts of brass that stab joyously at the listener. The Calexico panorama is as it should be; these fellows evoke mystical Western skylines and sumptuous desert road trips with every note and syllable they proffer. Recommended heartily.

A Place to Live

The feature film How to Lose Friends and Alienate People was adequate. The Coles ventured to the heart of the metropolis on Saturday to watch local lad Simon Pegg’s latest role. He plays a British writer, Sidney Young, cast adrift in the irony-free world of New York celebrity with only his erstwhile British wit and vague eccentricity to keep him sane. There were plenty of humorous set pieces to chortle at and a very knowing and enjoyable moment when my dear old home town of Gloucester is mentioned. However, if one really wants to see Pegg in a fabulous piece of work, a perusal of the two series of Spaced is a must. Kirsten Durst played Kirsten Durst with no little aplomb while Miriam Margoyles produced another ‘hilarious’ cameo. I’d read the book if I were you.

And the cardinal hits the window

Here’s a maudlin thought for Sunday evening. I Shot a Man in Reno is a new book by Word Magazine contributor Graeme Thomson and it is all about how death has been portrayed in popular songs over the decades. I heard about it on the latest and very wonderful Word podcast. There’s a competition to win a copy and to enter one needs to suggest a favourite song about death and explain why it is so special. My entry is below. The above portrait is of the Pulaski fellow.

My favourite song about death remains Casimir Pulaski Day from the Illinois long player by Sufjan Stevens. There are no gory shoot-outs or dramatic car wrecks here; simply, the narrator’s girlfriend is diagnosed with bone cancer, lots of beautifully observed details follow and she dies peacefully at the end of the number. The small details render the track so touchingly personal and homespun that it’s impossible not to feel moved. Shirts are untucked, shoes are untied, necks are kissed, blouses are almost touched, unusual tokens are proffered, contrite fathers drive to naval yards; essentially the pictures painted are so tender, precise, occasionally humdrum and occasionally quirky that one almost feels a sense of voyeuristic guilt from peering too closely as the story unfolds. This is a song about young love, about loss and about complication: the narrator’s amorous feelings complicate the illness while the illness complicates, well, life itself. It’s an understated delight throughout. The girl’s death itself is announced so modestly – “ In the morning when you finally go/ And the nurse runs in with her head hung low” – that the passing seems expected, planned for yet chillingly sad. The girl breathes her last on Casimir Pulaski Day, an Illinois public holiday in March, another almost throwaway detail that means little yet such a great deal. I’ve listened to this song countless times and the clarity of the images makes for a compelling six minutes underpinned by the most sublime melody and delightful singing and playing. As for the girl in the song, I’m sure it’s what she would have wanted: a delicate jewel in the stunning Stevens canon. Beautiful.

Django

The 27 Club is the name given to the acclaimed group of rock musicians who, often through their own silly fault, expired at that legendary age. Brian Jones, fallow youth of Cheltenham Spa, was 27 when he did drown; Janis Joplin was 27 when she overdosed, Jim Morrison looked older than 27 but wasn’t when he died of heart failure and we all know what happened to dear Jimi Hendrix when he reached the old seven ‘n’ twenty. Kurt Cobain joined the club in 1994. Road accidents claimed two of the 27 Club’s most bewitching talents, Pete de Freitas of Echo and the Bunnymen and Big Star’s Chris Bell. I salute them all and metaphorically raise a glass of bourbon in doing so.

He’s not a rock star and, unless he has met a tragic, chilling and unexpected exit today, still lives to enjoy another sunrise or two, but James Forrester is 27 too and retiring far too early from professional rugby football union. The sense of loss is still profound though. I loved watching the rangy fellow make his early appearances for the Gloucester academy and burst into my favoured club’s first fifteen with a series of performances that was simply outstanding. A sense of memory for key matches is diminishing in my dotage but the season that Gloucester won the old Powergen Cup against Northampton was dominated by some remarkable feats by the youthful loose forward. He seemed to make ground every time he held the leather egg in his gleeful paw and I recall countless tries – mainly against the long-suffering Bristol club – involving gallant sprints for glory, oft outpacing wing threequarters and other leggy types. Injury dominated the last few seasons and sadly the star that burnt so brightly five or six years ago ne’er lit up the fabled old stadium with quite the same vivacity again. It was a privilege to watch the bloke play though, a real, real privilege. I reckon we only had two or three seasons of Forrester at his explosive best and I hope his amazing, stylish, bewildering talent doesn’t become a mere footnote in the famed club’s history as memories fade. Personally I think there’ll be hundreds of granddads in decades to come who’ll murmur to eager nippers about James Forrester and his epic and vivid adventures for the cause. I know how desperately sad I felt when I heard he couldn’t play on but I’m thrilled to have had the chance to watch, often in awe, this Last of the Corinthians so often. What a player. What a player. Thank you James.

Unbelievably, this is the 500th post on these 'umble pages. Thanks for reading. I know most of the regulars who pop by (more than a mere brace thankfully) and couldn't wish for a finer collection of hepcats to chew the proverbial with. A brief yet warm and affectionate nod of the head towards all of you.

Neither apple pie nor Star-Spangled Banner

I wouldn’t profess to being the world’s greatest fanatic of performance poetry so the heart sank a touch when I pitched up at Slak last night; J, A and I had arrived enthusiastically to view the very marvellous yodelling banjo-player Curtis Eller only to realise that the evening, part of the Cheltenham Literature Festival, was to be dominated by a flurry of rhyming types. ‘It’s going to be a long evening,’ murmured J laconically after the first offering, a vaguely embarrassing ode about, well, weeing oneself by the first performer called, ahem, Dreadlock Alien. I could be acerbic and unkind about the whole verse scene but, actually, Mr Alien and his fellow bards, Lucy English and Steve Larkin proved rather entertaining. English was my favourite; her more personal offerings about youth, relationships and, er, underwear were quite moving and, in a bleak way, quaint and amusing. Larkin (frankly, a daft name for a poet) was a more aggressive performer but I admired his edge and anger. He yelled a lot but it all made good sense. Alien had a more hop-hip vibe about him and I appreciated his riddims ‘n’ style. Being made aware by Alien that the whole audience was white British was a wee bit thought-provoking. I thoroughly approved of all three versifiers and, well, it didn’t seem a long evening after all. It was, though, a different crowd to the usual Calmer* audience, a little bit bluer of the rinse methinks, but all and sundry were wooed by the ebullient charms of Eller, his gorgeous playing, nostalgic yet challenging subject matter, flamboyant elasticity and fine moustache. In the current climate, his sepia-tinged numbers, touched with an essence of the Great Depression, seemed especially vivid and, like the last time I saw him, I learnt plenty about the backwaters of American history. He’s great.

And now we ride the circus wheel

A small wireless gadget is allowing me to play my information pod whilst driving my automobile. This is hardly life-changing but my journey from Gloucester to Cheltenham this morning was hugely enhanced by Neutral Milk Hotel’s In An Aeroplane Over The Sea blasting out of the car speakers. On the way home, I played the last four songs from the aforementioned long player before swiftly choosing a new album when briefly waiting in a short traffic queue in the Hatherley region. Time was not on my side so another album starting with ‘I’ was required; the remarkable Innervisions by Stevland ‘Stevie’ Wonder accompanied me on the famed Golden Valley by-pass. Simple pleasures.

We might be getting one or two tortoises. We have a contact at Chester Zoo.

I eat the Canadian? I don't know what you're talking about.

Busy days. Friday proved fun. A and I met in the agreeable surroundings of the Guildhall Arts Centre café-bar in order to enjoy the latest Acoustica evening. The first act played the proverbial ‘game of two halves’. Solo artiste Bethany Porter’s ‘cello-accompanied traditional folk ditties were bewitchingly gorgeous; her more modern, self-penned numbers, backed by efficient ukulele playin’ proved less pleasing and just a tad clumsy ‘n’ silly. The second act was bearded character, Stanton Delaplane, who brought tuba, guitar and one of those clever looping machines to the party. Although less than forty-eight hours have elapsed, I would struggle to hum any of his melodies but I am able to recall some rather complex and catchy sounds that sounded pretty fine. The fellow’s lyrical content was unusual and, at times, self-referential yet quirky. He appealed. Headliners Nuala and her Alchemy Quartet bounced around with gusto but failed with her rootsy glee to win much favour with this punter or the acclaimed A. Sometimes energy and a confident stage presence are not enough and we retired to the bar for a swift beverage – and a happy summit with fraternal hepcats H and A - before heading home in reflective mood. It was a decent evening though.

I watched In Bruges this week and am able to recommend this feature readily. Colin Farrell and Ken Gleason play a pair of Irish villains who need to hide out in the beautiful ‘n’ medieval Belgian city for a couple of weeks after a ‘job’ goes mightily pear-shaped. Essentially, the pair’s dialogue, a mixture of laconic wit and searing observations, carries the film tremendously and there are numerous humorous exchanges to guffaw at. A fairly obvious plot is embellished with plenty of tremendous set-pieces involving overweight American tourists, charismatic drug dealers, intense dwarves and sight-seeing overkill. This is a smashing feature far removed from the usual Hollywood sludge.

I am the record company!

I do love my Word magazine. Apart from peerless film and CD reviews and marvellous features and interviews, there will always be a few priceless nuggets of trivia that illuminate my life. This weekend, I learnt who brought Tony Hancock’s ashes back from Australia and earned himself an upgrade to First Class as a result. Somehow I feel a better person knowing this.

I watched Dig yesterday. Witnessing the differing career trajectories of rival beat combos The Dandy Warhols and Brian Jonestown Massacre proved fascinating. In many ways the BJM produce the more interesting and challenging music but appear to commit career suicide at every turn, aided and abetted by leader Anton Newcombe (pictured above), one of the most self-obsessed and disagreeable characters to ever stalk the earth. Managing to alienate band members, audience members and record company executives quite so regularly and wholeheartedly and on such a regular basis takes a great deal of effort but Newcombe doesn’t flinch from his quest to cause maximum offence to the greatest number of people. All of this seems a shame because the fellow’s musical skills seem tremendous and the clips of the band playing their soaring neo-psychedelic songs are truly captivating. I want to hear more of their stuff. By comparison, The Dandy Warhols play it safe, upset less people (although egos are present here too), produce less contentious sounds and, quelle surprise!, end up enjoying international hits, headlining major festivals and becoming rather large stars. It’s a compelling comparison. Brian Jonestown Massacre never ‘sell out’ I suppose but, considering Newcombe’s unseemly antics, I have little sympathy for the band’s lack of mainstream success. Dig seems to demonstrate an object lesson in how, and how not, to make it.

The word's on the streets and it's on the news

October dawns, the dismal autumnal evenings draw dankly in and the discerning thoughts of dedicated music lovers around the globe start to turn to one burning question: which long player will become the Uprock Narratives and Unknown Pleasures album of the year? Here’s a slither of inside information for hepcats everywhere. The odds remain long, but a trip down to your local turf accountants and a guinea or two each-way on Black Kids’ Partie Traumatic might prove salient. Black Kids hail from New York and have concocted a blissfully catchy sound that encapsulates all that remains marvellous about 1980s pop. Frankly, the kitchen sink (bedecked in leg-warmers and deely-boppers and attempting a Rubik’s Cube) has been thrown at this product. There’s a lot of OMD in there, a smattering of Scritti Politti, a dash of Blow Monkeys and, remarkably, a pinch of Hipsway. A tinny Casio-sounding synth underpins most of the tracks and the lead singer’s voice resembles The Cure’s Robert Smith at his navel-gazing best. This would all be utterly pointless if the songs were dire or moribund and happily they aren’t. Here are ten bewitching slices of pop laden with more heavenly hooks and harmonies than one can shake an Amstrad ZX Spectrum at. My favourite track from the LP and, potentially, the whole darned year is Hurricane Jane, a saccharine yet satisfying melodic feast but there are many highlights to salute. Look At Me (When I Rock Wichoo) is a jolly beast, all swagger and cute-as-you-like call and response fervour while the energetic and uplifting I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You never fails to force these toes to tap. Heck, it’s all as super, smashing and great as a twenty year old edition of Bullseye though and certainly this year’s must-have feel-good pick even if Partie Traumatic is as contemporary as a Sinclair C-5. I recommend.

Variations

The football was mildly diverting last evening. Gloucester, a team I continue to favour, vanquished against an energetic Newcastle outfit. Amid much huffing and puffing and aimless kicking and other uninspiring adequacy, the city club contrived to play some sparkling rugby. Five super tries lit up the old stadium. The enigmatic yet swift Balshaw bagged a hat-trick of tries while the young prince, Simpson-Daniel, nabbed a merry brace of the blighters. The prince’s every touch was sublime, conjuring space and time from who knows where, not once but again and again. I have two observations to make about Gloucester’s tries. All came from simple moves along the back line and not one forward was involved in the handling of the ball and I would also assert that the sluggish Vainikolo would not have possessed the skill, speed or wherewithal to have scored any of them. Thank goodness for our utilisation of guile and wit over bulk and the bludgeon.

I’m looking forward to watching a pair of music documentaries that lie waiting for me at home. Dig! features the rivalry between the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre and, apparently, is a tremendous feature. I’ve also got Sex Pistols film, The Filth and the Fury to enjoy. My cup doth overflow.

Touching from a distance

Most evenings recently, I’ve made an effort to listen to at least twenty minutes or so of Gideon Coe’s BBC 6Music radio show. I’m trying to make it a habit; the fellow plays a marvellous mix of older and newer stuff and I appreciate the laconic, wise and intelligent banter between numbers. Coe epitomises what the station should be all about: bright, erudite and witty people who dig their sounds sharing a love of fine music. I’m hugely disappointed by the daytime schedules on 6Music. Where Phill Jupitus and Coe once lit up the airwaves, the rank and embarrassing Shaun Keaveny and George Lamb (where did he spring from?) now lurk. Keaveny merely seems to boast about how much he had to drink the night before and I really can’t be bothered to listen to Lamb’s egotistical proclamations. Luckily, quality and intelligence are in abundant supply elsewhere and Coe and his ilk (Tom Robinson, Stuart Maconie, Adam and Joe) shall continue to merit my support.

Bravo

The murky beginnings of a chill haunt me somewhat. A healthy swig of Night Nurse* and a good night’s sleep beckons. I may exceed the recommended dose ever-so-slightly.

My new favourite long player is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by the American Americana outfit Wilco. I am aware that D has been singing this recording’s praises for ages but I finally downloaded it last week and have been playing it to death ever since. This is a collection of moving country-tinged epics given a gentle experimental stroke or two. The melodies are gorgeous while the lyrical content is at times bitter, at times haunting and at times downright weird. It’s one of those albums where one fabulous number ends and you suddenly think, Oh, this next track is remarkable too. All the songs are rather fine but there is a run of about four or five absolute classics towards the end. I would write more but I’m glancing coquettishly at the Night Nurse with an ignoble glint in the ol’ organ o’ sight.

* Other products are available

A poor man’s Seti Kiole

Yesterday’s rugby union match between my favoured Gloucester and London’s Harlequin FC followed a pattern that many supporters of the Kingsholm-based club would recognise: an early lead gathered by opponents was gradually overtaken through hard graft and a hint of guile, and, despite late scares, a victory was achieved to general delight mixed with a soupcon of relief. I’ve witnessed plenty of similar matches and they sure beat sullen defeats permeated with a murky sense of underachievement and, even, encouraging defeats containing spade-loads of élan. Essentially, it is marvellous to win, especially with the suggestion of a thrilling denouement to keep the old ticker pounding. Yesterday saw the debut of Oliver Barkley, the former Bath centre three-quarter, who will certainly add a touch of class to the Gloucester midfield. Barkley is that rarity in cherry, a member of the back division who is able to kick from hand with skill and tactical nous. There were hints of this talent yesterday and I was encouraged. The most exciting moment of the match saw the rugged and uncompromising flank forward Strokosch burst through the centre of the park and sprint to glory under the old tump end posts chased with gusto by an array of ‘quins characters. The hard-nosed Scot enjoyed a splendid match and is becoming a particular favourite of this punter and potentially merits the tag ‘Enforcer’. The player who is least deserving of his place in the team is the powerful Tongan Vainikolo whom I would describe as a one trick pony whose trick is not really that special. The big man’s performance yesterday was weak. I don’t recall any defenders being beaten, just a series of fairly lumbering collisions that achieved little, challenged nobody and were greeted with general apathy by all and sundry on the popular side of the ground. On current form we are viewing a poor man’s Seti Kiole and I yearn for the return to the fifteen of the unpredictable Balshaw, flaws ‘n’ all, or the willing, ready and improving Foster.

And what will she do with Thursday's rags when Monday comes around?

I’ve hardly seen S since the debacle of the Green Man Festival so we haven’t had much of a chance to conduct a proper post mortem. Chatting yesterday, we possibly came up with a cunning solution to the age old ‘enjoy festivals, hate mud’ dilemma and that is to plot a dramatic return to an All Tomorrow’s Parties weekender. Four years ago, a crack team of five cats travelled laconically down to Pontin’s at Camber Sands, stayed in a functional chalet, and enjoyed three days and nights of challenging modern music. The bars stayed open until the early hours, we caught The Tindersticks, Sonic Youth, Stephen Malkmus, Dizzee Rascal and many, many more, we played air hockey with vigour and ate a few doughy and delectable pizzas. Did it rain? It may have bucketed down but I don’t recall because the only time I spent in the great outdoors was strutting peacock-like between our Hi-di-hi homestead and the cheesy ballrooms that acted as arenas. Was Pesky (see here) there? He may well have been but any drunken and foolish ululations would have been muted by bricks and mortar. Somehow, it all adds up to a dramatic return. All Tomorrow’s Parties now host their festivals at Butlin’s in Minehead which not only is nearer to Gloucester’s metropolis but also hints at slightly more up-market slot machines and novelties. Discussions may, I fancy, prove ongoing.

A change of speed, a change of style

The above photograph may be diminutive but it represents history for a pair of reasons. Not only is it the first image produced by a camera on a mobile phone (cell phone for my American readers) to be sent to me – a delirious and euphoric A doing the honours – but, also, the scoreboard indicates a fine and first win for the noble players of Gloucester over the arriviste hordes of Bath Spa at their Recreation Ground. The affable S joined me in my very front parlour to view proceedings via a telecast Richard Branson and Rupert Murdoch had combined most kindly to provide for us. My word, the battle was thrilling and close; a brace of Gloucester tries from the speedy Narraway and the alert Walker seemingly placed the away side in an unconquerable position before a late and brave Bath fightback almost snatched victory for the blue, black and white clad fellows. Although possibly papering over a few cracks in my favoured team’s make-up, the result was, as they say, everything and should be lauded loudly.

Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying

There is something most civilised about a cinema that permits a punter to carry a frothy pint of Guinness to one’s seat so it was a soothing pleasure to catch my first feature of the autumn season at Gloucester’s splendid Guildhall Arts Centre. The Joy Division documentary – or, if you will, "rockumentary" – proved a compelling hour and a half. Naturally the film covered a lot of ground that the post-punk cognoscenti already had seen, read and inwardly digested especially if they had tuned into last weekend’s Manchester music night on BBC4. However, the subject matter is ever fascinating and much of the footage chosen was sublime. I admired the juxtaposition of two performances of She’s Lost Control, six months apart, identifying the transformation from earnest yet atmospheric young guns to unleashers of maelstroms and brooding bringers of sturm und drang. The interviews were constructed sagely. It is always pleasing to note just how ordinary and self-deprecating the surviving band members are while the views and messages of sleeve designer Peter Saville, late Factory honcho Anthony Wilson and other assorted label-mates, roadies, and post-punk personalities were rewarding and fine. The music is, of course, everything; as one talking head suggested, one should forget all the myths, all the merchandising and simply remember that there are two ‘set texts’, Unknown Pleasures and Closer and not a lot else matters. Almost thirty years on, this brace of albums remains essential, seminal and utterly influential. This is a startling group. This is a startling group.

One (or two) for the plot

The Coles possess a couple more chickens. A pair of Colombian Blacktails have moved in after their potential plight was highlighted in Saturday’s Citizen. Their tails aren’t at all black and nothing suggests a South American lineage. There is not a hint of a Zapata moustache between them. We’re hoping they lay eggs and keep their beaks shut in the early hours. It’s all we ask for. I’ll take a picture soon to display their speckled beauty.

The rugby football was awful yesterday and I’m lacking any real enthusiasm to report ‘pon it. Rank errors prevented Gloucester’s noble team from bagging a try or two for themselves and rendering the game safeish. I shall highlight a positive. Oliver Morgan’s performance at full back was sublime, a masterclass of running, jumping, catching, thinking and tackling. He even swore with bewitching class; his anguished yell towards the end of the match included more than a indication of Anglo-Saxon and demonstrated just how much victory meant to the well-spoken and flaxen youth.

There's a Place

If you squint you might believe those lovable moptops are posing precociously in the swanky back-streets of Paris. I reckon J, P, G and R are relaxing in Blackpool though. The reason for proffering the perky picture is to advertise my issuing of the answers to the Beatles questions I offered to a grateful nation a week or so ago. The solutions are secreted away in the ‘comments’ area of that particular posting. Take a peep, pop-pickers.

I finally purchased my season ticket this morning and look forward to cheering on my followed team, Gloucester, in the fabled and historic rugby union code of football. Tomorrow, weather permitting, the Tigers of Leicester come calling and it should be a close match. The home side shall miss the effervescent presence of the injured Fijian tyro Qera in the back row but maybe the wet pitch would not suit his expansive skills. The no-nonsense Scot Strokosch wears the fabled ‘7’ shirt which effectively means the old warhorse Hazell is now the third choice on the side they call ‘open’. I note that the colossus James is preferred to the thoroughbred Brown at lock; this is a surprise but one I can live with. Can I flirt with controversy for a moment? I fear my team shall win nothing with the unreliable and inconsistent Lamb at the crucial outside half position. The energetic and stylish Barkeley is rumoured to be heading for Lamb’s ‘10’ shirt and I am convinced this selection will prove more fruitful for the famed fellows who don the cherry and white. Howe’er’, I warmly salute all members of the Gloucester squad on the eve of a new campaign. Play up, gentlemen, play up!