Join The Fanclub

Teenage Fanclub at Kentish Town Forum

This was the perfect summer gig. Good vibes and sunshine melodies dominated proceedings at the Kentish Town Forum; Teenage Fanclub produced a deliriously optimistic, singalong set which the gathered cognoscenti lapped up in droves. The first half adhered religiously to the Don’t Look Back rules ‘n’ regulations: a band should play a classic album in its entirety and each Bandwagonesque classic was greeted with unbridled yet touching enthusiasm. It was obvious that the band enjoyed returning to the seminal tunes of 1991. What You Do To Me sounded like the Power-Pop classic it is, all swagger and joy while December’s delicately constructed guitar underpinned a beautiful melody and emotional lyric. To be honest every song was a bona fide belter and demonstrated why the album is so warmly thought of. The second half was even more rewarding though. Unshackled by the regimentation of ‘the rules’, the band could explore its wondrous back catalogue. Plundering mainly Songs From Northern Britain and Grand Prix, the group bombarded the now sweaty yet exuberant hordes with too many gems to mention. Personal favourites included an earnest I Don’t Want Control Of You, a plaintive and elegiac Ain’t That Enough and an ecstatic I Need Direction from Howdy! that had hundreds of delirious grown-ups attempting harmonious backing vocals with gusto. I was desperate for a Planets but most of my pre-gig wishlist had been ticked off by the close of play. I blow hot and cold when it comes to nostalgia and don’t fully approve of ‘greatest hits’ packages. It seemed more of a celebration on Monday night though and I guess the Don’t Look Back concerts allow bands to unselfconsciously embrace the past without embarrassment. This was a wonderful evening.

Gigging apart, London was a hoot. I enjoyed it. On Monday, S, D and I trotted around and explored record shops. I do like Fopp Records where bargains lurk in every nook. I picked up a shimmering King Tubby Boxed Set, Fourth Drawer Down by The Associates, the classic 1960s psychedelic compilation, Nuggets, a bewitching collection by cool French sixties chanteuse Francoise Hardy called Les Chansons D’Amour and, I confess, a Gary Numan album. We lunched jovially at the Grape Street Wine Bar before strolling to Euston Road where I needed to buy a few bits and pieces from the London Chess and Bridge Centre. As we approached that thoroughfare we spotted a very long queue of people snaking around the corner. A prescient D murmured that he hoped said queue wasn’t for the chess shop but, to our shock, it was and the reason for such a body of (rather nerdy) humanity was suddenly stood next to us surrounded by burly security men. Esteemed World Chess Champion Garry Kasparov had arrived to sign copies of his new book and give a lecture. Being a chess aficionado this proved a very exciting encounter but I chose not to fork out twenty-five English pounds on his latest tome in order to meet and greet the controversial chess genius. Later in the evening, both before and after the concert, I sampled strawberry flavoured beer for the first time. A simple gentleman from the west, I was overwhelmed by the experiences the capital city offered me. I thank D and A publicly for their hospitality. Strawberry beer, eh?

I think I'll write something about the rugby soon. It has been a while.

New Music; Newent

I’m finally off to the fabled city of London tomorrow and shall be seeking out some bargains in the Berwick Street record shops with S and D before heading to Kentish Town and the Teenage Fanclub concert. It should prove a long but worthwhile day. I am especially keen to purchase some of the post-punk records featured in Rip It Up And Start Again and right now I am gunning for early Associates albums, the more obscure Postcard Records stuff and, certainly, Colossal Youth by Young Marble Giants.

I’m actually bombarded with new stuff to play without tomorrow’s antics. On Thursday, A, knowing I enjoy my reggae, kindly presented me with a copy of King Tubby’s Freedom Sound in Dub. I am able to borrow stuff from Oxfam and on Wednesday I took home and ripped three Kate Bush albums, The Kick Inside, Never For Ever, and The Sensual World. From my download site of choice I have purchased the new Thom Yorke album, The Eraser, as well as the David Bowie ‘Berlin Trilogy’, Low, Heroes and Lodger. And today I joined the Emusic download website and banged onto my hard drive and from there onto my MP3 player the almost forgotten early electronic Sufjan Stevens album, Enjoy Your Rabbit, lost folk masterpiece Penguin Eggs by Nic Jones and a bit of space rock, Slow Riot for New Zero Kanada by Godspeed You Black Emperor! It’s a good job it is the summer holidays.

It is Newent week on these pages. I paid homage to the lost son of Newent, Joe Meek, on Wednesday. Tomorrow I shall visit London-based but Newent-raised and Newent-educated, D. This afternoon was actually spent near the quaint market town itself. The Coles (minus scout camp dwelling son) sought out a favourite walk near a little place called Oxenhall. The old canal there has been renovated and it really is a gorgeous spot. A family of swans glided majestically past as we began our stroll and we spent a peaceful time sat by the area of canal that sits near the beautiful old lock keeper’s cottage, soaking up the sun and enjoying the wealth of wildlife that calls this marvellous place home. I’ve posted some photos but they don’t really do the place justice.

A Summery Summary

I did aim to write loads and loads for these pages once the holidays started but it just hasn’t happened. I have been busy and tired and, for the past day or so, laid low by a migraine. I feel better today.

My migraine inconveniently commenced on Thursday evening in Cheltenham’s Slak Bar where A and I had convened to attend the latest Calmer* evening. My immediate reaction was to ignore the oncoming malaise, sup a few lagers and worry about the consequences later. It worked and I enjoyed the two bands that were playing. First up were two thirds of Misterlee – the other third was sunning himself on holiday in a place beginning with ‘C’: at first it was assumed Corfu had been the destination but eventually Cornwall (my home county) was settled upon. They were quirky yet challenging. Fairly conservative guitar shapes were juxtaposed against some out-there percussion, labyrinthine yet effective knob-twiddling, howling vocals and distortion and feedback galore. They were rather post-punk and as I am in a post-punk mood right now, I appreciated their sterling efforts to entertain. The main act Flipron were a pleasure too and it is hard to put a delicately tanned finger on who their influences might be. At the time The Small Faces came to mind and there was a tangible Englishness and whimsy about them that could place them in that category although there were more angles, more surprises and more danger about this merry band than one would associate with any worthy 1960s beat combo. They sang a few songs about old people.

I’ve been busy looking into live action. Yesterday I booked a brace of tickets for my wife and me to see Divine Comedy at Bristol University in October. I have never really been one of their greatest fans but I shall happily give them a go. Fellow Ulsterman Duke Special will be the support act and I really fancy seeing him again after a triumphal appearance at Acoustica last year. I also booked a pair of seats on a plane to Amsterdam. To my huge regret I noticed that Sufjan Stevens’ two gigs in England this November (Manchester University and London’s Barbican) are both sold out. After sobbing uncontrollably for a while I noted that he was also playing Amsterdam’s Paradiso on Saturday 11th November. We have the plane tickets but no concert tickets! They go on sale on the 29th of this month so a military operation will need to be planned in order to acquire the blighters. D knows the ropes when it comes to overseas concert ticket purchases so I shall ask him what to do. The W’s will hopefully be joining us. With or without the estimable Sufjan, it should be a fabulous weekend in a city I have never visited. The Coles are also keen to go and see Scritti Politti play an outdoors set at the Tate Britain in a week or two. It’s part of a free Rough Trade evening. And, of course, it is Teenage Fanclub this Monday. Busy.

The 'Telstar' Man

I decided last night not to travel to London today. My feet are blistered from running around in sandals I haven’t worn for a while at my older daughter’s sports day (long story!) and I am sunburnt too. I had a disaster with lotion yesterday. I purchased from the local Co-op what I believed to be suntan lotion but turned out to be self-tanning lotion. I simply didn’t look closely enough at the label. A day spent spreading this all over me was a huge mistake. Of course, it offered me no protection from the fierce sun and I am now orange in places, dyed by all manner of chemicals. Frankly, I feel cheap. Embarrassed too. Countless people must have seen me plastering myself with the stuff at yesterday’s event.

Instead of seeking out streets paved with gold today, I sought out streets paved with Southern Fried Chicken wrappers: namely, my fine home city of Gloucester. I worked in Oxfam most of the time and, breaking from my usual weekend chores, spent some time opening up bags that contained all the books deposited in those book banks one sees near supermarkets. I rather enjoyed doing that although at least 90% of the stuff is thrown straight into the bins because it is obsolete (old manuals, out of date text books etc.) or just too bent, dirty or scuffed to sell. The finest wares are sorted to be sent to the specialist bookstores in Cheltenham, Tewkesbury and Cirencester while we retain the lower grade stock for our own use. We know our place in Gloucester.

I had a smashing lunch hour. I relaxed near the old church near Café Rene and devoured a lovely and wholesome salad courtesy of Peppers, read my Guardian and sipped demurely at an effervescent cordial. I then strutted to the Folk Museum where there is an absolutely splendid specialist exhibition. The Joe Meek Appreciation Society is desperate to create a museum devoted to its hero, the Newent-born record producer and sound pioneer, but have been unable to secure sufficient funding to do so. As an interim move, there is a superb collection of letters, photographs, record sleeves, press cuttings, clothing and other assorted memorabilia associated with the fellow downstairs at the Folk Museum. It is the sort of discovery that makes one glow and I felt incredible good fortune that such an array of fascinating material could be tucked away in a tiny corner of Gloucester. The letters to record companies and artists he wrote are especially interesting and demonstrate the man’s determination to succeed and become a major player in the industry. His obituaries in local newspapers speak of his ambition to ‘make a million’ and this drive is self-evident. His spelling was atrocious – ‘gitar’, ‘littel’ – but musical geniuses are allowed their foibles! Meek was an extremely troubled man, a homosexual when such an orientation was illegal and prone to mood swings. His tragic suicide - he murdered his landlady before shooting himself – has bestowed upon Meek a cult status but it is worth remembering that Telstar, a record he both wrote and produced, attained Number One status on both sides of the Atlantic and remains the highest selling instrumental single ever. There is substance behind the murkiness.

When I first saw you, something stirred within me...

I purchased Rip It Up And Start Again by Simon Reynolds yesterday to ease me into my summer reading frolics. The book focuses on the post-punk era and specifically the years between 1978 and 1984 which Reynolds considers a rival to the mid-to-late 1960s for the sheer amount of fine music being produced and for the way that music reflected and connected with what was ‘appening within society and politics at the time. I suppose that, despite my belief that it is misguided to look back too energetically, this period remains ‘my period’ too. Aged 13 to 18, I experienced so many new sounds and they can mainly be categorised and classified as ‘post-punk’. I was just too young for punk itself although, for all that movement’s influence, Reynolds regards it as mainly a return to raw rock ‘n’ roll and I can appreciate that too. After the first wave of punk there were two quite disparate routes for ‘the kids’ to follow. One group craved the aggression and accessibility of punk rock and so remained ‘real punks’ which later evolved into the Oi! scene. The other group, ‘arty middle-class bohemians’ – and I purred at that description! – regarded punk as a clarion call to embark on change and to snub tradition. Reynolds calls it the ‘unfinished revolution’ and the wealth of bands that set about seeking out new aural possibilities is over-whelming although some critics regarded this new ‘art-rock elitism’ as a return to what punk itself had tried to eradicate a year or two before. The energy, experimentation, originality, wit, swagger, intelligence and ambition of the following bands changed my life and this book explores the impact of each of them: The Fall, Scritti Politti, Joy Division, Gang of Four, The Associates, The Cure, Echo and the Bunnymen, Talking Heads, Human League, PiL, Siouxsie and the Banshees. So far I have only read the prologue and flicked through and looked at photos but I sense that my shopping trip to London on Wednesday might involve searching for stuff I missed back then and, in particular, Young Marble Giants, The Mekons, Swell Maps, DAF, The Pop Group and, possibly, Heaven 17.

There are lots of marvellous things to read about the book and the post-punk period at the author's own site. It really is worth a visit.

Industrial Estate

Midlake at Fiddlers, Bristol

It is always pleasing to patronise a new venue (‘Oooh! You’re a really great venue…’) and, although Bristol’s Fiddlers Nightclub was nothing special, it was intimate and served its purpose sufficiently. It seemed to be, if not in the middle, then on the edge of an industrial estate. I wonder what Midlake thought. They remain a very fine band, beardily intense but keen to please. Their melodies are mainly ‘growers’ and they managed to convey the sense of melancholia that permeates many of their numbers successfully on Wednesday. Although the latest album sounds very acoustic, in the live arena one realises the extent they utilise synths. I think we counted four. The ‘violin’ that I found so refreshing on Young Bride was actually played on a keyboard but, heck, I don’t mind. I enjoyed A’s appraisal that it was gratifying to listen to three blokes singing at the same time; the harmonies were splendid and skilfully offered. It is funny really how much one really gets into a band. I’ve steadily grown to admire The Trials of Van Occupanther so much recently that I had somehow convinced myself that the world and his wife/her husband had also discovered Midlake and I expected Fiddlers to be packed with awestruck uber-fans. Actually it was about half full but those gathered had a more than decent night of esoteric American softish-rock. I was tired the next day but buoyed by the memory of a fine evening.

Mais Pourquoi!

YouTube has a cracking clip of Zidane's moment of madness. The commentary is from French TV and I admire the sense of incredulity one detects. What was he playing at?

Wager

The above betting slip would not have made me a millionaire but I was convinced that the Argentinians were destined to win the World Cup this year. My each way wager on Croatia was merely foolhardy. I must admit I’m looking forward to tonight’s final and confess to a soft spot for both teams. I have a lot of time for Veira, Henry and, especially, Zidane and a second World Cup would be a fitting end to the Frenchman’s career. Italy have probably impressed me the most out of all the teams who contested the knock-out stages. Their two late goals against Germany were sublime and if they can recreate that kind of fast-flowing, attacking zeal tonight, the ageing Bleus will struggle to contain them. In their skipper, Cannavaro, Italy have the player of the tournament; his style and calmness in defence have been nothing less than majestic while his distribution has been wondrous. He rarely wastes a ball.

I think Italy will win this evening reasonably comfortably.

I Don't Watch a Lot of Television but...

The three eldest Coles are watching loads of Black Books at the moment. I picked up the second and third series on DVD pretty cheaply in Tescos a couple of weeks ago and gave my son the first for his birthday last weekend. There are echoes of Father Ted in the writing – Series One was co-written by Graham Linehan - but the quirky farces and the unflattering characters that permeate the plots really work well and bear favourable comparison with the Craggy Island-based sitcom. I laugh out loud a lot when I watch it and, on occasions, guffaw.

Gloucester RFC vs Americana

I’ve ordered Midlake’s first album, Bamnan and Silvercork, from Amazon and await its delivery with refreshing keenness. I admire The Trials of Van Occupanther because it takes me to another place; its evocation of a kind of frugal nineteenth century backwater community resonates very deeply to the extent that I can almost imagine living there. It is a melancholic recording and one can almost feel the hunger pangs, despair at leaking roofs, the need to hunt, to marry, to survive. It is very clever, a concept album I suppose. The lead singer of Midlake is called Tim Smith and I appreciate this too as his namesake remains probably my all-time favourite Gloucester full back. It can’t be the same Tim Smith, can it?

This reminds me of another Gloucester RFC/North American popular music crossover. D, confident, no doubt, that I was now off the dentist’s chair, texted me last week to inform me, with zest, that the man in front of him at the John Fogerty concert was the spitting image of Phil Blakeway. I had promised D my own fond thoughts of the affable Blakeway as the formidable and burly prop had entered my mind recently too. The other week at Oxfam I discovered in the cavernous and cool warehouse that exists, TARDIS-like ‘out the back’, a signed copy of the tome, Rubbing Shoulders, Blakeway’s autobiography. With eyes misting over a touch, I constructed a small hand written sign which I attached to the cover before displaying both in the glass cabinet set aside for special items. My sign read, ‘Gloucester Rugby Legend. Signed Copy’. A week later it had been bought. I hope the vendor appreciated my sign and sensed that a kindred spirit had been at work.

Forlorn

I am blinking feebly as I write this as a nasty migraine has struck today. As ever, I feel lousy but I should be fine after a decent night’s sleep – but they are rarer than hens’ teeth right now with the heat and everything. Despite feeling forlorn, I did manage to telephone Bristol Ticket Shop and bag a brace of tickets for my wife and me to see my new favourite band Midlake next week. They are playing at Fiddlers Club (more apostrophe worries…) in the Bedminster area of Bristol, a new venue for me. Can’t wait.

I might go to bed now and read a bit more of Brick Lane.

What's Happening Brother?

I picked up a couple of albums in the HMV sale yesterday. I own Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On already on the format categorised ‘vinyl’ and always enjoyed it without being awestruck. Soul music has never moved me, to be frank, and I reckon I only bought What’s Going On as a youth because it had appeared with regularity on those ‘All Time Greatest Recordings’ list that permeate music publications. I shall reappraise this Motown product with studied contemplation this summer. I also bought The La’s by The La's which came out in 1990. This is a recording that has passed me by although There She Goes is etched into my very marrow. Many people speak highly of this album here. There is a place in my heart for jangly pop with a 1960s ambience and I reckon The La’s should hit the right spots. I type The La’s with effort. I don’t think there should be an apostrophe* but I’m merely replicating what is on the album cover.

I may wait a while before I play either of these albums. Right now I am only playing two albums and I play them constantly and with joy in my heart. Scritti Politti’s White Bread Black Beer and Midlake’s The Trials of Van Occupanther have become old and comforting friends over the last couple of weeks and I adore them both. Their quality and warmth and, shhh, genius deserve more than a discarding for a couple of £2.99 bargainettes. Pickering-based M would worship Midlake. Of that I am sure.

I am not the only person to have endured dental agony recently.

* See Rule 3 here.

On the oche

Naturally I’m most disappointed with England’s World Cup exit after another ruddy penalty shoot-out. I immediately booked a coach ticket to London for the 19th of this month as if the promise of a day spent browsing record shops and buying chess nick-nacks would make things better. I even did the weekly shop this evening with Midlake blasting in my ears so that I could avoid dwelling on Rooney’s idiocy and the heartfelt efforts of the remaining ten who were Trojans for the hour they fought with every sinew to stay in the match. Their tears at the end showed how much they cared and wanted it – and at times I have doubted this. The check-out lad at Sainsburys, a sixth-former I reckon, (unwisely) asked me if I had watched the soccer which allowed me to express my frustrations at a fellow who was only making small talk with a haunted looking customer. After listening to my diatribe and outpourings of misery, he uttered the most remarkable and unexpected statement. ‘At least we’ve got Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor,’ he gaily offered. The young chap didn’t appear to have the rapier wit that one would associate with such a killer comment so I’m assuming he actually thought that our country having produced the World Darts Champion somehow made England’s defeat today easier to bear. I felt like kicking his head in frankly but instead smiled generously and murmured, ‘Guess so…’

Earlier on I had to remove my headphones because an elderly man wanted me to tell him the sell-by date on a pint of milk. Apparently he’d bought some recently that was ‘off’. Life goes on. Life goes on.

England Football

A busy weekend beckons but, for the first time in quite a few weeks, I shall feel unburdened by tasks I need to complete.

I shall certainly be watching England play Portugal. I am thinking of the quarter final in these terms: A victory for England shall mean they start their next competitive match a mere 90 minutes away from the World Cup Final. I think they can defeat the fellows from the Iberian Peninsula but ‘the lads’ and Rooney in particular will require discipline in the tackle. I would hate for a spate of yellow cards to weaken our squad. I mention Rooney because he is the key for World Cup glory now. In general, we could just about cope with the loss of a star name but without the talismanic ‘Roo’ we are nothing.

I predict wins this weekend for Germany (perhaps after extra time and penalties), Italy, England (by two clear goals) and France. An all European semi-final line-up and no new winner of the famed trophy.

Alan Hansen remains the finest and most articulate pundit around. I relish his intelligent opining. Martin O’Neill impresses too and, although he can be a touch snide when commentating, Mark Lawrenson talks a lot of sense. However, the addition of the Brazilian, Leonardo to the BBC panel has proved a masterstroke. He speaks with real erudition and passion about the sport and I find myself hanging on to his every word. Importantly, he has both talked the talk and walked the walk at the highest level too. He’s great. I can sum up the ITV1 team with a single word: dross. From the shocking and out of depth Gabby Yorath to the mundane Ruud Gullit to the ramshackle collection of spivs who barely utter a coherent word, it really is embarrassing.

Looking Back

There I was yesterday, pontificating how ‘looking back’ at old music didn’t always meet my approval. Today, a volte face, as I breezed through the list of albums on my MP3 player and felt the most incredible craving to play Miss America, the 1988 (I had to look that up) folk?, country?, jazz? album by the queen of the where-are-they-nows, Mary Margaret O’Hara. It really a fabulous record, full of immense vocal performances the like of which I’ve never encountered since or had met before. O’Hara’s lyrics are heartfelt, her delivery remains almost fractured and unusually phrased throughout. The songs stray from the traditional verse-chorus-verse but there is a refreshing structure to be discovered. After twelve listens it all makes perfect sense. I believe it was one of the first CDs I ever bought. Nothing like it exists in my record collection to this day.

Don't Look Back

I’ve been far too busy to trot onto these pages as often as I would like. I still care. I’m tired though.

I can’t wait for the summer holidays.

It looks likely I’ll be joining D for a London concert in the Don’t Look Back series that the ubercool ATP organise each year. Basically, selected bands play the whole of a classic album (and a few other favourites) for the masses. I don’t always approve of ‘looking back’ musically but it seems a jolly process and a pinch of nostalgia never did anyone any harm. Any road up, Teenage Fanclub are showcasing their 1991 (I had to look that up) second album Bandwagonesque. It should be fun. I actually prefer their albums Songs From Northern Britain and Grand Prix which aren’t quite as ‘indie’ as Bandwagonesque but Bandwagonesque will do for me. It’ll be nice to go to a new venue for me, The Forum in Kentish Town.

I see that there is a Calmer* night in Cheltenham on the 20th July with a band called Flipron playing. They look quite interesting and possibly ‘up me street’. I wonder if A might be interested in nipping over?

I’m keen to buy a bit more new music in London too and spend a few pleasant hours browsing the record shops. There are a few things I’d like.

Gob

I had my troubled and troubling tooth extracted on Monday amid scenes that Dante himself would have baulked at. Four injections I endured. Four. I, supine and quivering, received an SMS text message about popular beat music from D after the third jab. The absurdity of the timing cheered me and helped me face the challenge of having such unpleasant surgery. I thank him. I was spitting blood for the rest of the day.

I’m enjoying the new Scritti Politti long player, White Bread Black Beer. I sense it will prove 'a grower' but I am already charmed by its sumptuous tones and breathy vocals. A week or two ago, Simon Reynolds wrote a glowing feature about Green Gartside and the new album which might be worth a look.

Modern Life is Rubbish

I am totally charmed by The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society. S sorted me out with a copy a few weeks back and I’ve only managed to play it seriously for the last day or two. I love Ray Davies’ style; when the rock and pop mainstream were singing of peace, love and psychedelia in the late 1960s, he rather quaintly released songs about village greens, grocer boys, old oak trees and Sunday Schools. I read somewhere that Davies had rejected all things American after Uncle Sam failed to grasp the whimsy of his Kinks and this album as is English as, well, village greens. The songs absolutely drip with melody, the swaggering creations of a group and a writer bloated with confidence and talent. There is nothing over three minutes here and the resulting effect is like being assaulted with a pop sledgehammer – gem follows gem follows gem. This is a delicious and really unusual recording.

After a listen or two, one realises that this album could never have been made without The Village Green Preservation Society. Although released a quarter of a century after The Kinks’ classic, its evocation of a quirky England and the country’s eccentric characters is too similar to be coincidental. Even the two album titles mean the same thing really, don’t they?

Snookered

A busy time of the year for me this. A heady mix of too much to do elsewhere, the heat, the World Cup and recent dental miseries has kept me away from these pages. Regular visitors to these pages should expect a quietish period.

England’s 2-0 victory against Trinidad and Tobago was probably deserved but was nonetheless frustrating and nerve-wracking. I am keen to sign up to the theory that a slow starting England might just peak at the right time and use later improvements to carry themselves a long way in the tournament. It was reassuring to watch an enthusiastic Rooney enter the field of play. Lennon did well too.

I played snooker for the first time in about twelve years last night and acquitted myself reasonably well. My highest break was a tasty thirteen, a canny pink and black clearance to snatch a tense victory. I scored lots of breaks of one. I left the club satisfied that I hadn't made a complete fool of myself and that shall form my finest achievement.

Trials

I bought the Midlake album this morning and am playing it now. It does possess a seventies soft-rock feel but I say this not as a bad thing. The Trials of Van Occupanther is charming. The song I love is Young Bride. I’ve heard it on BBC 6Music about three or four times and it is a stunning song full of haunting melody and a tangible melancholia. The use of violin is perfect. I don’t know if anyone shares this view but when I buy an album and I know one of the songs already, I’m often tempted to skip that track for a while in order to let the rest of the album ‘catch up’. I might do that on this occasion. Or maybe not*.

The England match against Paraguay was tense and error strewn, particularly in the second half when ‘the lads’ lacked a little shape. The early goal settled the nerves (for me and ‘the lads’) though and, to be fair, the South Americans rarely threatened the England area or goal. The Paraguayans are no mugs having defeated both Brazil and Argentina in qualification. Their pedigree should put today’s result into context. Yes, it was a touch scrappy and somewhat disappointing but the three points were crucial. A win against Trinidad and Tobago next week should see England into the last 16.

* I didn't.